The Forgotten

by David Baldacci

  Puller looked at the med lines going into a single unit inserted near her collarbone.

  “Morph drip for the pain.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Morph messes with your memory.”

  “It can. But we were talking about Lampert.” “We were?”

  “John!”

  “He decided to take a little trip abroad.”

  “He got away? On his yacht?”

  “To Bulgaria. Understand he’ll be making it his permanent home.”

  “How is that possible? Didn’t the police arrest him?”

  “The police were a little tardy. We took Lam- pert’s tender to an isolated spot down the beach. From there, it was easy to put him in a truck and take him away. As far as the police know he got clean away. At least that’s what I told them when they asked.”

  Carson stared at him for a long moment and then said, “I think I feel the morph erasing my short-term memory.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “When can I get out of here?”

  “A few days.”

  “Will you come to visit me?”

  “I’ve been living here,” he said, pointing to a chair next to the bed with a pillow and blanket over it.

  She smiled tenderly at this. “Diego and Mateo?”

  “Back with their abuela. And they’re living in my aunt’s house. The other prisoners are being processed and will be returned to wherever they came from. That includes Lampert’s household staff.”

  “Rojas?”

  Puller shook his head. “No. Not today. But his time will come.”

  Carson looked overly agitated by this and Puller put a calming hand on her arm. A few minutes later the morphine kicked in and her eyes closed.

  Puller went outside and called his brother at USDB. He filled Robert Puller in on nearly all that had happened, only leaving out the fate of Lampert in Bulgaria.

  “Damn, John,” said his brother. “You need another month of R and R to get over the last few days of R and R.”

  “Actually, I think I’m ready to get back in the rank and file.”

  “What are you going to tell the Old Man?” “Not sure yet.”

  “You going to tell him that his sister is dead?” Puller thought about that and finally said, “No. I’m not.”

  “I agree with you.”

  Puller had given Sadie the dog to Diego and Mateo. The two boys and the little dog had instantly bonded. Puller figured they would be good friends for many years. And he hoped that living in a nicer neighborhood well away from the gangs would be a big plus in their lives. And Bullock had promised to keep an eye on them.

  There was a lot of paperwork and face time with Bullock, the state police, and the Feds. They said this would intensify the hunt for Stiven Rojas, but that the man had proven very elusive in the past.

  “Keep trying,” Puller told them before walking out of the last debrief.

  Carson was released from the hospital two days later, bandaged, bruised, and tired.

  But alive. Very much alive.

  That morning she and Puller flew back home on a private jet sent down by the Army.

  “Gulf Five,” said Puller. “Never been on wings like this.”

  “Stick with a rising general and she’ll take you places,” Carson told him as the steward poured out two glasses of champagne for them.

  Puller drove to his apartment after promising to have dinner with Carson that night at her place. A friend of his had taken care of AWOL while he’d been gone, but he let the cat out for a good long time and then played with him for an even longer time.

  The next day he drove to Pennsylvania carrying a small package. He parked near a field of green grass, climbed out, and walked to the middle of the field. He opened the top of the urn and took his time sprinkling his aunt’s ashes across the Pennsylvania countryside, just as she had wanted. He closed the empty urn, looked to the sky, and said, “Goodbye, Aunt Betsy. For what it’s worth, a long time ago, you meant the world to a little boy. And the man he became will never forget you.”

  Puller knew what he had to do next. In fact, it was past time to do it.

  He drove back to Virginia, showered, put on his dress blues, and headed to the VA hospital.

  He walked down the sterile corridors, his frame tall and ramrod straight.

  He heard his father before he got close to the room.

  The same nurse as before confronted him in the hall.

  “He’s been a bear the last few days. Been screaming for you nonstop. Thank God you’re here.”

  “Yeah,” said Puller. “It actually feels good to be here.”

  The nurse looked at him oddly as he passed by her and opened the door to his father’s room.

  Puller Sr. was in his usual blue scrub pants and white T-shirt. He looked both agitated and confused.

  When his father caught sight of him, Puller stood as erect as possible and executed a single crisp salute to his father.

  “Reporting in, General.”

  His father’s agitated state seemed to melt away and was replaced with a scowl. Puller would take a scowl over confusion from his father any day.

  “XO, where the hell you been?”

  “In the field executing your orders, sir,” Puller said in a loud voice, enunciating his syllables just as the Army had taught him.

  “And the outcome?”

  “Mission accomplished, General. Fair winds and following seas.”

  “Damn good work, XO. Damn good. At ease.” “Yes, sir,” said John Puller and he lowered his hand and sat down next to his father.

  For the moment no longer a solider.

  Now only a son.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Michelle, for keeping it real and fun.

  To David Young, Jamie Raab, Mitch Hoffman, Emi Battaglia, Tom Maciag, Maja Thomas, Martha Otis, Karen Torres, Anthony Goff, Lindsey Rose, Bob Castillo, Michele McGonigle, and all at Grand Central Publishing, who support me every day.

  To Aaron and Arleen Priest, Lucy Childs Baker, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole James, Frances Jalet-Miller, and John Richmond, for being the best team a writer could ever have.

  To Anthony Forbes Watson, Jeremy Tre- vathan, Maria Rejt, Trisha Jackson, Katie James, Aimee Roche, Lee Dibble, Sophie Portas, Stuart Dwyer, Stacey Hamilton, James Long, Anna Bond, Michelle Kirk, and Natasha Harding at Pan Macmillan, for leading me to new heights in the UK.

  To Arabella Stein, Sandy Violette, and Caspian Dennis for being great partners across the pond.

  To Ron McLarty and Orlagh Cassidy, for continuing to knock the audio performances out of the park.

  To Steven Maat at Bruna, for taking me to the top in Holland.

  To Bob Schule, for your friendship, enthusiasm, and editorial skills.

  To Chuck Betack, for keeping me straight on all things military.

  To the families of Jane Ryon, Griffin, and Mason, I hope that you enjoyed the characters.

  To my buddy Carl Brown, I hope you enjoyed seeing your name in print.

  To Kristen, Natasha, and Erin, because I’d be hopelessly lost without you.

  And to Roland Ottewell for another great copy editing job.