Imposter

by Davis Bunn

  Matt checked his watch. Noon. “You sure you don’t want backup?”

  Pecard gave him that peculiar look of his, the one of such intensity Matt could feel the skin of his face being peeled back. “You said it yourself. I operate best alone.”

  Matt waited while Pecard’s car started with a deep rumble and rolled out of cover. As they left the forest clearing, it began to rain so heavily the drumbeats on the car’s roof became a constant rush. Matt halted by the highway turnoff and rubbed his face.

  Judy Leigh said, “Let me drive.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You men.” She said it like she’d had a lot of practice. She reached into her purse and came up with her collapsible umbrella. “You can slide over the console.”

  Matt would have argued, but she was already extending her umbrella and rising from the car. Matt had the choice of either moving or forcing her to stand in the rain. Matt levered himself into the passenger seat. She scrambled inside. “It’s really pouring.”

  “Seat controls are on the door.”

  “I know how to handle a Beemer.” She strapped the belt carefully around her middle and gunned the motor. “The way you guys go on, you’d think we were missing a gene.”

  Matt wanted to stay awake and gauge her ability. But with the seat tilted back he was so comfortable, the rushing rain so smooth, the world slipped out of his grasp and he was gone.

  The next thing he knew was Judy Leigh saying, “Matt.”

  He struggled upright. Rubbed his face. Tried to work the numbers on his watch into focus.

  “Man, somebody better warn your nearest and dearest, they’re in for some serious noise.” Judy Leigh had the seat back far enough to keep her tummy well clear of the wheel. Which meant she drove with her arms stretched almost horizontal. “We’re talking metal shop.”

  There was a sack of sandwiches in the backseat, an empty drink in her holder, a wrapper on the center console. “How long was I out?”

  “Hour and a half. The traffic just glued shut a couple of times.” She turned off the valley road into the gravel track leading back into the Hollows. “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” He turned to his side window and closed out what was bound to be up ahead. He had not had the nightmare. In fact, it had not been a dream in the normal sense. A single image had come and gone in an instant before she had woken him. A hint of something he needed to remember. Something vital. But it was gone now. And all it left behind was a feeling of mortal dread.

  The rain had stopped by the time Judy parked them inside the corral. But the storm was all around them as they rose from the car. The air was so full of moisture it bathed his clothes and hair in the time it took to approach the house.

  Connie appeared from around back. She wore a blue police poncho with the hood thrown back. Her trousers and her poncho were both streaked with mud. She reported, “The forensics guys are having a field day.”

  Matt took small comfort in watching her move. A splash of color and life in an otherwise bleak day. “Has Bannister gotten here yet?”

  There was a growing calmness about her, a subtle shift in internal winds. “He just called to say he’s five minutes out.”

  Matt carried the sandwich bag and led them into the house’s sterile front room. Over sandwiches he briefed her on his contact with Pecard. Found himself extremely grateful for the trust she showed by not criticizing his decision to let Pecard remain on the loose. Instead, she simply asked, “Where is Pecard now?”

  The sound of a car scrunching down the track drew them back outside. “He wanted to check out a possible site where Reeves might have taken my father. He’s supposed to call in at two.”

  Bryan Bannister drove a silver Lincoln LS that gleamed almost white in the rain. He maneuvered it into the pasture and parked alongside Matt. He walked to where Matt and Connie waited. The trees to each side dripped noisily. Thunder rumbled overhead.

  Bannister said, “He didn’t want to come.”

  Matt glanced at the car. Sol Greene remained seated with his arms crossed, staring sullenly out the side window so as not to look their way. “But he came.”

  “Only when I invited to cuff him and take him downtown.” Bannister took a deep breath. “This weather reminds me of Nam. Air so thick you could drink it. Different smells, though. The odors in the delta would knock your head off.”

  Connie said, “There’s some stuff I found that’ll take you right back.”

  He pointed at the house. “In there?”

  “No, the house is clean.”

  Bannister’s gaze and speech held to a hollow core. “I still can’t believe . . .”

  Matt said, “This house is rented to Richard Grimes, aka Porter Reeves. He’s the real killer.”

  That sharpened Bannister’s day. “You’ve found conclusive evidence?”

  “Out back,” Connie confirmed.

  Matt said, “I’ve spoken to Pecard.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I better not say.”

  “No.” Bannister heaved a breath he’d been holding for days. “You’re sure? This is solid?”

  “Pecard is clean,” Matt replied. “You were right all along.”

  Connie said, “You haven’t even seen the evidence yet.”

  “I don’t need to. Pecard had nothing to do with my mother’s death or the attacks on my father and D’Amico.”

  Bannister turned for the car. “What say we collect my ride-along and have ourselves a look at what you’ve found.”

  Connie led them around the house. Judy Leigh took rear guard. Sol moved forward only because Matt and Bryan Bannister tracked along behind him, showing him nothing but stern resolve. “I still don’t know what this is about.”

  “Easier if we show you,” Matt said.

  “Do I need my lawyer?”

  “We’re just after your help in finding Pop.” Sol stumbled on an exposed root. Matt gripped his arm and kept him from falling. Sol ripped his arm free. “Sol, we have a lead. We need your help in explaining how this is tied to Pop.”

  The young patrol officers were spinning out yellow police tape, sealing off the area. A portly man stood by a pile of rocks dislodged from the cliff face, talking in low, excited tones to a young woman in heavy black spectacles. They both wore hairnets, paper booties, and blue coveralls marked POLICE. Their clothes were streaked with red clay. The woman pushed her glasses back up her nose, smudging her forehead with the dirt she had on her gloves. Neither of them noticed.

  The portly man broke off the conversation when he saw Connie. “These your people?”

  “Agent Matt Kelly, Agent Bryan Bannister. Sol Greene and Judy Leigh are helping with our inquiries.”

  The portly guy handed the young woman his forensics case and helped her sling his camera around her neck. “You guys know the drill, right? This is still an active site. Don’t touch. Don’t take. We clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He turned back to the young woman. “Get another shot of everything under the lights, just to be sure. I’ll be back soon as I make the calls. But first go get them some suits.” To the four he explained, “You don’t want to go in there without protective gear.”

  The young woman came back with four sealed plastic carry bags. Each contained a disposable coverall of paper felt, gloves, hairnet, and booties. Connie declined, saying she was already wearing as much mud as one girl could. Sol protested bitterly until offered the alternative of ruining his clothes.

  They followed Connie along a fresh trail toward the cliff face, back to where a shrub and a roll of metal fencing had formerly blocked the entrance to a cave. The raw stone rose sheer and glistening. High overhead, pines shifted sullenly in the rising wind, casting down their wet burden. Storm clouds swirled and boiled. They were surrounded by the sounds of dripping water and the smell of wet earth.

  “You mind giving me a hand?” The young woman gave Matt and Connie battery-powered floor lamps.

  “I’m not
going in there,” Sol said. “No way.”

  Matt sensed more than nervousness over the unknown. “You know what’s in there?”

  Bannister’s gaze tightened down to narrow slits. He had noticed it as well. “Mr. Greene, do you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Paul Kelly?”

  Matt resisted the urge to shake his head. That wasn’t it.

  Sol rounded on the FBI agent. “Are you nuts?”

  “Come on,” Matt said. “Inside.”

  The mouth was actually a triangular crevice. Matt had to stoop slightly. The air inside was instantly cooler. And sweeter. A distinct odor clung to the air and the rocks. The young forensics lady switched on her light and said, “It opens up just ahead.”

  “Seemed a lot farther my first time in,” Connie said from in front of Matt. “I almost gave in to the heebies before I was through.”

  Thirty paces on, the defile opened into a cave shaped like an oval stone tent. The center was floored in cool pink sand. A bedroll lay beside a glowing Coleman lantern. Cans of food and a green military mess kit were stowed in a packing crate.

  “I want to get out of here,” Sol said weakly.

  The sweet odor was stronger, almost a funk. Matt turned on his lantern and played it over the source. One wall of the cave was lined with empty Dole pineapple juice cans. Stacked up higher than Matt. Hundreds of them.

  “Some guys back from the camps, they fixate.” Bannister’s voice was stronger now. Calmer. Finding great solace in being right about his friend. “They dreamed about something while they were held. Now it becomes an obsession.”

  Sol turned and stumbled against Matt. “I’m leaving.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  Connie said softly, “Over here.”

  All three lights focused on the cave’s far side. A third of the cave had been turned into a shrine. Two giant collages stood to each side of the largest POW-MIA flag Matt had ever seen.

  “Guys who only came back partway, a lot of them fixate on the idea of MIAs.” Bannister again. “Partly over the friends they left behind, or so the psych officers tell us. Partly over what they left of themselves back there. Here, but still missing.”

  Sol started for the entrance. Matt gripped his arm and pulled him forward.

  “No.”

  “Look, Sol.”

  The left-hand collage was dedicated to Megan Kelly and her son. Mostly Megan. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures, going back decades. Matt’s mother laughed and smiled and waved from across the divide.

  The right-hand collage was all Paul Kelly. Many were from the current campaign. Every picture was defiled. Burned. Shot. Splintered. Slashed. Angry words formed ribbons of hate across the collection.

  Matt pressed, “Why is Porter Reeves after my father, Sol?”

  Sol feebly shook at Matt’s grip. Said nothing.

  “Pop was involved in the trade of false American documents, wasn’t he.”

  Sol’s breath drew in sharply. “How . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter how I know.” Matt dropped his hand. Shock had robbed Sol of the power to struggle. “Pop was involved with Porter Reeves and Barry Simms in the illegal sale of bogus U.S. passports for gold and jewelry.”

  “None of that was ever proven!”

  “Did Porter think my father set him up? Is that it? Then why didn’t he just shoot Pop and be done with it? Why did he wait so long to retaliate?”

  “Porter was a wild man! Who knows what he thought?” Sol jerked now, but against chains only he could see. “He defined burnout. But they wouldn’t send him back. He was too good at his job. So they shipped him to Paul’s squadron because Paul was an old buddy. Paul could control him. At least, that’s what—”

  Judy Leigh had slipped in behind them. Her camera flashed, throwing them into sharp silhouette with the collage as background. Sol flinched, looked at her closely, then drew back in real alarm. “You’re that reporter! The one that was dogging Matt!”

  “Judy Leigh.”

  Comprehension dawned. He shrilled at Matt so loudly the sound tore at the rocks. “We’re in the campaign’s last day!”

  “Pop was involved with the trade,” Matt persisted. “You didn’t know exactly what we were after, but soon as you heard the investigation was pointed toward Vietnam, you—”

  “Did you hear a single word of anything I’ve said? The election is tomorrow!”

  “Sol, Pop is gone.”

  He was breathing so hard his throat rasped. “You don’t know that.”

  “Sol—”

  “You want anything more, you call my lawyer!” He stormed away, only to wheel about at the entrance and scream, “Bring me my candidate!”

  The wind had accelerated while they were inside the rock. Fitful puffs managed to find their way down to where they stood. They were all breathing easier now that they were outside the self-made prison of Porter Reeves.

  Bannister studied the trees shaking in cautionary unison overhead. “I need to have the federal attorney dismiss the warrant against Pecard, and I need to talk to the local DA responsible for Calvin Hogue’s arrest. You know who that was?”

  Connie gave Matt a chance to respond. But he had turned around and was studying the cave entrance. “Riva Pratt,” she said. “She won’t like you calling. She was out here and left when the house came up clean.”

  “I’ll speak to my guy first, have him help bring her around.”

  “You think maybe you could speak with somebody about getting Chief Bernstein reinstated?”

  “It would be a pleasure.” Bannister unfolded his phone but did not dial. He asked Matt, “What’s the matter?”

  “Pecard was supposed to phone me at two.”

  Bannister checked his watch. It was half past three. “Allen is never late.”

  Matt continued to study the cave’s entrance. Saw the collages again. He would probably see them for years.

  “Something’s wrong,” Bannister said.

  Connie kept watching him. “Matt?”

  Matt said softly, “Of course.” “Are you okay?”

  He was already moving. “I know where Pop is.”

  They took Matt’s car. Judy Leigh was not the least bothered by being left behind. The cave promised limitless headlines. Plus Bannister was staying put until the DA arrived. Hannah Bernstein had been reached at D’Amico’s bedside and was coming as well. The prospect of Riva Pratt dining on a false arrest and Hannah Bernstein reflecting on false dismissal brightened even this sullen day. At least for the reporter.

  The rain closed in as they wound back along the high border of the Patapsco River Valley. The entrance to the 695 Beltway was blocked by a quarter mile of stalled traffic. Connie said, “Cross over to Frederick. Look for the Highway 144 sign.”

  The change in Connie filtered through his mental clamor. “You’re different somehow.”

  She waited through several beats of the windshield wipers to reply, “I’ve been talking to Lucas.” She looked over. “You want me to drive?”

  “This helps me think.” Matt watched as she returned her attention to the side window. She held to a core of calmness that not even the day’s tumult could shift. It unsettled him. Why, he could not say. He tried to dismiss it as a day overloaded with psychic jolts and failed.

  Traffic inside the city was slow but moving. Matt took Liberty Heights to Fulton, then went west on Franklin. Following the path of least resistance. Traffic snarled as they approached the central train station, so he took a right onto Martin Luther King. They passed Bolton Hill at a crawl. Then it hit him.

  “Sol Greene,” Matt said. “He’s the answer.”

  Connie turned from her inspection of the rain-washed window. “The man we just let walk.”

  “Nothing to hold him on.” The calm in her gaze rocked him, and the mystery made it worse. “If only I knew the reason.”

  She gave him nothing but steady. “Matt, what you’ve been through, don’t you think
it would help to talk it out?”

  Matt kept himself from saying it. How often he had heard the very same thing. And all the different ways it’d been said. All his frozen years were reflected in her gaze.

  Which was probably why he missed the oncoming danger until they were on Hanover Street and approaching water.

  Matt pulled as far over as the high curb permitted and put on his flashers. “What time is it?”

  “Almost four.” A horn blared behind them. “We’re blocking the bridge traffic.”

  Matt turned on his lights and sat on his horn. “This could be a little tricky.”

  He started into his U-turn, then halted when a truck in the inside lane roared past in a spray of water and horn and diesel and near death. Matt nosed farther out, pushing the BMW in front of an angry SUV, and gunned onto the central divide. Cars streaming off the Vietnam Memorial Bridge blared horns and flashed lights. Matt kept going. The car’s underbelly scraped on the concrete divide and held for a moment, until Matt floored it. They spun and bounced and careened over with a final clatter. “Sounds like that cost me either a tailpipe or a bumper.”

  Connie released her hold on the car door and roof. “You want to explain that?”

  “Pecard is so late it has to be major.”

  “And?”

  “Bannister said it. I know it. Pecard is never late. Something is so wrong he can’t make contact. If I’m right about the spot, I’m wrong about the approach. Everybody on and off the bridge can be seen from the site. I need to find a back door.”

  She looked at him a long moment. “Where are we headed?”

  “Cherry Hill Park.”

  They swung past the Wright Industrial Zone on Washington, then headed east on Patapsco. As they approached where the road crossed the Patapsco River estuary, the CST rail sidled in close to the highway. Connie said, “We can park here and hoof it.”