The Forgotten

by David Baldacci

  Humans carried guns. And killed with malice, the only species that did.

  He had approached from the ocean side, slithering up a dune and then across a stretch of high grass to the fence. The fence did not have electronic monitors or surveillance cameras like the front gate did. It was also not electrified. But there were motion sensors tethered to bright lights. Trip one and you revealed your position. However, Mecho had scoped out where all of them were when he was here working. The lights would not trip him up, but he still had to be careful.

  The defensive philosophy here was a simple but effective one. Put up reasonable outer- perimeter measures, like fences and gates. If one got through them, the real defenses, clustered in an inner hardened circle around the target, would kick in and stop you.

  At least that was the theory.

  He clambered over the fence and dropped silently to the ground. He looked to the east and then to the west. The guards staggered their rounds. He had seen it from prior observation. He had also gained this intelligence from some well-placed questions to other members of the hired help he had encountered while working here. They obviously had no love for their employer.

  Perhaps they thought Mecho was simply a burglar looking to steal from the rich.

  What did they care about that? Someone who had everything losing a little piece of it?

  More power to him, they probably thought.

  But he thought there was another reason for their helpfulness. And it was the most disquieting one of all. It made the anger boil in his chest. It made him want to lash out and crush someone.

  But those feelings would keep. He would not crush anyone tonight.

  Not unless he had to.

  He zigzagged across the lawn, avoiding the motion sensors in the trees. He waited by a clump of bushes as one of the perimeter guards made his rounds. When the man was just past him, Mecho struck.

  The guard crumpled to the ground unconscious, blood running from the head wound. It was not fatal, Mecho knew that. He had calibrated his blow to wound, not kill. And he was a man who knew exactly how to do this.

  He also had the man’s weapons. A Smith and Wesson .44 semiautomatic and an MP5. Overkill, perhaps, for a security patrol around a residence, however rich the occupants might be. And you had to multiply that by six, for the other guards were similarly equipped. Florida had very liberal gun ownership laws.

  As Mecho looked down at the fallen man, he had to smile. The fellow apparently was pulling double duty, because it was the same man who had yelled at Mecho during the day for speaking to Chrissy Murdoch.

  Well, he would have a nice long sleep tonight.

  Mecho moved on, drawing closer to the house.

  There was a vintage Bentley convertible parked in the courtyard. A noise from another building drew his attention.

  The guesthouse again.

  He looked at his watch.

  Could it be?

  He crept closer. A small light illuminated the front of the building.

  Mecho could see another guard posted by the front door of the guesthouse. His .44 was hol- stered, and the MP5 hung loosely by its strap across his chest. He looked bored. He was smoking a cigarette.

  By this Mecho knew he was not a true professional. People who knew what they were doing never smoked on duty. Smelling your opponent before he could attack was sometimes the difference between life and death. As was the split second it would take you to drop the cigarette and close your hand around your weapon.

  By then you were dead.

  Killed by someone more professional than you.

  Three seconds later the man lay prostrate on the brick walk in front of the guesthouse. Mecho stripped out the ammo clips from both weapons and pocketed them. Then he slid the man behind a bush and crept to the door.

  The sounds coming from inside were the same ones he’d heard that morning.

  He opened the door and slipped in. This was not part of the plan tonight, but he took shortcuts when they presented themselves.

  The house was dark and he felt his way along. The bedroom was at the end of the hall on the right. He reached it about five seconds later. The door was partially open. With the guard outside they no doubt did not expect to be interrupted.

  He peered in. With the moonlight pouring in through the window, the room was illuminated well enough for him to see what was happening.

  Peter J. Lampert was on bottom this time.

  But it was not Chrissy Murdoch with him.

  It was Beatriz, the young maid whom Mecho had spoken with that morning.

  She no longer wore her crisp uniform.

  She no longer wore anything.

  If Mecho had been curious as to whether her body was as beautiful as the rest of her, he had his answer. She was exquisitely lovely.

  She straddled her employer. His hands were around her waist and he was smashing her down on him with what Mecho could see was far too much force. Peter J. Lampert seemed to get a kick out of being overly physical with women.

  Beatriz was not moaning as Chrissy Murdoch had been. At least not moaning in pleasure. She was moaning in pain. Her small breasts bounced up and down and Mecho could see her butt cheeks wrinkling with each hard collision against Lampert’s thighs.

  Mecho tensed, every instinct he had telling him to attack.

  But instead he pulled back, moved swiftly down the hall, and reached the living room. He looked around and decided this was as good a place as any.

  He did what he had come to do and then left.

  Outside he gave the guard behind the bush a kick in the head, pretending he was Peter J. Lampert.

  It felt good.

  He did one more thing before he left. The package was placed twenty meters away from the house and next to the Bentley convertible that had a license plate reading “The Man.”

  As he crawled over the fence he counted the seconds off in his head.

  He reached the beach and kept counting.

  Fifty seconds later, when he was back on firm ground, the explosion occurred, lifting the pristine old Bentley five feet up in the air. When it came back down it hardly looked vintage anymore.

  The blast lit up the night over Paradise.

  Mecho didn’t look up to watch it as he started his scooter.

  But he did smile.

  Good night, Peter J. Lampert.

  The Man.

  CHAPTER 49

  Puller drove to the Gull Coast and checked in. The front-desk person was young and sleepy, or maybe just bored.

  He put his gear away in his room and debated what to do next. He called Landry and told her he was on his way. He hopped into the Tahoe and twenty minutes later pulled into the garage in Destin.

  It was a humid night with little breeze.

  Landry met him at the garage elevator. She had changed into shorts and a tank top with sandals. She held up two bottles of beer and then eyed Sadie.

  “You have a dog?”

  “By default.” He explained about Sadie being Cookie’s pet.

  “I can’t take her, if that’s what you’re thinking. My building is no pets.”

  “No problem. I just didn’t want to leave her alone tonight.”

  “Let’s do the beach walk. It’s cooler down by the water and you can fill me in on the latest.” She glanced at Sadie. “And you can walk your new dog.”

  They trudged across the sand, the breakers rolling over with a growing intensity.

  “Surf always this rough at night?” he asked. “Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Not lately, no.”

  “Tropical storm Danielle formed in the Atlantic and entered the Gulf. Don’t think it’ll strengthen much, but it’s roiling up the waters. It’ll make landfall around here at some point. They’re not exactly sure when.”

  The beach was mostly empty except for several young men stumbling along, beer cans in hand.

  Puller spent a few minutes filling Landry in on the details of Cookie’s death as Sadie walked du
tifully next to him, occasionally looking up. The animal must have been confused as hell, thought Puller, because it had a far longer way to look up than it had with Cookie.

  “What the hell do you think is going on, Puller?” asked Landry after he’d finished.

  He shrugged. “If people knew something they’re being silenced quite efficiently.”

  “If they knew what?”

  He shrugged again. “If I knew that I’d know it all.”

  He glanced at her as they walked along sipping their beers.

  Sadie tugged and jerked on the leash, but she was so small that Puller barely noticed. It was like walking a cricket.

  The cold beer made Puller feel warm, warmer than the air around him. The waves crashing with tidal regularity made him more relaxed than he normally would have been, particularly after what had happened to Cookie.

  He caught her gazing at him. “You want to go back up to my apartment?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  She looked down. “I... We...”

  Interpreting her unease Puller said, “I’d really like to, but I can’t.”

  “Okay, I understand. I know I’m not a girly girl, and I carry a gun at work, but I am a woman. I do like guys.”

  “And I’m sure guys like you.”

  “I’ve been hit on by every man under sixty who lives around here, or at least it seems like it. And then the young punks come in from out of town and think they’re so hot, but they’re just idiots.”

  “Lots of guys are idiots. I’ve been accused of being an idiot.”

  She looked up at him, touched his arm. “But not with women.”

  He looked down at her. “No, not with women.”

  “So that makes you different. And attractive.” He was very hot now, far hotter than the air. Sweat was on his forehead. He could feel the heat pouring from Landry too. They could have been inside an oven.

  He said, “We’re working a case together.”

  “But you’re not on the police force. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were.”

  “I don’t think you’re Hooper’s type.”

  “He doesn’t quite get that. Never stops trying.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But we’re not talking about Hooper, are we?” she said.

  “We have no idea where this will lead us, Cheryl. Mixing business and pleasure is never a good idea. You’re a very attractive woman and under other circumstances my answer might be different. But the conditions on the ground are what they are. I hope you can understand that.” She sighed. “I can. Look, I’m sorry I brought it up. It wasn’t professional of me.”

  “We can’t be professional all of the time.”

  She smiled resignedly and they resumed walking.

  Puller was about to say something when the phone rang.

  Landry’s, not Puller’s.

  And nothing was really the same after that.

  CHAPTER 50

  Puller followed Landry. Her Toyota flew down the road, and Puller had to keep the Tahoe’s pedal nearly rammed to the floor to keep up. Landry was definitely not following the speed limit tonight. Sadie lay next to Puller in the front seat. He kept Landry’s brake lights, to the extent that she braked at all, in sight.

  Landry had taken the call on the beach, the phone mashed to the side of her head. She listened, said almost nothing, and then clicked off and turned to Puller.

  “That was Chief Bullock. There’s been an explosion at the Lampert estate.”

  Puller had checked his watch. One-sixteen. As good a time as any to have an explosion, he had thought.

  “Lampert estate? What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “It’s owned by Peter Lampert. The richest man in Paradise—hell, probably the entire Emerald Coast, maybe all of Florida. I don’t know for sure, but he’s loaded.”

  Puller had waited in her apartment while Landry hurriedly changed into her uniform. Then he had picked up Sadie, run to his truck, climbed in, and they were off.

  He felt that Landry was experiencing extreme guilt. She had not gone back in to work after Cookie’s murder. There was no reason for her to. There was plenty of manpower to work the scene. But then she had been with Puller when the explosion had occurred. Again, no reason to feel guilty, but he knew Landry was the sort of cop who would.

  They arrived in Paradise in record time and he continued to follow Landry through town until they reached the eastern edge. She turned off on a private road and Puller followed. The Toyota skidded to a stop in front of a pair of impressive steel gates that looked strong enough to withstand an Abrams tank assault.

  Landry jumped out of her truck. She looked back at Puller as he hurried up to her. He’d left Sadie in the truck with the windows lowered and a full bowl of water.

  “You want me to go in with you?” he said.

  She looked uncertain. She had asked him to follow her here. But now her dilemma was obvious, he knew.

  It was about two in the morning. Why would the pair of them be together?

  “I can tell Bullock I heard the explosion, saw you racing through town, and just decided to follow,” he said.

  “Thanks, Puller, I appreciate that.”

  Boyd was at the front gate. Puller figured Hooper was probably back at Cookie’s house securing that scene. It was good that Bullock had called Landry in. He would need the manpower. Puller doubted the Paradise Police Department was very big.

  Boyd looked at Landry the way a man does a woman after he’s been rejected by her. Puller assumed that this was indeed the reason for the look. Landry had said that Hooper and all the other cops had been trying to get her into bed. And it was clear in Boyd’s look that the rejection had not gone down well. When he saw Puller right behind her, his features became darker.

  “What the hell is he doing here with you?” he barked.

  Before Puller could launch into his cover story, Landry snapped, “He’s here to help us work the scene, Boyd. Take it up with the chief if you’ve got a problem.”

  Before he could say anything she bulled right past him with Puller riding her wake.

  They first saw the remains of the Bentley. The chrome radiator—now blackened and bent —was the only part left relatively intact to show the model of the car.

  Bullock was standing next to it. His crime scene tech was walking the perimeter of the blast site, apparently making some calculations.

  When Bullock saw Landry and Puller he waved them over. Unlike Boyd, he didn’t bother to ask why they were here together, so Puller did not need to use his bogus explanation.

  “Got here as fast as I could, Chief,” Landry said quickly.

  “Looks like the bomb was right under the car,” said Bullock. “Blew out some windows in the house too.”

  “This Lampert guy have enemies?” asked Puller.

  “Well, it appears likely he has at least one,” replied Bullock.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Came here from South Beach about five years ago. Built this place. Well, he was building it before he came here. Took the better part of three years to finish the sucker.”