The Cornwalls Are Gone

by James Patterson

  Denise squeals one more time, and then the two of them step out of the water, and Amy wraps Denise in a thick blue towel, rubs herself down with another blue towel, then drops the towel and runs up to Tom, wearing a conservative one-piece dark-red bathing suit. He has a brief memory of seeing her wearing that skimpy bikini, her eyes swollen and red, her feet bleeding, her hands shaking.

  Amy comes up to him and suddenly sits in his lap. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” he says, putting his arms around her. With her wet bathing suit she has instantly dampened his shorts and T-shirt, but he won’t say a word about it.

  He hugs her and he whispers, “Amy, I…I’m sorry. I betrayed you, I put Denise in harm’s way, and—”

  Amy gently pulls his head into her side, and says in reply, “Tom, I betrayed you, too.”

  When I come out of the lake, I see Tom’s sad face and decide it’s time to settle things. I plop myself in his lap and for the tenth or twentieth time, he apologizes to me, and I think I surprise him when I apologize in return.

  He pulls his head away, looks up at me. “Apologize? For betraying? What do you mean?”

  I stroke his hair. “When we first got married, you asked me never to dig into your work or your computer files. I did that. I had to do that…but I broke a promise. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes well up. “Amy…compared to what I did, what lies I told, that’s nothing. I…was desperate for a book deal. I paid money for a dark-web search. I never asked for a specific search for you or your unit. The facts I learned…they just came up…and I followed them.”

  I continue lightly stroking his hair, and he says, “If I knew what would happen…”

  I lower my hand, put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. We’re done. I forgive you.”

  “I forgive you,” he says, voice shaky.

  “Good,” I say. A helicopter slowly flies over the lake, and it fills me with happiness, knowing there’s a sniper aboard, keeping an eye on the lake and the surrounding cottages. Out in the woods and on the rural roads and dirt trails, armed US marshals are keeping watch over me and my family.

  And for the future? The Army is gone for me, but when I left that conference room, the deeply tanned man who had kept Major Wenner in place slipped me a plain white business card with a Virginia phone number.

  “I like your style,” the tanned man said. “Give me a call, anytime.”

  I hug Tom one more time, look at my little girl peacefully playing in the lake sand, and I think of Rosaria, dying back there in Florida, saving me, saving my family.

  I will never forget her, and I will always protect my family.

  Tom says, “What now, hon?”

  “Now?” I ask. “Now we relax. We have fun. We sleep late. You find another book project to work on and me…well, we’ll see. But one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Never, ever do anything like this again, Tom Cornwall,” I say. “Or I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident.”

  A hesitant smile comes across my beloved’s face.

  “That’s one heck of a threat,” he says.

  I kiss his forehead.

  “Tom, you know me by now,” I say. “I don’t make threats. I make promises.”

  CHAPTER 94

  THE LEARJET slowly taxis into a large and nearly empty hangar, and Pelayo glances out, sees a line of his men out there, waiting for him. The engines whine down and a stairway is wheeled up. A member of the flight crew unlatches the door, and Pelayo nearly prances down the stairs.

  Home. Safe. And ready to go back to work.

  Casper is behind him, and he strolls to his men, looks around for one of his armored Ford Expedition SUVs to take him to one of his expensive ranches.

  There are no vehicles in the hangar.

  Just his men and Casper, and the jet.

  He turns to Casper.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A readjustment,” comes a voice, and Pelayo turns as a man emerges through the line of those he has paid, has trained, and once trusted.

  The slim man wears cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a plain white shirt. The man’s skin is the same color as his own, his hair is black, but unlike Pelayo, this man has a closely trimmed beard.

  “Hello, cousin,” the man says.

  Pelayo feels like one of those carnival balloons, the helium emptying out, making the firm shape collapse upon itself, dying and never to recover.

  “Miguel,” he says.

  “Pelayo,” his cousin nods.

  Once more, back to Casper. “Why?” he asks.

  Casper spits on the concrete floor. “I have done so much for you, bloody year after bloody year. Always at your side. But…you became crazed, looking to kill your father. Crazed with your plans to go to Afghanistan. Afghanistan! And then you asked me to shoot a little girl. A little girl, as young as my own!” He steps forward, spits again, close to Pelayo’s boots.

  “I’m done with you, Abboud. And so is everyone else.”

  Pelayo slowly turns back to his smiling cousin.

  “Please,” Pelayo says. “Make it quick.”

  At some point Pelayo regains consciousness. His life now is nothing but pain, pain, and more pain. He is naked, secured in a heavy metal chair, and his chest is one burning mass where one by one, Miguel invited Pelayo’s lieutenants to come up with a knife and carve their initials into his chest. All he knows is that he’s in a small basement below the aircraft hangar’s floor.

  He moans, looks down to his bound wrists.

  There are only seven fingers left.

  His right eye blinks away a blood stream.

  His left eye…

  He moans again, and sees the little metal table next to him, with various tools, instruments, and razor-sharp knives. Resting in a bloody patch of gauze is his left eye.

  Miguel comes into view, smiling, wiping his hands dry with a cloth. A chest-high leather apron covers most of his clothing. He steps forward, caresses Pelayo’s cheek.

  “Please…,” Pelayo begs, whispering around his broken teeth and sliced tongue. “Please…make it quick…”

  Miguel says, “I will, I will, cousin. But you know how religious I am, don’t you?”

  Pelayo says nothing and then screams as Miguel slaps the bloody stumps on his left hand. “Yes, yes, yes, I know you are a religious man! Please, Miguel, please…end it…”

  Miguel leans down. “I will. But I believe in my Lord God. I believe He was the creator of all things. And I believe He created this world in six days.”

  He steps out of view and comes back with a large propane blowtorch, which he lights and starts to lower to Pelayo’s waist.

  “Which is why I’m going to take six days to end your world, cousin.”

  CHAPTER 95

  ON A sunny, breezy day in this part of Virginia my family and I follow the directions given to us earlier. It’s a breathtaking and melancholy sight, all the rows of simple tombstones, stretching out beyond us at every view, scattered here and there among trees whose branches look like they wish they were larger, to provide shade and comfort to all who rest here.

  I’m in the middle, Tom holding my left hand, Denise holding my right, and during our long walk along a paved lane, Tom gives my hand a squeeze and I turn and see a horse-drawn carriage with slowly walking soldiers flanking it, a flag-draped coffin being drawn to its final resting place, the collection of grieving family members barely visible in the distance.

  “Here we go,” I say, as we leave the narrow road and pass through another lane of gravestones, to one that’s fairly new. We pause there for a moment, looking down at the stone and the carved cross, her name, ROSARIO VASQUEZ, and under that, CW2, followed by US ARMY, and below that the short range of dates that marked her brief life.

  I stand with my husband and daughter for a few minutes more, my eyes blurry, and then I reach down and caress the smooth top of the stone.

  “Rosaria,” I whisper. “Thank you, si
ster. Welcome to my family.”

  Acknowledgments

  Brendan DuBois thanks the following for their assistance: US Army Lieutenant Colonel Brian Thiem (Ret.), Former Deputy Commander, 3rd MP Group (Criminal Investigation Command); Captain Vincent O’Neil, former Company Commander, 1st Battalion (Airborne), 508th Infantry Regiment; and for information on weapons’ tactics and self-defense, Stephen DuBois.

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  About the Authors

  James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author and most trusted storyteller. He has created many enduring fictional characters and series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, Maximum Ride, Middle School, and I Funny. Among his notable literary collaborations are The President Is Missing, with President Bill Clinton, and the Max Einstein series, produced in partnership with the Albert Einstein Estate. Patterson’s writing career is characterized by a single mission: to prove that there is no such thing as a person who “doesn’t like to read,” only people who haven’t found the right book. He’s given over three million books to schoolkids and the military, donated more than seventy million dollars to support education, and endowed over five thousand college scholarships for teachers. The National Book Foundation recently presented Patterson with the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community, and he is also the recipient of an Edgar Award and six Emmy Awards. He lives in Florida with his family.

  Brendan DuBois is the award-winning author of 29 novels and more than 160 short stories, garnering him three Shamus Awards from the Private Eye Writers of America. He is also a Jeopardy! game show champion.