The River Murders

by James Patterson

  Finally, I parked on the side of the road and pulled out the new phone I’d bought here on base. It was preloaded with 120 minutes of phone time I could use to call the US.

  I thought about calling Alicia but realized I needed to call my mother first. By my calculations, it was about eight o’clock in Marlboro, New York. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Bobby, how are you? What do they have you doing? Are you safe? I haven’t seen anything in the news about Afghanistan. What’s the food like? Are you eating enough? Are …”

  “Mom, Mom, calm down. I’m safe, the food is surprisingly good, and no one cares about Afghanistan in the US anymore. It would take something spectacular for anything to be on the news. How are you guys doing?”

  “Somehow we’re surviving without you. Alicia and your brother are like kids around the house. Always laughing and getting into something.”

  Before I could say anything about that kind of outrageous behavior, at least between my girlfriend and my brother, my mom cut me off.

  She said, “I guess that’s not true. I thought for a moment you might come home if you heard something like that. In fact, Natty is recovering fine and Alicia has been at school most days since you left.”

  I filled her in on everything going on, purposely leaving out anything about my friend Jason Roche’s death. That was probably something she’d never hear.

  My mom said, “I was worried about Natty getting lazy. I went by the academy and grabbed books and some assignments for him. Since they consider him kind of a hero after the explosion at Alicia’s, they didn’t have any problem with him studying at home for a while.”

  “Did you get the money I deposited into your account?”

  “Yes, I did. I appreciate it, Bobby, but I don’t want you to leave yourself short.”

  “Everything is provided for here. And they’re paying me really well. Use the money for the medical bills.”

  My mom hesitated then said, “Have you found the man who shot Natty?”

  “Not yet, but he’s here.”

  “Good. Pull off one of his nuts for me.”

  I flinched.

  She continued. “And feed it to a chipmunk in front of him.”

  “Mom.” I almost shouted.

  “What?”

  “There aren’t any chipmunks in Afghanistan.”

  Her rant left me in a better mood.

  CHAPTER 31

  ON THE SECOND day of patrol, things weren’t any more interesting. I tried calling Alicia but got no answer. She probably didn’t recognize the number. Or even what country it originated from.

  I called Natty to see how he was feeling.

  “I’ve already put on six pounds eating all the shit Mom makes every day. How is she not obese?”

  “If you notice, she rarely eats what she cooks. Plus, she’s got good genes. And fat is probably afraid to stick to her for too long.”

  “That makes sense.” There was a long silence, then Natty said, “We miss you here, brother. I don’t have anyone to pick on me when you’re not around.”

  “And there’s no one here nearly frustrating enough to get me riled up. I miss you, too.”

  “How’s the search for the asshole who shot me going?”

  “I’m close. You have no idea how close. He works in an isolated building on the base. I wrangled it so I would be patrolling near that building.”

  Natty said, “If you know he’s there, isn’t that enough? Can’t you tell someone and they’ll arrest him?”

  “It’s not enough. I intend to confront him. Maybe fight him. Then both of us can get sent home. He’ll get shipped back to the US. Once he’s back home he’ll have a harder time weaseling out of anything.”

  “You think the scary federal agent will come through, if you find him?”

  “I think she’s embarrassed by what happened in the mine shafts. I don’t think she likes these guys at all. So I’ll find him, identify him personally, rough him up in a scuffle, then call her.”

  “What are you going to say when you find him?”

  “I’m not in a movie. I don’t have to say anything witty.”

  “C’mon, Mitchum, I’m your brother. Don’t hold out on me.”

  I had to let out a laugh. Finally, I said, “Okay, I’ll probably say something like, ‘My brother sends his regards.’”

  “What about, ‘You shouldn’t have left me alive’?”

  We chatted a little longer. The connection to home was revitalizing. Then he said, “There is one thing. I probably shouldn’t even mention it.”

  “What is it?” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

  “Mom thinks someone might be following her still.”

  “Did you tell Bill? He could figure it out or get the right help if he needed it.”

  “She hasn’t left Marlboro. It’s not in Newburgh. He and I talked about it. He’s been by the house more and he’s checking. I just thought I’d let you know.” He paused, then said, “I’m telling you because you don’t have enough to worry about.”

  We both laughed at that.

  I needed the stress relief of a good laugh. My brother told me to be careful. And I told him to get well. For a change, we both meant it.

  I went about my patrol route. Endless laps around the narrow, blacktop road. Then it happened. I noticed a beat-up Chevy pickup truck leaving the detention facility. I was about a half mile away, but on that flat, wide-open plain, I could see everything.

  I didn’t even have to hit the gas to reach the road about the same time the truck came out of the access road from the detention facility. The blue truck had a faded Deep River logo on the driver’s door. The windshield was cracked and the tailgate missing altogether.

  I pulled in behind it and hit the cheesy blue light stuck on the dash of my Nissan. The Chevy pulled over immediately. As I climbed out, I was surprised to see the driver was none other than Rick Jackson. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he saw me here. This was going to be sweet.

  As I walked along the side of the truck, the driver’s door opened, and Jackson stepped out like it was no big deal.

  I had my hand behind me, holding the end of my ASP. I could pop the expandable baton out in a split second and crack him right over the head if I needed to. First, I wanted to hear what he had to say when he saw me.

  He glanced back toward me and recognition spread over his face. He actually smiled. Then he surprised me by saying, “Hey, Mitchum, you got here a lot faster than I expected.”

  CHAPTER 32

  JACKSON COULD NOT have been more relaxed. That pissed me off. He shouldn’t get to look so smug and satisfied. He leaned on the side of the Chevy, then casually put his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. It was like we were chatting during a break at work.

  I started to say, my brother sends his regards. Then I caught myself. If being silent rattled him, he didn’t show it. We just stared at each other for a minute.

  I expected to square off. Maybe have a good old-fashioned fistfight. At least this time I’d be mentally prepared for it. Instead, I stood at the rear of his truck, my hand on the handle of the ASP.

  I knew that Agent Kravitz needed me to positively identify Jackson and provide his exact location. She never said she could arrest him. She said she would try to get a warrant for him. I wasn’t sure I liked those odds.

  My other options were decidedly less legal. The easiest thing would be to shoot him in the head right now. Then I’d have a lot of explaining to do. Instead, I decided to hear what he had to say. What else was I going to do with my day?

  A breeze from the Hindu Kush blew across the valley. For a few seconds, it dropped the temperature by at least ten degrees. Jackson huddled in his windbreaker. He gazed around the open base and then looked at me.

  Jackson said, “As pleasant as this is, catching up with someone from the States, I’m afraid I have to get back to work.”

  I laughed at
that. “It’s ironic that over here they have a criminal running a prison.”

  Jackson looked hurt for a moment. “Me, a criminal?”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Maybe, if you stretch it, I’m a criminal in the US. But this is Afghanistan. Believe me when I tell you, no one cares. Not one person.” He still wasn’t worried that I had the drop on him. “Even the damn Afghan Army doesn’t care that much about beating the Taliban.”

  I said, “I think you’re underestimating how people feel about someone running down a woman or shooting someone in America.”

  This time he laughed. A belly laugh. “It’s a big world, Mitchum. Lots of threats. People in the US said, ‘never forget’ after 9/11. But we forgot. In fact, there are some who want to blame us for the attack. Can you believe that? They want to remove the responsibility from the terrorists. That’s how screwed up the world is. All I’m doing is trying to keep an attack like that from happening again.”

  “And getting rich while you do.”

  “That’s not at odds with what America is all about. Ask yourself. If we’re going to fight terrorism, would you rather we did it at home or over here?”

  I glanced around, making sure no one was driving toward us. It was an unwarranted concern. There wasn’t a person visible anywhere. Just the detention building far off in the distance.

  As if reading my mind, Jackson said, “No one will come by, Mitchum. My men are at the holding facility. That’s what we call it. It’s not a jail, or, God forbid, a prison. It’s just a holding facility. Have to watch out for everyone’s feelings. Even terrorists’.”

  “And you run it?”

  “Very efficiently.”

  I shook my head and muttered, “Talk about the inmates running the prison. I still can’t believe they let a criminal like you do anything.”

  Jackson said, “Here, I’m just a contractor, even if you think that I may be a criminal.”

  “What do you mean, ‘may be’? You shot my brother and ran down my mother.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “No.”

  Jackson smiled. “And that hot piece of ass? The one whose apartment I remodeled. What about her? How’s she doing?”

  He was trying to get me to do something rash. He was playing mind games. He wanted me to punch or jump on him. I resisted. All I said was, “She’s fine.”

  “Then no one will care about me or what I did. Besides, I know something you don’t.”

  “Really? What?”

  “This.” Jackson casually removed his right hand from the pocket of his windbreaker. It took me a moment to realize what he was holding. By the time it dawned on me that it was a Taser, he turned and fired.

  Before I could do anything, fifty thousand volts locked up every muscle in my body. I fell to the hard, dusty ground.

  I was conscious, but couldn’t move as Jackson kneeled down next to me. I didn’t even feel the needle he stuck in my arm.

  Jackson said, “Not to worry. This is just a tranquilizer. It’s made for horses, but the effect is the same. You’re a big boy. I don’t want you acting up. This will give you a nice little nap.” He tapped my cheek like we were buddies.

  The last thing I remembered was the round orb of the sun. Then nothing.

  CHAPTER 33

  I WOKE UP in a cage, with a very clear memory of what had happened. Now I had to figure out where I’d been taken after Jackson shot me full of some kind of horse tranquilizer. I was careful not to move so no one would notice me. I could hear people in the room and caught glimpses out of the corner of my eye of someone walking past me.

  The ceiling was white panels with brown water stains from leaks like we had in elementary school.

  My vision wasn’t perfect. I felt fuzzy. Really fuzzy. Finally, I tried to sit up. It was considerably harder than I expected. I suspected I’d be sitting for a while before I felt well enough to stand up.

  My eyes focused and I saw that I was in a fairly big room with boxes stacked in every corner and files on top of several empty desks. At the desk directly across the room from my cage, Jackson worked at a computer. After a minute, he noticed me sitting up. He turned in his comfortable-looking leather office chair.

  Jackson said, “I was holding you up here in the office to be safe. Away from the real prisoners. They’d love a shot at an American. Especially one as wholesome looking as you.”

  I had a million questions, but I couldn’t form any. All I could work out was, “What are you going to do with me?”

  He remained cheerful and said, “Let me show you the first part of my plan. You’ll appreciate this, I’m sure.” He picked up an ancient rotary phone and dialed four digits. I could only hear his side of the conversation. And I didn’t have the energy to shout or distract him in any way.

  When someone on the other end of the phone answered, Jackson said, “Hey is this Non-Metric Solutions? This is Rick over at Deep Water.” There was a short break and he said, “Hey, DP, how you doing today? Good, good to hear. What’s the DP stand for? Dennis Paul, I see. I see your name all over the place and always wondered about that.” There was another decent break.

  This time Jackson used a professional tone as he said, “Can we borrow one of your people for about a week? Ten days at the most. You can bill us one and a half times the rate if you want. His name is Mitchum. I’m not sure about his first name. Robert, really? Just like the actor?” Then he closed it out with, “Yeah, we could really use him around the holding facility. He said he didn’t mind. Probably use him on some transports down to Jalalabad, too.” He gave DP some numbers for billing then said, “Thanks so much, DP. We’re all in this together, and I appreciate this kind of support.”

  Jackson hung up the phone then turned and smiled. He didn’t say a word. He winked at me. Without another sound, he went back to working at his desk. And I started thinking about how to get out of this cage.

  CHAPTER 34

  I HAD LITTLE contact with anyone else the rest of the day. Sometime during the evening, a surly-looking employee with a tattoo on his forearm of the Philadelphia 76ers logo dropped a can of beans with a plastic spoon on the floor next to my cage. I was hungry enough that it was as good a dinner as I’d ever eaten.

  I kept wondering about my mom’s concern that someone was following her in Marlboro. What would happen if things went wrong here? Would they hurt my mother? It was a disturbing thought.

  I also noticed the constant noise coming from the rest of the building. Jackson hadn’t been lying to me when he said there were other inmates. When I first heard the organized sound late in the afternoon, Jackson had turned to me and said, “It’s prayers. Or calls to prayers. Lots and lots of prayers. You get used to it. It’s like hearing someone speak in tongues. There’s a comforting rhythm to it after a while.” He stood up and walked across the room. When he sat a few feet from my cage, he said, “Think of it this way: if they’re saying prayers, they’re not thinking about killing you or me or other Americans.”

  I slept in fits during the night. I awoke to the sound of someone calling for morning prayers. Someone had set another can of beans on the floor just outside my cage. I ate them quickly.

  Rick Jackson was back at his desk. He turned and said, “Not as easy to sleep without the tranquilizer, is it?” He chuckled.

  Now I had all my senses. I said, “You never answered me. What’s going to happen to me?”

  “There’s something big going on. Something that would really help us out, and you’re the key to success.”

  “Me? How?”

  Jackson smiled. “A little surprise is good for the soul.”

  “Is that why you have someone following my mom? To avoid surprises?”

  “We like to keep tabs on people. Now that you’ve cooperated so nicely and come all the way over here, we’ll probably call off our assistant. Provided you behave.”

  “I hate to ruin your plans if I’m the key to them.”

  Jackson shrugged. �
��Don’t you worry about it. It’ll work out. You cost us a lot of money and one of our really good IT people is still in jail in New York.”

  “It sounds like you think he shouldn’t be in jail.”

  Jackson just shrugged.

  I just stared in silence at him. After a while I said, “Someone will ask questions about me.”

  “Someone already did.”

  I perked up.

  He laughed and said, “Your friend DP Lampkin. He asked how many hours you’d be working per day. I told him we would max you out. That means more profit for Non-Metric Solutions.”

  Jackson had gotten ahead of this thing and would have plausible deniability. I was on my own. Unless some miracle happened.

  Jackson taunted me, making a crying sound and changing his voice. “Why am I here? Why are you so mean? What’s going to happen to me?” Then he switched to his real voice. “Jesus Christ, Mitchum, I’d think a former Navy man would be tougher. You sound like a lost kid. Sit back and think of this as an adventure. You never know how it might turn out.” He laughed and added, “I bet it doesn’t turn out that well for you.”

  Then I heard a woman’s voice in the outer office. I listened for a minute and realized it was Vicki Jensen.

  I was saved.

  CHAPTER 35

  I FELT A burst of adrenaline as soon as I recognized Vicki’s voice. She stepped into the office with Jackson. She shot me a quick look in the cage, then followed Jackson over to his desk.

  She looked official, in uniform and her hair pinned up. She frowned as Jackson talked to her by his desk. They started to argue in low tones. Then Jackson stepped into the back of the holding facility and left us alone for a moment.

  Vicki casually stepped over to my cage. She leaned in close and said, “Are you okay?” She reached through the bars and gently took my chin in her hand. She turned my head in each direction, checking for any sort of marks. She wanted to be sure I hadn’t been beaten.