The Cornwalls Are Gone Page 9

  “That’d be great, Lu,” he says. “Look, I’m in the middle of something and—”

  “I know, I know,” she says, laughing. “And tell you what, if our little patient gets to sleep early tonight, I’ll give you a nice big reward later on.”

  He smiles, feels something stir within him. “Thanks, babe. You’re gonna make the rest of my shift fly right by.”

  His wife whispers, “Be safe, come home, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He picks up the driver’s license, registration, and Armed Forces ID from the seat, and just waits one more second.

  What’s bothering him?

  The Wrangler is parked, the engine is off, the driver is sitting there with both hands up on the steering wheel—

  That’s it.

  She’s sitting there, hands up on the steering wheel, like she’s guilty of something, like she’s done something wrong and she doesn’t want to raise any suspicions.

  Huh, he thinks, opening the cruiser door. Sorry, driver, you’ve just done the opposite.

  Hancock slowly walks to the Wrangler, one hand holding the paperwork, his other on the butt of his pistol, ready to pull it free in a second’s notice.

  CHAPTER 32

  I LOOK again at the highway patrolman coming at me via my Jeep’s side-view mirror, and his face is still flat, impassive, and I don’t like it. He seems to be trying to look cool and collected, and it’s having the opposite effect on me.

  My right hand is still curved around the Ruger revolver.

  I start to tear up.

  This cop doesn’t know it, but whatever decision he’s going to make in the next sixty seconds or so is going to determine whether he gets shot on the side of this empty Tennessee highway.

  Hancock positions himself again safely behind the open window, and passes in the paperwork to the driver, who seems very relieved to get it back, and then he lowers his head and says, “Everything looks fine, miss.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You in the Army?”

  “I am.”

  “What’s your rank, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Captain.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive,” he says, looking again in the rear seat, seeing the stuffed duffel bag, and then back to the passenger’s seat, with open maps and atlases on top of the black leather bag.

  Where her hand is resting, inside.

  All right, then.

  He pulls his pistol free but does so quietly and without moving much, so the driver won’t notice. “Mind telling me where you’re going, ma’am?”

  A slight hesitation. “Chattanooga.”

  “Really? I didn’t know there was an Army base in Chattanooga.”

  “There isn’t,” she says. “I’m taking a few days’ leave, meeting up with an old girlfriend of mine from school. Going to spend a few days relaxing and pampering ourselves at a hotel.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, the pistol calmly in his hand.

  The duffel bag.

  He imagines his wife, LuLu, spending a few days with a girlfriend. Would she just dump a bunch of clothes into some ratty duffel bag? Or pack up nice and neat?

  Enough.

  Hancock steps back, brings up his pistol, and says in a clear and loud voice, “Ma’am, show me your hands. And then exit the vehicle.”

  No reply.

  “Ma’am?”

  Then the damnedest thing happens. From the driver’s side-view mirror he can make out her face, and she’s starting to cry.

  “For God’s sake,” she says, “don’t do this.”

  CHAPTER 33

  SPECIAL AGENT Rosaria Vasquez is sitting on a hard plastic chair in the main terminal at Nashville Airport when she makes the call. The terminal is wide and airy, looking like the set of a fifty-year-old science-fiction movie promising a sweet and peaceful future with lots of white plastic and exposed concrete. Surprise of surprises, her call goes right through, and a brisk voice says, “Major Wenner speaking.”

  “Major, this is Special Agent Vasquez calling. How are you, sir?”

  His voice goes down a notch. “All right, I suppose, Agent Vasquez.”

  “Outstanding, sir,” she says. “I’m conducting a bit of a follow-up from yesterday, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  She shifts her weight on the hard plastic. “Well, sir, I’m just checking on something I thought Colonel Denton said yesterday. About Captain Cornwall. If you may recall. Sir.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, if I recall correctly,” she says, while thinking, Got you, you squirrelly bastard, “just before I left yesterday afternoon, your colonel told me that you’d be giving me an update today on Captain Cornwall’s health. Am I correct, sir?”

  The guy’s good, for he quickly says, “Yes, you’re absolutely correct, Special Agent, and I’m sorry I’ve not gotten back to you today. We had a visit from the SecDef to the base this morning, and I’ve just been buried.”

  “Sir, do you consider yourself unburied now?”

  A cold pause. “I don’t think I appreciate that question, Special Agent.”

  “Sorry, sir, I meant no disrespect.” As if, she thinks. “Right now I’m in the beginning stages of a very important investigation involving the death of a civilian in Army custody in Afghanistan, under the command of Captain Cornwall. Is she still ill?”

  “I…believe so.”

  “Sir?”

  The cold voice changes its tone. “Special Agent, she’s not reported to work, and it appears she’s not at home.”

  “Do you know where she is, sir?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Out in the terminal lobby two soldiers in ACUs stride by, coming from one of the four concourses, carrying knapsacks and wearing tan boots, and Rosaria feels a stir, looking at the strong young men. Her brothers. Her family. She doesn’t know their names but doesn’t have to. They are still family.

  “Sir,” she says. “Right now, with Captain Cornwall’s absence, I don’t have much to go on. Can you think of any officer at your base who might be able to give me insight into her and her service in Afghanistan?”

  “Well, I, uh, I did serve with the captain for a while in the ’stan.”

  “Major, no disrespect, but I’m looking for someone of her rank or lower. Sir.”

  Another pause. “No names readily come to mind.”

  Rosaria watches the two soldiers walk up to a group of civilians, who start applauding and cheering as they approach. The civilians are holding balloons and handmade signs with bright markings.

  She says, “Major, as previously noted, this investigation is in its preliminary stages here in the states, but I have no doubt how this case goes will get lots of attention, both within the Army and without, as we proceed. Do you understand what I’m saying, sir?”

  “I think so,” comes the cautious reply.

  “So far, the section of my report concerning the cooperation I’m receiving from senior officers is blank. How and when I fill out this section, and what I will say about you and Colonel Denton, well, that remains to be seen.”

  The major doesn’t reply.

  The two soldiers are being surrounded by their family members, their loved ones.

  Rosaria says, “Are you sure you can’t come up with a name?”

  “Lieutenant Baker,” he says. “Lieutenant Preston Baker. He was with her during her entire deployment in Afghanistan. If you give me your email address, I’ll send you his contact information within the hour.”

  She gives him her email address and says, “Thank you so much, Major, for your cooperation.”

  He hangs up without another word.

  So what? she thinks. She’s got another lead.

  Rosaria should feel good, should feel triumphant, but she doesn’t.

  The sight of those two soldiers over there being welcomed back by their families is gnawing at her. Ever since she enlisted in the Army, she has always considered the Army her family, the ones
who would back her up, who would befriend her, and who would even love her.

  Now those thoughts are like old dust in her mouth.

  Over there, in that happy little crowd, that is a true family.

  Her Army?

  Her phone chimes and she brings up the device. Her boss, Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy, is calling her.

  She brings the phone up and checks the departure board. Her flight leaves in under an hour. Time to get through the checkpoints and to her gate.

  “Special Agent Vasquez,” she says. “What’s up, sir?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Nashville Airport.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Nashville?”

  “Looking for Graceland.”

  “That’s in Memphis,” he says.

  “I was misinformed, boss,” she says. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m working on the Amy Cornwall case.”

  “What’s your current plan?”

  “Heading back to Reagan International, on the way to return to Fort Belvoir.”

  “You’ve got a lead?”

  “I do, boss.”

  “At Fort Belvoir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad,” he says. “You’re not going back there.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I’M WIRED and ready for whatever comes my way, but I’m also trying not to get sick to my stomach. The polite and impressive-looking state trooper has come back to my parked Wrangler, has passed over my paperwork, engaged in a bit of idle chitchat, and I’m hoping that he’s about to send me along. Each minute delayed here means another mile lost in my travel to Texas.

  Then the trooper starts asking me questions.

  “Mind telling me where you’re going, ma’am?”

  Excellent question, and recalling a highway sign I had seen ten minutes back, I say, “Chattanooga.”

  “Really? I didn’t know there was an Army base in Chattanooga.”

  “There isn’t,” I say, trying to sound calm and relaxed. “I’m taking a few days’ leave, meeting up with an old girlfriend of mine from school. Going to spend a few days relaxing and pampering ourselves at a hotel.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, and I think, Great, just say so long and we’ll both be on our way.

  Then it goes straight to hell.

  The trooper steps back, brings up his service pistol from his holster, and says, “Ma’am, show me your hands. And then exit the vehicle.”

  Ah, shit, I think.

  “Ma’am?”

  No, no, no, I think, my eyes tearing up again.

  “For God’s sake,” I say, “don’t do this.”

  “What?” the trooper asks. “Hands up. Get out of your vehicle. Now!”

  My hand is near the butt of the .357 Ruger. If I bring it up and try to shoot him through the open Jeep window, that’ll give him plenty of time to cut me down before I can even pull the trigger.

  Which leaves the side of the Jeep. It’s a thin-skinned vehicle, and if I bring the Ruger back around my lap and shoot to the side and the rear, then the rounds will go through the thin metal and hit him.

  Hit the police officer. A representative of the State of Tennessee, a defender of law and order, and I’m about to put a bullet in him.

  My stomach is roiling, my mouth is dry.

  I have no choice.

  I think one more time.

  I reach out and grab what I need.

  Trooper Clay Hancock takes one more step back, because this situation is going to the shits real quick now, and then, thankfully and to his surprise, the driver does just what he asked, sticking out both hands through the open window. One hand is holding her driver’s license and registration.

  All right, he thinks, progress.

  “Driver, lower your left hand, open your door from the outside. Now.”

  The woman’s left hand moves down, fumbles some with the outside door handle, and she pulls it open.

  “Now, slowly step out, and face toward the front of your vehicle.”

  The door swings open and she steps out, and then steps back, both arms up in the air, and he’s confident now that he’s onto something, because she’s lifted her arms without being ordered to do so.

  Which means she’s hiding something.

  “Driver, slowly step—”

  She starts coming back and then her driver’s license and registration drop from her right hand, and she says, “Oh, let me get that.”

  The driver bends down to pick up the two slips of identification, and then—

  It happens in so few seconds.

  The woman is on her hands, and then she lifts up both legs, and propels herself back with her arms, and her legs open up in a V shape, and Hancock tries to step back, lifts up his pistol, but the woman is too damn fast!

  Her strong legs wrap around his own lower legs, she twists her legs and he falls, hitting his head on the pavement, and his pistol is out of his hand, and he’s trying to fight back, but the woman tugs at his utility belt and he yelps as he’s struck in his eyes with his own pepper spray.

  CHAPTER 35

  IN AFGHANISTAN, I learned how to take down a gunman or a disguised cop at a government checkpoint, to ensure my not getting kidnapped by the Taliban, and I’m stunned that it actually works. The trooper falls heavy on his head and side, I grab his pistol and toss it into the grass, and I find his pepper spray canister and give him a good jolt in his eyes. He cries out and I move as quickly as I can because all I need now is a Tennessee driver who’s an NRA member slowing down and seeing me handcuffing this trooper.

  The highway is clear.

  I handcuff him, haul him up, and he’s talking to me, and I’m ignoring his words and pleas, and I manage to shove him into the rear seat of his cruiser. I slam the door and go to the driver’s seat. Luckily the engine is still running and the trooper is still trying to talk to me, and I’m ignoring him.

  Where to?

  There.

  That grove of trees.

  I glance up at the side-view mirror.

  White van coming right down at us.

  I duck down.

  Wait.

  Wait.

  I say, “Just be quiet back there, all right? I’m not going to hurt you…I need…I just need time.”

  I hear the van roar by, feel the cruiser shake a bit from its passing, and when I think enough seconds have passed, I sit up, check the mirror one more time.

  Clear.

  I shift the cruiser into drive, swing the steering wheel, and we go down the uneven, grassy ground, until I find a place to pull in among the trees. The right side of the cruiser gets scraped by a pine trunk and I say, “Sorry about that.”

  I lower the windows some, switch off the engine. I take the keys. I go around and open the rear door, and the guy tries to kick me.

  I dodge it easily and pat his lower shins.

  “Trooper, I’m sorry…you have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll call the state police in a while, let them know where they can find you.”

  His eyes are swollen, red, and weepy. “You…you’re going to jail for this, bitch, I can guarantee it. I will hurt you. No matter how long it takes.”

  I recall that rear police doors can’t be opened from the inside. With him being handcuffed, it’s going to take a lot of time and effort for him to break free.

  “You’re going to hurt me?” I ask. “Take a number.”

  I slam the rear door shut and start running back up to the highway.

  CHAPTER 36

  HANCOCK SWEARS and tries to hammer at the door with his booted feet. No joy. Damn it all to hell! He knew something odd was going on with this Army woman, and now, here he is, humiliated, eyes hurting like hell, handcuffed in the rear of his own cruiser. He has no doubt that once he gets free, his brothers and sisters in law enforcement will do their best to track down this crazy bitch, but still…

  Besides coming home safe, cops also have another steadfast rule.

  Don’t screw up i
n public.

  Being disarmed, pepper-sprayed with his own canister, and then cuffed and tossed into the rear of your cruiser, like some damn sack of potatoes…after a dignified amount of time, his fellow troopers in his section are going to tease him without mercy in the years to come, unless he busts a couple of heads along the way and threatens his job.

  He might even have to put in for a transfer, or go find another law enforcement job somewhere, try to start new and live this down.

  A ringing noise interrupts his fast-moving thoughts, and he realizes it’s his cell phone, and he can’t get to it, and crap, maybe it’s Lu calling, to check in on him, to remind him to pick up that prescription.

  Damn. Screwing up on the job and in his personal life. What a day this has turned out to be.

  He shimmies forward, and then lifts both feet and slams them against the rear door window. The glass trembles and his feet bounce right back.

  What did that Army captain say? Something about needing time.

  He tries again with his feet.

  The window stays in place.

  Hancock thinks that the Cornwall woman could be looking for enough time to save the planet, and he rightly doesn’t give a crap.

  When he gets free, there’s going to be a law enforcement pursuit that will make that Army captain regret ever going after Clay Hancock, by God.

  He tries again with his feet.

  I’m going up near my Wrangler and a red Ford pickup truck is slowing down, like it wants to check me out or maybe offer some help, and I make an exaggerated motion at the front of my slacks, to look like I am zipping things up after taking a bathroom break.

  The truck speeds up, there’s a honk and some shouts from the two guys inside, and instead of doing what I want to do—give them a one-finger salute—I give them a big smile and wave and get back into my Jeep, after having picked up my license and registration from the ground.

  Inside the Jeep I should gently place the .357 Ruger back into my leather carrying case, get out into traffic, and resume my mission to Three Rivers, Texas, and fast.