The River Murders

by James Patterson

  CHAPTER 49

  I DIDN’T SAY anything on the ride back to Bagram. As soon as I sat down after being pulled into the Black Hawk, Vicki leaned over and said, “Are you okay?” When I nodded, she just reached over and held my hand. She did it for the whole flight and it made me feel better.

  Once we were off the Black Hawk and walking toward the main administrative building on the airfield at Bagram, she talked to me.

  She said, “I’m so sorry I misread what was going on. I believed Jackson when he said they were just going to ship you home.”

  “How’d you figure out the truth?”

  “Your friend Greg Stout ran into me. He said he heard a rumor about an American prisoner. He didn’t make the connection to you. When I asked him if he’d talked to you or knew you’d been shipped home, he said no, and he’d been trying to call you. I figured out the rest and asked my buddies in the air wing to take me for a ride.”

  We walked together in silence after that. I was a mash-up of emotions, from joy at being rescued to anger that men like that could even operate with the military.

  A couple of hours later, I was told to report to Non-Metric Solutions’ office. I’d already told my story more than once. I knew there were all kinds of Army investigators in Jalalabad trying to figure out how everything connected.

  In the main conference room, my friend DP sat at the table with an Air Force colonel, an Army colonel, and two Army captains. No one seemed happy.

  The Army colonel, a stern-looking woman in her mid-forties, said, “Mr. Mitchum, is there anything about your story you wish to change or amend at this time?”

  It sounded like they had something they wanted to trip me up on. I just shook my head.

  The colonel said, “The house in Jalalabad where you were held was not authorized to hold prisoners. Obviously. There’s not much in it now except the empty cages. We don’t even know the names of the prisoners that were warehoused there. They were supposed to be held at the facility on this base. Or at Fenty.”

  I couldn’t keep from asking, “What about the plutonium?”

  One of the Army captains, a nerdy-looking man with thick, Army-issue glasses said, “The Geiger counters went crazy inside the house. Using that as a baseline reading, we were able to find a box containing radioactive material inside the burned-out vehicle you told us about. We have no idea where it came from, but it’s secure now.”

  The Army colonel said, “We’ve recovered three bodies from the house. Two looked like they were prisoners who’d been executed with shots to the head. The other man we’ve identified as Richard Jackson. We have yet to recover the body of David Allmand.”

  I listened as they each explained the operations going on to complete the investigation. DP was ready to jump in on my behalf several times, but I waved him off.

  When they were finished, I said, “What now? Do you need anything else from me?”

  For the first time, the Air Force colonel spoke up. He was about fifty with a shaved head and a craggy face. He said, “Mr. Mitchum, the only thing we will require from you is your immediate consent to return to the United States.”

  “You make it sound like I did something wrong.”

  “Unless I’ve misunderstood some of the reports I’ve read, you traveled all the way to Afghanistan to exact revenge for things Mr. Jackson did to your family. Is that correct?”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘revenge’ …”

  The Air Force colonel cut me off. “I don’t give a damn what you call it. You used military resources and wasted military personnel time on a personal issue. Therefore, we are sending you home via commercial flight out of Kabul first thing tomorrow.”

  I said the only thing that would get me out of there quickly: “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 50

  DP HAD TO fly from Bagram to the Kabul airport with me. No Americans travel by ground in Afghanistan because of the possibility of IEDs or kidnappers. So he and I had almost an entire C-130 cargo plane to ourselves.

  I had heard a lot about the international airport in the capital city of Afghanistan. It’d been the scene of a number of horrific bombings. But now, as part of the international coalition, the country of Turkey had taken over security. The Turkish soldiers ran a tight ship and had virtually eliminated violence at the airport.

  We proceeded through the different checkpoints to cross from the military side of the airport to the commercial terminal. Each time a Turkish soldier took our papers and inspected them carefully. They also searched the van we were riding in. A mirror under the car, looking for bombs, as well as a bomb-sniffing dog. It was an impressive effort.

  DP hadn’t said much since our meeting with the military leaders. I knew he wasn’t happy with me. I wouldn’t be, either. We walked through the main doors of the airport. There were portraits of men in various forms of dress, from traditional Afghan to western business suits. The only one I recognized was Hamid Karzai, the former president. The airport was his namesake.

  I told DP I was sorry.

  He gave me a little bit of a hangdog look and said, “All you had to do was level with me. We’re friends.”

  “Would you have let me come over if I told you the truth?”

  “Of course not. It was a stupid plan. Friends talk friends out of stupid plans.”

  I smiled and said, “It all worked out.”

  “Don’t use blind luck as a justification for a stupid plan. You could’ve just as easily been killed.”

  I shrugged because he made a good point. I embraced him. He hugged me good-bye.

  As I walked toward the line for immigration, I asked DP to say good-bye to Vicki for me. “I didn’t get a chance to do it myself since she disappeared as soon as we got back.”

  DP shook his head. “Because she didn’t want to lie. The military has chosen to just skip over the entire incident. You might want to do the same.”

  The airport was small by US standards. Most men were dressed in traditional robes with headdresses. There were very few people in western clothes. It made me stick out.

  I pulled out the phone I’d bought on Bagram Air Base. There was still time left on it. DP had been nice enough to find it in the truck I’d been driving the day Jackson detained me. The first person I called was Alicia. I didn’t know if she’d care.

  Now I knew for certain that I cared about her. She meant the world to me. I felt like a moron that I had to fly halfway around the world to figure that out. I got no answer so I left a simple message. “I’m safe and coming home.”

  It was pretty close to the message I left on my mom’s answering machine. Only with her I added, “Everything worked out.” I was confident that if Jackson had someone watching my mom, they had already bugged out.

  The first leg of my flight was to Dubai. I was stunned at the differences in airports. Dubai was clean, well organized, and air-conditioned. They even had showers in the bathrooms. I ate an honest-to-God burger at a chain restaurant then took a shower. I felt like a new man when I found my seat on the giant Boeing 757.

  I looked at all the movie selections and picked a few for the sixteen-hour flight. Then I dozed off. Something jolted me awake later and I realized it was the plane touching down at Kennedy. I guess I was more exhausted than I realized.

  At the airport, I splurged on a rental car. When I threw my duffel bag in the backseat, I decided to dig through it for my personal iPhone. I hadn’t even pulled out of the parking spot when I looked down at the screen and saw there were forty-two messages.

  The first message was from Alicia, as were most of the others. Her message said, “I couldn’t reach you on the phone you called me from. Are you safe? Where are you? I can’t wait till you get home and I can see you again.”

  I had to sit in the car, grinning like a hockey player with all of his teeth. Then I dialed her number from my phone. My heart soared when I heard her breathless answer. “Mitchum, please tell me you’re back in the US.”

  My biggest fears were of
bad cell service.

  CHAPTER 51

  AFTER A TERRIFIC reunion with Alicia, my mom, and brother, life quickly settled into a comfortable routine. I had to come to terms with the fact that my paper delivery service was all but dead. I enrolled in several business classes at Dutchess Community College on the other side of the Hudson. I also started a class with a private company on basic investigations. It would all work toward my official license as a private investigator one day.

  Three days after I got home, I sat quietly with Bart Simpson, watching our favorite show: Rick and Morty. I was especially happy to be sitting in a room with no fear of missiles falling on me.

  I’d had a couple of nightmares and worried about my captivity consuming me. I couldn’t remember the last time I focused on my feelings so much.

  Yesterday, I got a call from Cheryl Kravitz, the Department of Homeland Security agent who gave me the idea to travel to Afghanistan in the first place. I appreciated her following up with me. I thought she was happy she didn’t have to write up any warrants. She could never admit she was glad Jackson was dead, but I thought she felt about the way I did. And I knew I could use the other information she gave me.

  The federal government didn’t have the same interest in Rick Jackson and David Allmand as I did. The flip side of that was, no one was going to bother me about what had happened in Afghanistan. Aside from the military being a little bit pissed off, and DP being annoyed, it looked like I’d skate on any other potential charges.

  I’d admit to feeling anxious as I sat with my dog, then Bart’s ears popped up. He lifted his head from my lap. I checked the app on my phone that controlled my surveillance cameras in the back and by the front door. The cameras had been a real bargain at Costco. A quick scan showed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then Bart Simpson let out a low growl. I rubbed the dog’s back and said, “It’s okay, boy. I’d know if someone was trying to get inside.”

  That’s when I heard a male voice say, “I don’t think you would.”

  No matter what my state of mind, that surprised me. Maybe “startled” is a better word. My head jerked up and I stared toward the entryway. The house was pretty dark except for the TV. The man had to step forward before I could clearly see him.

  David Allmand stepped into the living room where the light caught his face. He had a decent-size flesh-colored bandage on his forehead and his neck.

  He also had a grin on his face that wasn’t good news for me.

  CHAPTER 52

  ALLMAND STOOD TALL with his hands in the pockets of a dark-blue windbreaker. He wore a Wayne State baseball cap low on his head. He didn’t look nervous or concerned in any way. I’m sure it was just another way to unnerve me. And it worked.

  No matter what I was expecting, seeing Allmand relatively unharmed in my entryway was a shock. And I suddenly felt a wave of fear, maybe it was a flashback or maybe it was genuine, in-the-moment fear. It didn’t matter.

  I took a shot at some unnerving myself. I swallowed my fear and gave him a big smile. After I was sure he was confused, I even let out a little laugh. Somehow it gave me some confidence.

  Allmand frowned and said, “You don’t seem to be that surprised to see me.”

  I kept stroking Bart Simpson calmly. I wanted him to stop growling. Then I said, “Frankly, I didn’t expect you to show up so quickly.” I kept my smile in place. Even though that was Jackson’s line when I first saw him in Afghanistan, I thought I’d reuse it now.

  Allmand kept his cool. “Really? You were expecting me? How is that?”

  I slowly stood up from the couch. I carefully set Bart Simpson on the hardwood floor. He turned and scampered toward his bed in the corner of the room. At least he was good company.

  To hide my fear, I took my time turning back toward Allmand. Finally, I said, “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

  Allmand said, “What’s your question?”

  “I’m curious how you survived the blast in Jalalabad.”

  He stepped a little farther into the living room. “I bailed out into a ditch just as the first rocket hit the car. I was fifty yards away by the time the second rocket destroyed it. The savages that shot the rockets only looked for me right around the car. When you ran, they all chased you. I waited to retrieve the plutonium, but the Army beat me to it.” Now he gave me a glare and said, “Now answer my question. Why aren’t you surprised to see me?”

  I said, “The Department of Homeland Security agent who arrested you last time? She called me to tell me their computers picked up that you entered the country through Kennedy. I figured you’d make it here eventually.”

  Allmand let out a laugh. “You knew I was coming and I still caught you alone and unprepared. Typical.”

  “Who said I was alone? Or, unprepared, for that matter.”

  Just then, my friend Hassan, from the convenience store in Newburgh, and his two brothers, appeared at Allmand’s sides.

  Allmand jerked his right hand out of his pocket. He held a semiautomatic pistol. He fired one wild round toward me. Before I could react, the gun was pointed at me. The sound of the shot felt like a bomb in my house. I figured my time had finally run out.

  That’s when I saw the hole in the arm of my couch. My nice leather couch. The one I’d bought on discount but still could barely afford. The bullet had ripped the leather, then shattered the armrest, which tore the leather even more.

  My fear shifted more to anger. Sure, I was pissed that the only nice piece of furniture I owned was ruined. But my experience in Afghanistan caught up to me. Even as Hassan’s two beefy brothers subdued the frantic Allmand, I moved to deliver my licks.

  Just before I launched a kick that I intended to split his testicles, I stopped myself. I froze, staring at this man who had caused me so much pain. Kicking him felt like torture, and I wasn’t going to stoop to his level.

  I let Hassan’s brothers manhandle Allmand for just a moment, then said, “This is Hassan. Recognize him?”

  Allmand growled, “Just another one of your Muslim buddies.”

  “That’s true, he’s a friend of mine. One you and Jackson held illegally at the prison up in the mine shaft.” I could see the color drain out of his face. He was starting to understand what was happening.

  He struggled for a second and said, “You guys are insane.”

  “Is that for us to use as our defense if we get caught?”

  Allmand struggled, trying to break free.

  I said, “You held these men for seven months up in that hidden hellhole. They have a few things they’d like to discuss with you.”

  “You can’t do this. I’m an American citizen.”

  Khalil mumbled, “So are we.”

  I had to throw in another of Jackson’s favorite lines in Afghanistan: “Don’t worry, no one here asks any questions.”

  THE SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER

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  James Patterson & Candice Fox

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  But Woods is not there to gloat. His daughter Tonya and her two-year-old child have gone missing. He’s ready to offer Harriet a deal: find his family to buy her freedom …

  THE SEQUEL TO SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER INVISIBLE

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  James Patterson & David Ellis

  FBI analyst Emmy Dockery’s unique ability to uncover the patterns that others miss has brought her an impressive string of arrests. But a new case – unfolding across the country – has left her looking for something which may not exist.

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  The Inn at Gloucester stands alone on the rocky New England shoreline. Its seclusion suits former Boston police detective Bill Robinson, novice owner and innkeeper. As long as the dozen residents pay their rent, Robinson doesn’t ask any questions.

  Yet all too soon Robinson discovers that leaving the city is no escape from the dangers he left behind. A new crew of deadly criminals move into the small town, bringing drugs and violence to the front door of the inn. Before time runs out, the residents will face a choice. Stand together to fight off the threat to their town? Or die alone.

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  When an Ivy League professor is murdered, Dr Dylan Reinhart reunites with his old partner Detective Elizabeth Needham. With his unrivalled mind for criminal psychology and Needham’s investigative experience, Reinhart is confident that together they can find the killer, and close the case.

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  Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire • Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice • Cross the Line • The People vs. Alex Cross • Target: Alex Cross • Criss Cross