The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  I should.

  Instead I just bow my head against the steering wheel, shudder, and start sobbing.

  I take a deep breath.

  It’s a hell of a thing, coming that close to shooting an innocent state trooper.

  A hell of a thing.

  Then I start up my Jeep and get the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER 37

  TOM CORNWALL is exhausted and discouraged, sitting on the end of the bunk bed, back in his cubical prison. His right arm is stretched out, gently holding Denise’s hand. She’s wide-eyed but keeping calm, sitting up against a pile of pillows. A dark-skinned woman wearing a black scarf around her head is smiling and whispering at Denise as she works on her cut foot.

  “There’s a good girl…”

  “Be brave now…”

  “Just a bit more…”

  Denise’s right leg and foot are extended into the woman’s skirted lap, and there’s an open leather case on the other bed. The woman doctor has gently washed and wiped Denise’s foot, and now she tapes on a small bandage.

  “There you go, princess,” she says in a soft, accented voice. “The wound isn’t that bad. It just looked bad, lots of blood. Try to stay off it as much as you can during the next few days. All right?”

  Denise nods.

  “Does it feel better now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good girl.”

  The woman gathers up her medical gear and supplies, zips the case shut, and then stands up. She says a phrase in Pashto that Tom recognizes—“Good-bye, little girl”—and turns to leave.

  Tom catches her eye. He hopes there’s sympathy, or worry, or friendship in that doctor’s face, but no.

  There’s just contempt.

  That’s all.

  Tom knows why. It’s the contempt of a woman seeing a man who can’t take care of his little girl.

  The doctor leaves and Pelayo Abboud steps in, with two other men, one older, one younger. The two men who had earlier dropped off their breakfast.

  Tom squeezes Denise’s hand.

  Pelayo steps forward with Tonton and the young Afghan man, named Hamid. That’s right. The American writer is tired, his face is sagging, and Pelayo knows he’s been broken. To be within a few meters of freedom and escape, carrying his little girl in his arms, his writer’s mind already composing the successful end of their escape…and Pelayo stepped in, destroying the story, destroying his hopes.

  Tom Cornwall says, “Yes?”

  Pelayo gently sits down on the opposite bunk, holding a crisp small brown paper bag in his hand. He says, “I’m sorry, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the last time we spoke. I’m in the middle of a delicate negotiation involving very high stakes, and your wife is a vital part of that dealing, which includes you and your daughter. You did understand that, did you not?”

  A heavy breath. “I did.”

  “I also told you that having you here is a…guarantee of this transaction successfully taking place. I also told you that if my cousin Miguel were here…the situation wouldn’t be so civilized. Even though he pretends to be a religious man.”

  “Look, I did what any dad would do, I was scared—”

  Pelayo opens the top of the paper bag. “I also offered you some additional refreshments. One of the items you requested was chewing gum. It was a moistened piece of chewing gum, placed in that door behind me, that allowed you and your lovely little girl to escape. Correct?”

  Tom just nods.

  “So my gracious response to your request was a betrayal, then, wasn’t it? A piece of gum that I thought would go to you and your daughter, to perhaps provide a means of relaxation and calm, was used to help your escape.”

  Tom’s voice is quiet and dull. “I understand what you say, but what kind of father would just sit here without trying to escape?”

  Pelayo reaches into the paper bag, takes something out. “The kind of father who would be smart would sit tight, wouldn’t do anything to put himself or his daughter into jeopardy. That kind of father…and, Mister Cornwall, in the meanwhile, you’ve also embarrassed me in front of my staff. I can’t let that stand, now, can I?”

  Tom stares hard at the small metal object in Pelayo’s right hand. He whispers, “No.”

  Pelayo says, “Oh, I’m so sorry. ‘No’ is not an option today.”

  CHAPTER 38

  AT THE Nashville Airport, Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez says, “Boss, what do you mean, I’m not going back to Fort Belvoir?”

  “I need a fire to be put out,” Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy says. “A fire that you caused earlier today. Did you tell me you were going to Fort Campbell?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “I was conducting my investigation, sir—you know how it is. You’ve never asked me before to be briefed on what I do, hour by hour, even day by day.”

  “Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Sir?”

  Before her the two happy soldiers are being escorted out of the terminal by members of their family, their real family, not a fake one.

  He says, “Did you check in with anyone at the 502nd MP Battalion?”

  “I did not,” she says.

  “Even though they’re the CID group responsible for Fort Campbell and its personnel?”

  She says, “I wasn’t investigating their personnel. I was investigating Captain Cornwall and her temporary assignment there.”

  “Well, that’s still a problem,” he says. “Lieutenant Colonel Macrae, he runs the 502nd and he’s one pissed-off CO. Military courtesy and all that. He’s raising a fuss and he’s getting some attention, attention we don’t need, and I don’t need. So you need to get back to Fort Campbell and make nice with him. Apologize. Now.”

  Rosaria says, “But that’s more than an hour’s drive away. I’ll miss my flight.”

  “Then you should get started, and get that job done.”

  “But…don’t you want to know what I’ve found out so far?”

  “Special Agent, is your investigation complete? Do you know where Captain Amy Cornwall is at this moment?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then I don’t have to know a thing.”

  “Boss…” That old feeling of being kept in the dark, of being helpless and confused. Rosaria, pack your bags, you’re going back to Child Services. Rosaria, stay home tonight, we’re taking our children out for our wedding anniversary. Rosaria, sorry, that’s the way it is, you’re going to another family, and we’re sorry you’ll miss your friends at school.

  “Yes? Make it snappy.”

  “What’s going on? Who’s gotten to you?”

  “Special Agent, get ahold of Colonel Macrae and make nice.”

  He disconnects the call.

  Rosaria sits there, feeling light-headed, wondering what is going on with this Cornwall investigation.

  There’s a bing coming from her phone, telling her she’s just received an email.

  It’s from Major Wenner, at Fort Belvoir, giving her the contact information for Lieutenant Preston Baker, the officer who was with Captain Amy Cornwall during her last tour of Afghanistan.

  She saves the information, toggles through her phone, fingers angrily sweeping across the screen and typing in names, until she finds what she’s looking for.

  The phone number for Lieutenant Colonel Angus Macrae, commanding officer for the 502nd MP Battalion at Fort Campbell.

  She waits.

  Hesitates.

  Then punches in the numbers.

  Gets the secretary for Lieutenant Colonel Macrae, and then gets Macrae’s executive officer, Major Brian Coyne.

  “Major Coyne? This is Special Agent Rosaria Vasquez, of the 701st Military Group at Marine Corps Base, Quantico.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is Lieutenant Colonel Macrae available?”

  “For what reason?”

  She thinks, To have me bow and scrape before him, and make him feel all righ
t.

  “I believe the colonel knows why,” Rosaria says.

  “Well, he’s in a conference right now. And I can’t see him being available at all today. Tomorrow at eleven a.m. would be the soonest I could squeeze you in…if you could tell me what this is all about.”

  “At the moment, I’m afraid I can’t,” Rosaria says. “But may I leave a message with you, sir?”

  A slight grunt. “All right. Go ahead.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  Rosaria says, “Tell him I’m sorry. No, tell him this: I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Vasquez, is this some sort of joke?”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. Will you deliver the message?”

  “I will, but I don’t—”

  “Thank you, Major, you have a good day now.”

  Rosaria disconnects the call, checks the time.

  If she hustles, she can make her flight back to Reagan International, and within a few hours, find out what Lieutenant Preston Baker knows about the missing Captain Amy Cornwall.

  Rosaria gets up, starts briskly walking to the TSA checkpoint, glances over at the other side of the terminal, sees that the two soldiers and their happy families are gone.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE LITTLE metal object in his right hand is light but so devilishly simple and effective. Pelayo says, “Before, you thought you had a choice. Staying here or trying to leave. You chose wrong. Now you have a second choice before you.”

  Tom says, “Please…”

  Pelayo gestures to Hamid. “This young man is from a battered and poor province in Afghanistan. I know you’re aware of Afghanistan and its history of clans, tribes, and warfare. Hamid is orphaned. His family and village have been nearly destroyed. He’s here, working for me, and barely speaks English. Correct, Hamid?”

  The young Pashto male—hearing his voice—smiles nervously and nods his head. Pelayo says, “Now. What would you think would happen if I were to leave him alone in this room with your daughter, and before I closed the door, I told him your family had his family incinerated last year?”

  Tom feels like the concrete cube has closed about him, squeezing his shoulders and torso. No escape. He tries not to stare at the small and familiar metal object in the man’s right hand.

  “What do you mean…my family?” he asks.

  Pelayo gives a slight shrug. “You and your Army wife, don’t you think you have blood on your clean and soft hands? Your wife…she’s in the Army, but I don’t have to say anymore. But you, Tom Cornwall, you have killed with your words, your stories.”

  “Impossible,” Tom whispers, knowing with a hard kernel inside of him that this tough yet soft-spoken man before him is even more dangerous than he can imagine.

  “Oh, no, quite possible,” his captor says. “You think you can rest comfortably in what’s known as the Western world, write your stories, your opinion pieces, using unnamed sources or receiving leaks, not caring who or what might be feeding you information. Information that once is in print, under your name, can be used as a weapon and used to threaten, bribe, or kill others in far distant lands.”

  Tom keeps on staring at the metal object. “Please don’t hurt Denise. Please. She’s only ten.”

  Pelayo’s voice gets sharp. “And you think your wife’s actions and your crafted words haven’t killed ten-year-old girls over the years? Really?”

  “Please…”

  “Enough, then. I will leave you with this choice, here and now. We depart this room and leave Hamid with your daughter, after I tell him what your family has done to his family. I tell him not to cause permanent damage…but we return thirty minutes later. Or…”

  Pelayo holds up the small metal contraption. Tom sees it and remembers a dinner party last year, the husband of a prominent DC journalist was in attendance and insisted on preparing his own homemade desserts for all the guests…

  “Not Hamid,” Tom says.

  “A good father, then. Are you left-handed or right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then extend your left hand and roll up your sleeve.”

  Denise sees what’s going on and says, “Daddy? Daddy?”

  Tom tries to keep his voice even for his daughter’s sake. “Can you take her out for a moment? I don’t want her to see this.”

  Pelayo goes tsk-tsk. “That is not possible, my friend. Even at her age, she must suffer the actions of her family.”

  Tom’s mouth is dry and his legs are shaking. The thick man named Tonton comes around and grabs his left arm by the elbow and wrist, holding it stretched out and still.

  Tom tries to be brave. “That’s not necessary.”

  Pelayo says, “Trust me, I know from experience. It is necessary.”

  Tom yells out, “Denise! Don’t look!”

  With that, Pelayo switches on the small crème brûlée torch, and gently runs the 2,700-degree flame up the length of Tom’s exposed arm. The sizzling noise and smell of burnt hair and skin makes him yell until his throat is hoarse.

  CHAPTER 40

  I DON’T slow down until I cross the Georgia border into eastern Alabama, and then I get a good case of the shakes once again when I’m on US Highway 59, heading southwest. I’m still not sure why that Tennessee state trooper was interested in me, because I really doubt that my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Denton, would have listed me as AWOL after less than twenty-four hours, and then put my name and vehicle ID into the NCIC.

  Unless he got pressure from someone to do so.

  Who?

  The people behind the kidnapping of Tom and Denise? Why? They would want me to get to Three Rivers. Why throw up a roadblock by listing me in the NCIC?

  I squeeze my hands on the Wrangler’s steering wheel. Look at the evidence, I think. Look at the data points. The trooper didn’t pull me over in traffic. No, he made a routine traffic stop when he saw a Jeep with Virginia license plates pulled over to the side.

  Routine, then.

  All right.

  If I wasn’t in the NCIC, then what triggered him? Was it something I said? Something that he spotted that got his suspicious-cop mind working? I understand cops and their “gut feelings.” Once you’ve performed hundreds of traffic stops, your subconscious and muscle memory work together to warn you when something doesn’t feel right.

  I take a deep breath, check the time.

  I need something to eat.

  I’m not hungry, but I need fuel to keep me going all the way to Texas.

  I spot a sign for a truck stop called Love’s, up ahead off exit 174. This interstate is really a narrow two-lane blacktop, with woods and flat farmland extending on each side, and a wide and grassy tree-covered median separating me from the northbound lanes. Back home in Virginia, serious commuters would laugh at calling this an interstate.

  I come to the exit, make a right, and then turn left at the bottom, going a hundred or so yards on Steele Station Road. This Love’s Travel Stop is part of a large, national chain, and it almost gives me a bit of comfort as I drive into the fuel pump area, step out, and start gassing up my Wrangler. With the pump running, I quickly walk to a Subway to the left of the truck stop, which is a wide, one-story building with a brick facade. It looks cute and homey.

  A few minutes later I emerge with a steak-and-cheese sub, a bag of Lay’s chips, and a Diet Coke, and after putting the nozzle back in the pump, I drive to the side of the parking lot, step out, and decide to have a quick little picnic on the hood of my Wrangler. I take out my maps and road atlases, start gauging distances and times, run some rough figures, check my watch.

  I lost some additional time due to road work, but according to my figures, it will take me about fourteen hours to get to Three Rivers, Texas. I have plenty of time to stop for the night and arrive on time and fully rested.

  The steak-and-cheese sandwich is probably tasty as hell, but I can’t really taste it. I just chew, swallow, chew, swallow. It’s an overcast day, with low clouds.


  An Alabama state police cruiser slowly glides into the parking lot, parks in front of the brick building. I give the cruiser a quick glance, go back to my meal. A female trooper emerges, goes into the store. I finish up my sandwich, devour the chips, and take another good, long acid swallow of the Diet Coke.

  Once I get to Three Rivers, I can scope out the address and then…well, come up with a perfect plan to seize somebody I don’t know and toss him into my Jeep, to exchange later for my loved ones.

  And where will the exchange take place? And how can I guarantee the safety of Tom and Denise?

  Later, I think. Later. Focus on the job in front of you. Drive to Texas with no delays, no problems.

  The trooper goes back to the cruiser, and I spot something I hadn’t noticed before. The Love’s Travel Stop has a logo consisting of three overlapping hearts, colored red, peach, and yellow.

  Three symbols of love.

  Tom, Denise, and me.

  I try to take another swallow of the Diet Coke and I just can’t. I burst into tears and sob, and bring up a paper napkin just as the Alabama State Police cruiser makes a wide turn and stops beside me.

  The window rolls down. A young trooper, with her light-blond hair pulled tight in a bun at the back of her head, calls out, “Everything all right, ma’am?”

  I know better than to bullshit her, because my last bullshit attempt with a member of law enforcement didn’t go well. I wipe at my eyes and say, “My husband…and my daughter. I’m worried about them, that’s all.”

  “They okay?”

  I shake my head. “No, they’re not…they were in an accident yesterday, and I’m driving as fast as I can to see them.”

  She purses her lips, gives a slight shake of her head. “Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry. Are you all right to drive? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I blow my nose. “Ma’am, you’ve been helpful. Honest. I just need to get going, that’s all. I appreciate you checking in on me. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  She says, “Well, I know you’re probably in a hurry, so travel safe. I’ll say a prayer for you and your family. Nothing more important than family, am I right?”