The Cornwalls Are Gone Read online

  McCarthy says, almost in a whisper, “Because it makes sense, that’s why.”

  It feels like a passenger ambling by has just hit her between the shoulder blades with a sledgehammer. Higher-ups and the Army have just made a determination this is one horrible case and a potential national embarrassment, and that someone has to be sacrificed to either solve the case or make it go away. And her superior has flown here to tell her, face-to-face, so there’s no paper or email trail, no evidence, nothing save her word against his.

  “Yes, sir,” she says quietly. “I’ll do my job.”

  McCarthy looks relieved as he stands up. “Good. I’ll be in touch with any additional information that comes my way.”

  He walks away, and in a very few seconds, is lost in the moving and shifting lines of travelers passing through this fine airport on this fine day.

  Rosaria stands up, starts going in the direction of the Hertz terminal, and she goes three steps and starts weeping, goes three more before she realizes why she’s crying.

  She’s just lost her family.

  CHAPTER 71

  WITH ARCHIE’S disappearance, I try not to panic.

  So what do I do?

  I panic.

  I leap away from the chair in front of the computer terminal and race out to the center part of the library. A few quiet patrons are there, but there’s no well-dressed man with white hair and beard.

  Damn!

  I head outside, figuring if he’s still in the building, I have a chance of going back and finding him in there, and I slam through the door and nearly run over a young mom and her two young boys, and she yells a very well-deserved curse at me as I step out on North Main Street, frantically looking up and down the sidewalks.

  Nobody.

  I run to the shaded parking lot, hoping that Archie got bored and decided to return to my Jeep.

  I skid up next to the Wrangler.

  The interior is cluttered and filthy, but no Archie.

  Damn it again!

  I look around the parking lot, duck and look under the vehicles, trot over to the rear of the library. I disturb a few pigeons and that’s it.

  You’ve lost him, comes the nagging voice. You’ve lost the key to freeing your family, and they’re going to die because of you.

  I run back to the library.

  Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez is driving as fast as she can in downtown Victoria, Texas, looking for the library. About fifteen minutes ago she got a quick and very frantic phone call from Senior Warrant Officer McCarthy.

  “Nailed her,” he said. “She’s using a computer at the city library in Victoria, Texas, address is three-oh-two North Main Street.”

  “Got it,” she replied, and hung up. What else was there to say?

  The GPS on her Hertz vehicle is working like a charm. Up ahead is the square cement library, plopped right down in what looks to be a sparsely populated residential and light business district. Despite all that’s going on, Rosaria gets a warm feeling at seeing a public library. This one has a nice sign out front, the lined concrete looks warm and inviting—because there are books inside, no doubt—and the lawn is bright green and closely trimmed. In her troubled years growing up, it was never certain if there was going to be food in the house, or if your foster sisters would steal your stuff, or if your foster father would stare at you at bedtime, but one thing was certain: there would always be a building nearby that would take you in and would let you read as many books as you wanted, all for free.

  Rosaria spends less than two minutes circling the library and then drives into its nearby parking lot.

  Nearly slams on the brakes.

  Black Jeep Wrangler, pulled into a space, under the shade of a tree.

  Hidden from the street and backed in so someone could drive out quickly.

  Rosaria slowly drives past the Jeep.

  It’s empty.

  She reaches for her leather bag, pulls out her SIG Sauer, lays it across her lap.

  What now?

  Phone the cops? ID herself as an Army CID investigator and ask for interagency assistance? Would they speedily respond or would they take their time, checking her out?

  Rosaria circles around and returns to the Wrangler. She could park in front of it, prevent it from leaving.

  She checks the license plates and sees they’re from Texas.

  So. Stolen or legit? And if she were blocking a legit citizen, that could cause a stink, which would cause attention, and she doesn’t need attention now.

  Rosaria pulls into an empty spot, steps out with her pistol at her side.

  What she needs is to go into that library and find her AWOL officer.

  Now.

  CHAPTER 72

  SLIGHTLY OUT of breath, I go up to the helpful young lady at the front desk and say, “Have you seen my grandfather?”

  She looks up from her computer terminal. “Who?”

  “The older man I came in with,” I say, and hold out my hand. “About this tall, white beard and hair, doesn’t talk, has on a nice suit.”

  She shakes her head. “No…but I’ve been pretty busy these past few minutes. He might have slipped out without me seeing. Is everything okay?”

  I look around at the tall book stacks and the doors marking study areas or small conference rooms. “No, not really,” I say. “He easily gets confused. I’m going to take a look around the stacks. If you see him, could you just try to keep him here, at your desk? Honest, he’s very gentle.”

  My cooperative librarian says, “Should I call the police, ma’am?”

  Hell, no, is what I think.

  “Not yet,” I say, and then I walk fast into the areas near the closest bookcases.

  Rosaria steps into the air-conditioned library and takes an appreciative sniff of the smell of books. Nothing like it in the world. Before she goes up to the main desk she slides her small SIG Sauer into the right pocket of her jacket, checking at her hip to make sure she has her handcuffs. When she gets to the desk a sweet, young heavyset lady steps up from her terminal and says, “Can I help you?”

  She displays her gold shield and identification card. “Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez,” she says. “I’m looking for—”

  The librarian smiles. “Oh, your friend must have called you then, am I right?”

  Rosaria is still holding on to her IDs. “My friend?”

  “Sure,” the librarian says. “I forgot her name, but she came in a while ago with her grandfather, a quiet old man, and asked if she could use one of the computers. They’re reserved for residents of Victoria, but she showed me her…that special ID, the one with the funny green letters.”

  She puts away her identification. “Her Armed Forces identification card.”

  “That’s the one!”

  Rosaria takes in the open areas and the book stacks. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Oh, out back there somewhere,” the librarian says. “She was looking for her grandfather. I guess he wandered off. She must have called you to come in and help, right?”

  Rosaria slides her hand into the coat pocket holding her firearm. “You could say that. Just so I know how to help her, are there any other exits from this building?”

  “This is the main one,” she says. “There’s a fire door on the other side…but you can’t go through there. If you do, it’ll set off one heck of a ruckus.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  The librarian asks, “If your friend comes back, should I tell her you’re here?”

  “No worries,” Rosaria says. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with her on my own.”

  I’ve gone up and down four long lengths of bookshelves and have only come across a young girl, splayed out on the floor, reading a Harry Potter book. I can’t tell which one it is. I step over her long legs and have a pang of fear, thinking about Denise.

  When I get to a point where I can look back at the main door and the lobby, I freeze.

  A woman is talking to the cheerful and helpful you
ng lady at the main desk. The woman has on plain black slacks, black jacket, white blouse. She has a dull-looking leather bag over one arm and she’s got a serious look on her face as she talks.

  I wish I could read lips, so I knew what she is saying.

  But whatever she’s saying, her entire presence and demeanor say one thing to me: cop.

  I duck back into the stacks.

  Rosaria turns and freezes.

  A shape has just moved back into the near stacks.

  It looked like an adult. Hard to tell if it was a man or woman.

  But the shape moved pretty fast, like it didn’t want to be spotted.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” she says to the librarian, and steps quickly away from the curved desk.

  Her hand is still gripping her SIG Sauer, and she makes another quick check at her waist, making sure her handcuffs are ready for use.

  If she’s very, very lucky, she will end this in a few minutes.

  I’m moving as fast as I can, slipping from one set of stacks to another. I can sense I’m being tracked, and there’s not much I can do. The cop out there has my trail here among the volumes depicting civilized life, and I’m running out of places to hide. At least there are no civilians back here to get in the way.

  And where the hell is Archie?

  I feel like I’m making a house out of a deck of cards, and one by one, the cards are slipping away.

  I come to a wall, see a small alcove with books and book carts, and I turn.

  The shadow is coming closer.

  Damn.

  If I duck to the left or to the right, I’ll be spotted.

  I head to the alcove.

  Rosaria sees movement.

  She’s getting closer.

  This will end now, she thinks. It will end now, and she will prove to her boss and anybody else out there that she can do a job, no matter how abandoned and alone she is. The shadow and shape flick before her. She senses she’s coming to a corner of the building and Captain Cornwall will be trapped, and then it will be done.

  She turns around the end of one full bookcase and finds…

  No one there.

  What the hell?

  She steps closer.

  Wait.

  There’s an alcove with three book carts shoved in, the ones used to return books to the shelves.

  They’re not in a line.

  They’ve been moved around, like they’re hiding something.

  She lifts up her SIG Sauer. “Captain Cornwall? Are you there? Please come out, with your hands showing.”

  No answer.

  She hears a murmur of the librarian talking to someone way behind her.

  “Captain Cornwall?”

  She slowly moves forward, hugging the wall, knowing Cornwall has taken down a Tennessee state trooper and has probably killed two Mexican drug cartel members, and she’s not taking any chances by leaving herself exposed.

  Then…

  Rosaria grabs the end of one book cart, quickly pulls it out, steps into the alcove.

  Empty.

  Nothing here but books.

  Damn!

  She steps out of the alcove and starts back to the stacks when something heavy slams into her and drives her into the floor.

  CHAPTER 73

  LUCKILY THE bookcases here are securely bolted to the concrete floor, so they don’t move as I climb up on top of them, and they even stay in place with my weight when the armed woman calling out my name passes underneath me.

  I roll over and hit her right on the shoulders, and she drops with a surprised “Oof!” I grab a shoulder, roll her over, and shove the muzzle end of my .357 Ruger up against her chin.

  Her eyes widen and she stares up at me as I shift position and kneel on her chest, locate her pistol, and shove it into my coat. A quick frisk and I come away with her handcuffs.

  I shove the muzzle in another quarter inch and whisper, “Hands above your head, right now.”

  The woman does as she’s told. I’m both grateful and surprised. I was expecting some resistance, but the day still isn’t over.

  I snap the handcuffs securely on her wrists, stand up, and haul her up as well. My revolver is now pressed against her sternum, and I whisper again, “We’re going to have a sixty-second talk. If you murmur, yell, struggle, I’ll kill you. All right? I will pull this trigger and the center of your chest will be turned into a bloody mess.”

  I push her into the alcove, shove her to her butt, and kneel back into her, my revolver back under her chin.

  “Talk,” I say. “Don’t waste my time.”

  Rosaria is both shocked and stunned that this woman—a bookworm intelligence officer!—has managed to surprise, overwhelm, disarm, and secure her in just a matter of seconds. And then a cold clarity comes to her: this bookworm also successfully passed Ranger training. Her initial thought was stupid. The metal of the revolver muzzle is harsh and cold under her chin, and Captain Amy Cornwall bears little resemblance to her official photo, sitting in front of an American flag in full-dress uniform, smiling confidently into the camera’s lens.

  Cornwall’s hair is disheveled, her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, and she smells of little sleep, bad food, and long hours on the road.

  “Talk,” she orders.

  Rosaria keeps quiet. Maybe somebody out there heard something. Maybe a library worker or even an off-duty cop might walk by.

  The muzzle is shoved harder. “Talk. You know my name, I don’t know yours. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  The steel barrel is twisted into her skin. “Who are you? Army? FBI?”

  Rosaria doesn’t like the woman’s look or her tone of voice. “Warrant Officer Vasquez. CID special agent. Out of Quantico.”

  That gets Cornwall’s attention. Her eyes sharpen and she says, “Why are you after me?”

  Rosaria says, “You’re absent without leave, Captain.”

  Cornwall has a sharp, bitter laugh. “AWOL? For real? I’ve been gone from base less than three days and I got a CID officer from Virginia tracking me in Texas? That’s crap. Why are you after me?”

  Rosaria’s not sure what she can say, so she tries the truth. “Orders.”

  “From whom?”

  “My boss,” she says. “Who else?”

  “And what has he told you?”

  Rosaria doesn’t want to say any more, but Cornwall checks her watch. “About thirty seconds left. Make your time count.”

  And then, in this small alcove in an out-of-the-way library in the middle of Texas, so far away from home and the Army, Rosaria makes a decision.

  “My boss has hardly told me anything,” she says. “Besides what I’ve learned, they’ve been tracking your movements.”

  “Of course they have,” she says. “Hell, I made an ATM withdrawal yesterday, stayed logged on my private email account here, practically sent up a goddamn flare.”

  Rosaria thinks that through. “You…you did that, knowing you’d be tracked.”

  “That’s right,” she says. “I got a crew following me already. I wanted to know who else is dogging me, and now I know. Civilians and military. I’m surprised you guys haven’t bumped into each other yet. Now, you said you’ve learned stuff on your own. Like what?”

  A hesitation, and then Rosaria goes all out.

  “I know you hit a house yesterday in Three Rivers. I know you took someone from there. And I also know you shot and killed two men.”

  She was hoping that last bit of news would shock Cornwall, but her expression doesn’t change.

  “They were bad men,” she says. “I’ve been fighting bad men for most of my adult life. I really don’t care.”

  Rosaria says, “Maybe you’ll care about this. The man being held at that house, the one you took…he was supposed to be turned over to your husband, Tom Cornwall.”

  Now there’s a shocked look on the Army captain’s face.

  Even though she’s handcuffed and has a revolver pointed at her, Rosaria feels a sense of satisfacti
on at doing that.

  CHAPTER 74

  THIS DAMN CID officer has just confirmed something I found out less than thirty minutes ago, that my Tom has been involved in some very dark and dangerous work.

  I try not to show my shock or dismay, and I say, “How do you know about my husband?”

  “Is it true?”

  “How do you know that?” I say, poking her once more with my Ruger.

  She says, “Like I said. I’ve found some information on my own.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all you’re getting.” Her voice now growing defiant. “Captain Cornwall, what the hell is going on? That man you kidnapped…who is he? Why did your husband need him?”

  I decide we’re done.

  I push her against her chest, shove her back deeper into the alcove, and I grab her cuffed arms, pull them up, and loop them over a valve fitting for a sprinkler pipe. She squirms and doesn’t say anything from the sudden shift in position and the strain that’s on her arms.

  I’m impressed.

  I hold the revolver between her eyes, touching her forehead, her thick hair about her shoulders.

  “I’ll say this low and slow, so there’s no misunderstanding.” And for emphasis’ sake, I tap the cold steel on her olive skin. “I’m headed out of here. If you follow me, if you try to track me, interfere in any way with what I’m doing, I will shoot you dead.” Another brief tap to her moist forehead. “If I even get the slightest hint that you might be out there, trying to find me, I’ll kill you. And if somewhere along the way, before I get to where I’m going, if I’m arrested or stopped, I will blame it on you. And when I get out of prison, thirty, forty, fifty years down the road…I’ll find you and shoot you dead. Do we have an understanding?”

  The CID officer calmly says, “You’re doing this for your family, aren’t you? They’re in some sort of trouble. Your husband, Tom…he was working on a story that got the wrong attention. That’s why you’re doing this.”