The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  HER WRISTS are still sore, but Rosaria Vasquez is holding the steering wheel firmly as she is driving east to Florida. Why Florida?

  Because Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy told her to go there.

  She winces, recalling the sharp and cutting words he used as weapons against her, all the way from calling her a useless ROTC officer who went into the Army for three hots and a cot, up to calling her a stupid coward.

  “A library!” he shouted. “You got ambushed in a goddamn library?”

  Nothing she could have said would have turned back that anger, so she had taken it in silence, until finally there was a quiet moment and he said, “Gulf Coast of Florida. Get your sorry ass out there as soon as possible.”

  “Then what, sir?”

  “Then you’ll have actionable intelligence, and you act on it, Vasquez, and when the day is over, I want one of two things in your hand: Cornwall’s dog tags, or Cornwall’s dog tags and a copy of her toe tag. It finishes today, it finishes now. Got it?”

  Rosaria nods in memory as she speeds east on Interstate 10, going through a strip that boasts gun shops, dollar stores, gas stations, hairdressing outfits, and everything and anything else a high-speed traveler needs on his or her way to the beaches of paradise.

  She gently moves the steering wheel, wrists still aching, her eyes swollen with tears, her insides empty, only knowing that yes, when she gets to the Gulf Coast, she will end it.

  In a quiet wooded area near the Fort Belvoir Country Club, Lieutenant Preston Baker waits, leaning up against the wide trunk of an old oak tree. Thirty minutes earlier he called his contact and followed his directions.

  There is movement out there, footsteps, and then the senior officer stands on the other side of the tree trunk, so he can be heard but not seen.

  “So she called, then?”

  “Yes,” Preston says.

  “What did she want?”

  “Information about the prisoner who died in captivity, over at FOB Healy.”

  “What kind of information?”

  Preston tries to focus on the good news he received today, about a facility being readied for Dad. His father, who had sweated and worked and thought to design and build the aircraft that had defended this nation for decades…abandoned in his time of need, but Preston is going to take care of him.

  That’s the good news, that will always be the good news.

  “She asked about a business card that was found on the farmer when he was brought in. The official report said the business name and the phone number on the card were fake.”

  “And?” comes the inquiry.

  “Captain Cornwall wanted me to recheck it.”

  “And did you?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you confirm to her what the report said, that the phone number and company name were fake?”

  A blue jay skitters to a halt, not more than three meters away. It steps across the ground with proud, jerky moves, and then flies off.

  What a gorgeous day.

  The officer repeats, “Did you confirm to her what the report said, that the company number and name were fake?”

  He takes a sweet breath. “No, I didn’t. Captain Cornwall…I don’t think you understand what it’s like being out there, in an FOB. You learn to depend on each other, have each other’s backs, look out for each other.”

  The officer on the other side of the tree doesn’t say anything.

  Preston says, “I trust her. I’ve always trusted her. And she asked me to do something, so I did it.”

  The voice is flat. “Which was what?”

  “I researched the name and phone number on the card.”

  “What did you find?”

  “There was a phone number. Out of Mexico. And the company name…Mercador Holdings. An agricultural firm, in the States and Mexico.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I dug a bit into Mercador Holdings. Its majority owner is a bank out of Mexico. Called First Republic Global Bank.”

  “What did the captain say when you told her that?”

  “She seemed excited, happy,” Preston says.

  “I’m sure.”

  There’s silence and then the officer says, “You did all right, Lieutenant. No worries.”

  Preston sighs. This sweet day is back on track. “Thanks.”

  “Let me ask you one more question.”

  “Sure.”

  The man asks, “You ever hear of something called fragging?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he says.

  “Funny, you’re the second person to say that today.”

  And Preston hears movement, feels something metallic pressing against his right temple, and then nothing else.

  CHAPTER 78

  I RUB at the crusts in the corners of my eyes, take an exit off US 98 in Florida, following the signs pointing to my end destination, Beachside. The road is bleached asphalt, and the surrounding land is sandy, with thin grass and spindly green trees.

  Archie is sitting next to me, hands folded carefully in his lap, watching the scenery fly by. Since we left Texas some hours ago, he’s not said a word to me.

  But I can’t stand the silence, so I talk to him as we get closer to Beachside.

  “I’m a trained Army intelligence officer,” I say, as we head south. Even though I can’t see it, I can smell the nearby Gulf of Mexico.

  “About ninety percent of civilians think all we intelligence officers do is read lots of reports, stare at maps, make educated guesses,” I say. “And part of that’s correct. We read lots of reports. We look at maps. We make educated guesses. But we also talk to people. Lots of people…like a young engineer from Karachi, very intelligent, very sweet-looking, who was captured after his suicide belt didn’t go off in a marketplace in New Delhi. And who politely lets you know that if he ever gets out, he plans to go to the Hindu Kush and get a belt that’s designed better, so it works the next time.”

  The road stretches on. How can anyplace be so damn flat?

  “Or a Russian girl, about ten years old, who was sold to…perform. You meet her in a sweet cottage with toys, dolls, and games, and while you try to find out which particular oligarch from Moscow had a hand in her sale, said oligarch also being involved in smuggling weapons-grade uranium to North Korea, she keeps on asking why she hurts so much down there.”

  There’s an intersection. I slow down and take a left.

  BEACHSIDE TWO MILES, says the sign.

  “That’s the people you talk to,” she goes on. “And then there’s the films, the videos. You sometimes see them on the cable channels, heavily edited. But because your job is intelligence, no matter how terrifying, how horrible, how bloody, you need to watch it. Again and again. Looking for clues.”

  My chest is tightening. I’m saying words my husband, Tom, has never heard.

  “I saw a video of a captured fighter pilot, stuck in a cage, set ablaze in an Iraqi desert. He burned and burned…and I saw his jaw fall to the ground when the muscles and tendons melted. I saw a video of a Filipino family—mom, dad, five children—lined up in a jungle on an isolated island, beheaded one at a time. And I had to watch that video dozens of times, freeze-framing, trying to see if I could ID the man holding the sword. Dozens of times I saw that family die, saw the mother try to hide her baby under her blouse, saw them both killed…Funny, but every time I replayed the video, part of me was hoping, this time, this time, maybe they live.”

  I try to clear my throat. “Then they never do. And after watching that beheading video a couple of dozen times, then I leave the base and in twenty minutes, I’m home. I hug Denise and kiss Tom, and look over Denise’s homework and cook dinner for the three of us…and an hour after seeing the blood spurt, seeing the father sob—they save him for last—I’m eating mac and cheese in our dining room, trying to keep a happy face on for my girl and my man.”

  Up ahead I make out the thin line of the Gulf of Mexico and the low buildings of Beachside. My chest is really
tight.

  “Then there are the times when you do more than just watch,” I say. “You have a hand in it, by pure accident and happenstance.” I find it’s getting harder to talk, even though I’m not getting any answers back from my passenger.

  “You’re put in a situation, sitting in a comfortable chair, a computer control in your right hand, and because you’re at the ultimate pinnacle of human development and technology, you can flip a switch, take a sip of iced tea, and on the other side of the world, a family is incinerated. Just like that.”

  Buildings start to appear. Cute one- and two-story structures, made of some sort of cement or rock or adobe, the colors pink, blue, and yellow. Tall palm trees sway in the Gulf breeze. I feel like we’ve driven onto a movie set for some South Pacific paradise. People are strolling on the sidewalks, most wearing bathing suits, and there are cute little shops selling T-shirts, swimwear, towels, inflatable beach toys.

  So damn peaceful.

  And I feel so damn out of place.

  Then the road comes to a wide four-way boulevard, and as promised and described, there’s an oval brick plaza with a fountain and a round bandstand. There’s a set of angled parking spots on this side of the plaza, and I drive in and park, out of breath.

  I check my watch.

  Thirty minutes ahead of schedule.

  Well done, a sour voice inside of me says. Now let’s send this quiet old man to his death and get our family back. I look around the place. Across the wide avenue there’s a hotel building that looks to be under construction, flanked by smaller buildings that could be condos or high-priced shops. There’s a high pink stone wall and a black metal gate. A blue Mercedes-Benz convertible comes up to the gate, which has a keypad on a metal post. The driver reaches out, punches the keypad, and the gate slides open. There’s a large brass numeral 9 attached to the middle of the gate.

  To the left of the gate is a smaller entrance for pedestrians, and that gate doesn’t have a keypad, for I see some beachgoers head in, carrying coolers and towels in their hands.

  So pleasant, so peaceful.

  I take my phone out, look to Archie.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I have to do this.”

  Then I press the keypad on my cell phone, no doubt leading to this man’s death by the end of the day.

  CHAPTER 79

  TOM CORNWALL looks up from his bunk when the door clicks open and one of the men who works here comes in, bearing a tray with two white-plastic-covered dishes, and he reaches over and gently taps Denise’s foot. She’s snoozing on her side, Tigger up by her chin.

  “Hey, wake up, hon, dinner’s here,” he says.

  Then it all goes wrong.

  Two bulkier men come in, and there’s a dead look in their eyes, and he sits back in the bed, yells, “Denise! Run! Get out of here!”

  The men are pros, they spray something in each of their faces, and Tom chokes and Denise screams, and like that horrible day when they were taken from their homes, bags are pulled over their heads.

  “Come,” a voice says, and strong hands grab his upper arms, and he’s propelled out of the room.

  I dial the number, hoping to God this is the last time I ever have to remember this demonic series of numerals, and the phone is picked up on the first ring.

  “Yes?”

  “You know who this is,” I say. “I’m here at the little park, bandstand, and fountain.”

  “So happy to hear from you, Captain Cornwall.”

  “The feeling isn’t mutual,” I say. “Let’s make this quick. I have my weapon in my lap. Anybody approaches me I will shoot this old man next to me, all right?”

  He chuckles. “With that deadly attitude, I’m surprised you’re not a general in your Army.”

  “Give me time,” I say. “I need to talk to Tom, and I need to talk to Denise. Otherwise, this man is dead on this plaza.”

  “For real?”

  “Oh, yes, for real,” I say. “Besides getting me arrested, I’ll also scare a bunch of tourists.”

  He says, “Fear is a useful thing. All right. I will follow your request. Hold on, please.”

  I say, “Not too long,” but I’m talking to empty air.

  I wait.

  Look around.

  The gate across the way opens up and a white Cadillac, with tinted windows, eases out. With the gate open, I see little areas of tended brush and trees, and a wide beach spotted with beach umbrellas and kids playing.

  My caller comes back. “This will be on speakerphone, just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  I try to speak, but another male voice interrupts me.

  “Amy?”

  I put a fist to my mouth, trying so very hard not to sob in relief.

  Tom feels light-headed and woozy, standing on a balcony, sun beating down, holding Denise’s hand. The air feels good, but he’s also up at a height, maybe five or six stories. The canvas bags have been pulled off their heads, and the man who’s been in charge is standing a few feet away, wearing a light-blue-and-white seersucker suit, a cell phone in his beefy right hand.

  He says, “This will be on speakerphone, just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  The phone comes over to Tom, and he takes it, hand shaking, and brings it up near his mouth.

  “Amy?”

  A slight pause, and her voice comes right out through the speakerphone. “Oh, Tom…Tom, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, honest,” he says, ignoring the throbbing pain in his burnt arm, still covered with the bandage the Afghan doctor had put on him. “Denise is with me, too.”

  “Let me talk to her, just for a moment.”

  Tom lowers the phone, and Denise, her face as nearly bright as the sun, talks loudly into the phone. “Mommy, Mommy, are you here? Are you here to pick us up?”

  “That’s right, hon, that’s right. Give me back to Daddy.”

  Tom brings up the phone. “I’m back.”

  “Good, good,” she says, her voice sounding so sweet and wonderful. “Tom, this is very important. What do you see?”

  “What?”

  “The scenery,” she snaps. “Tell me where you are, what you see.”

  He looks to Pelayo, who offers him a slight nod. He’s happy that he can do what Amy asks, but he’s still humiliated at being under this man’s control.

  “Ah…I’m somewhere in Florida, I’m sure. There’s a flagpole that’s flying the American flag and the Florida flag. I see the beach, the ocean…and on the other side, looks like a wide stretch of downtown…”

  “Look at the downtown. What do you see?”

  He leans over the balcony a bit. “There’s…a bandstand. And a fountain… Hey! There’s a black Jeep Wrangler. Is that you?”

  The phone goes silent.

  “Amy?”

  I lose it for a long minute, just sobbing against my clenched fist.

  I’ve made it.

  My Tom and Denise are nearby, so very, very close.

  The other man’s voice comes back onto the phone. “Satisfied?”

  “I am,” Amy says.

  “Very well. The time is now…five thirty p.m. Let’s make the exchange in exactly thirty minutes. Six p.m. on the dot. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because arrangements must be made,” the man says. “You’ve noticed there’s a gate nearby. The access code to the gate is one-two-three-two-one. Easy to recall, am I correct? Come into this little gated community and make a left. About a hundred meters down the drive is a store that sells women’s beachwear. It’s called Yucatan. Go into the store and there’s a package waiting for you.”

  “What kind of package?”

  “A bathing suit,” the man says, laughing. “A very, very skimpy bathing suit. Once you have that on, you will walk with your…guest, to a small park with four concrete benches. Stand by the closest bench. I will be there in exactly thirty minutes. If you’re not there…well, let’s not consider that, shall we?”

/>   My breathing starts to quicken.

  “All right,” I say. “Six p.m. I’ll be there. And you’ll be there with Tom and Denise. If I don’t see Tom and Denise, I will—”

  “I know, I know, you will kill the man that you have,” he says. “Aren’t you ashamed of saying these threats out loud, so he can hear them?”

  “No,” I say, and I disconnect the call.

  CHAPTER 80

  TOM’S EYES are swollen and filled with tears, and he wipes at them, not caring if his captor is seeing this embarrassing display. Pelayo is smiling widely.

  “Everything is coming together,” he says. “See? Save for some disruption to your life, and an unfortunately burnt arm that is entirely your fault, in just a little while, your family will be reunited.” Pelayo reaches over, rubs Denise’s head, and Tom feels a sharp bile of anger rise up in him.

  “Don’t touch my girl,” he says.

  Pelayo lifts his hand. “I understand. Come, we need to get ready.”

  Tom takes Denise’s hand and starts walking down the balcony, to the open sliding door leading back inside. Pelayo says, “Tom, are you all right? You seem to be limping some.”

  “Leg cramp,” Tom says. “Lying down all day and night will do that to you.”

  “Oh, I see,” Pelayo says, and they are ushered into a wide suite, Tom holding Denise’s hand, walking carefully with a limp so the cutting tool hidden in his right sock doesn’t fall out.

  Rosaria Vasquez swears and bursts into tears. This is too much, just way too much. Her last phone call came from her boss ten minutes ago, sending her to a small town named Beachside, and then there was a thump, the right rear of her rental Buick shuddered to the side, and here she is now, with a flat tire and a damn jack that just won’t work.

  Again she moves the thin handle, and again it slips out, skinning her knuckles. She throws the handle into the dirt, turns and slumps back against the car, draws up her knees, and runs her hands through her now very short hair. She’s parked just off US 98, and she hates this stretch of road, hates the state of Florida, and pretty much hates everything. The land is flat, bleached, with trees and brush that look fake.