No Man's Land by David Baldacci
on that, Father. But thank you.”
O’Neil shook hands with them again and said to Puller, “I wish you luck in your search.”
Outside, Knox said, “Okay, why do I feel like I need to say a hundred Hail Marys?”
“Confession might’ve cleared your soul.”
She lightly punched him in the arm. “So, on to Williamsburg?”
“On to Williamsburg. But I need to call them first.”
Puller made the call as they sat in the front seat of the Malibu. “The Clarks know we’re coming, and Father Rooney will be ready to talk to us,” he said once he was finished.
“How old is he now?”
“They said eighty,” replied Puller.
“Is he in full possession of his faculties?”
“Apparently enough to talk to us.”
“Have you seen your dad lately?”
“I was seeing my dad when Hull and a colonel showed up with the letter from my father’s accuser.”
“That must have been tough,” she said.
“Not something I’d want to go through every day.”
“Does your dad—?”
“Thankfully, he doesn’t know anything. And for the first time I’m thinking that’s a good thing.”
“Did you speak to Lynda Demirjian?”
“First on my list. I spoke to her husband, Stan, too. He doesn’t agree with her.”
“But he served under your father.”
“I know. He’s not totally unbiased.”
“What are you hoping to get from Rooney?” Knox asked
“Whether my mother was going to see him that night. She was dressed like she would for Mass.”
“She might have been going out.”
“She might have been. But if so, she probably would have mentioned it to the babysitter, and she didn’t. I talked to her too.”
“You really haven’t been letting the grass grow under your feet.”
“Not the Army way.”
“Your mother might not have mentioned it if she was going somewhere she didn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Well, she walked wherever she was going all dressed up for everyone to see. How clandestine could it be?”
“I wasn’t necessarily implying that she was having an affair.”
“Sure you were. And trust me, I thought about that scenario, as much as I didn’t want to. But in the end, I don’t believe she would do that. A girlfriend would have known. It would have come out. None of the people I talked to mentioned anything like that. There would have been signs. And my mother was devoutly religious. Adultery is a mortal sin. I just don’t see it.”
“The way you state the case I think you’re right.”
They drove the rest of the way to Williamsburg in silence.
Kelly Adams was Father Rooney’s niece. She had taken him in two years ago. His sister—Adams’s mother—had lived with her daughter until she had died a few years back.
All of this Adams explained as she was leading Puller and Knox through the substantial footprint of her home not far from the historic area of Williamsburg.
“Very nice place,” noted Knox. “Your yard is beautiful, everything in bloom.”
“I love it here,” said Adams, a petite woman in her late forties with short dark hair. “I went to William and Mary, right down the street. And my daughter goes there now.”
“Great school,” said Puller.
“One of the best,” agreed Adams. “George is on the rear patio waiting for you.”
“George?” said Puller.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You probably just knew him as Father Rooney. His first name is George.”
She opened a French door and led them onto a rear deck made of stone pavers. There was a large wooden trellis overgrown with ivy that would give shade from the sun. Several comfortable seating areas were set up here. In the center of the space perched in a chair around a teak table was the retired priest. Adams led them over and made introductions.
Father Rooney’s hair was snowy white and carefully combed. He was smaller than Puller remembered, but then Puller was a lot bigger now than he had been then. The old priest was dressed in slacks, rubber-soled shoes, and a white polo shirt showing off a bit of paunch. His skin was pale and his eyebrows were bushy. He had on tinted glasses though the sun was setting.
A pitcher of lemonade and glasses were on the table. Puller and Knox sat and Adams poured out lemonade for them and then returned to the house.
Father Rooney took off his glasses and rubbed them on a napkin. “John Puller.” His voice held an engaging drawl that Puller instantly remembered from all the homilies.
“Yes sir.”
Rooney put the glasses back on. “I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“Referring to my father? I’m named after him.”
“Oh, I know you are. And then there was your brother, Robert, or Bobby as folks called him.”
“Yes.”
“I read he was in trouble, but then it turned out he had been falsely accused. I hope he’s doing well now.”
“Very well. Or he was, until now.”
Rooney took a sip of his beverage and sat back. “I take it this has to do with your mother’s disappearance?”
“Yes.”
Rooney nodded and glanced at Knox. “Do you work with John?”
“Yes,” said Knox before Puller could interject.
Rooney nodded again and folded his hands over his small belly. “It was a long time ago. Why the sudden interest now?”
“Fresh developments. We can’t get into those, but it has stirred renewed interest in the case.”
“And you’re with CID. Are you investigating this matter officially?”
Puller gazed at the retired priest a bit suspiciously.
Rooney smiled. “I spent nearly all my professional life working on military bases. You get to know the people, the process, how things are done. I had a great many friends among the CID community, John. You pick up on things.”
“I’m here in a personal capacity, Father Rooney. Knox here is really doing me a favor.”
“And are you with CID as well, Ms. Knox?”
She shrugged. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
Puller said, “The night my mother went out and didn’t come back it was described that she was dressed in her Sunday best. St. Mary’s was within walking distance and she didn’t take the car. I wondered whether she came to see you.”
Rooney took a minute to consider all this before clearing his throat and saying, “Jackie Puller was devout in her faith. As the wife of a one-star she was expected to participate in many efforts and organizations at Fort Monroe, and she did. But the efforts she expended at St. Mary’s came solely from her faith. I can’t think of one significant undertaking at the church for which she did not volunteer. She attended Mass every Sunday with you and your brother in tow. And your father occasionally. She also came several times a week to pray and perform her rosary. And she was a regular at the confessional.”
At this last comment Knox shifted uncomfortably in her seat. If Rooney noticed this he didn’t comment.
“So it would not have been unusual for her to show up at the church on any given day, or any given time?” asked Puller.
“No, it wouldn’t. However, I wasn’t expecting her that night. If I had been I would have told the police.”
Puller nodded, slowly taking this in. He knew this probably was the case, but he still had had to pursue this lead.
“In your discussions with her did she seem happy? Were there problems with my father?”
Rooney held up a hand. “Although I’m no longer an active priest I will carry the sanctity of my conversations with my parishioners to the grave. So I’m afraid I can’t discuss such matters.”
“Even if we’re trying to find out what happened to her?” said Knox.
“I’m afraid so. Exceptions soon destroy the rule.” He looked over at
Puller sat up straighter. “Any information is more than we have now.”
Rooney took a drink of his lemonade and leaned back in his chair. “Your mother, I believe, understood your father better than any person on earth. She understood the almost ferocious ambition that he displayed over the years.”
“Based on what?” asked Puller.
Rooney settled his gaze on him. “Without getting into specifics, she often referred to the Puller family history. A generation removed from your father’s,” he added and then looked expectantly at Puller.
Puller thought about this for a few moments. “My paternal grandfather was a West Point grad too. He was in World War II.”
“And what was the highest rank he achieved?” asked Rooney.
“Captain.”
“And the reason for that?”
“He died on D-Day on the beaches at Normandy leading his platoon against the German fortifications. He was highly decorated and would have moved up in rank except for his death. He was considered for the Medal of Honor but didn’t get it. Paperwork got lost, so I heard.”
“And your father was how old when his father died?”
Puller quickly did the math in his head. “Eight.”
Knox said, “So are you saying Puller Sr. felt abandoned by his dad and worked his whole life to achieve more than his father had?”
“No,” said Rooney.
After a few moments of silence Puller said, “You think he was achieving all of it for his father? Because he never got the chance to do it himself?”
Rooney pointed at him. “That’s what I believe.”
“And did my mother think this too?”
“I can tell you that she had given it a lot of thought and more or less came to the same conclusion.”
“I found a letter from my mother to my father. She wrote it shortly before she disappeared. She said she wanted to make things work out. Mostly for the sake of my brother and me. But that she wanted to take me and my brother away from him for a bit so my father could better understand his priorities. Meaning his family over the Army, I guess.”
Rooney nodded. “That sounds like a decision Jackie would come to. She adored both you and your brother. And she loved your father. I’m breaking no vow to tell you that. But I could understand why she would want matters to come to a head. Taking his sons away from their father was a way for her to do that. She would force him to decide.”
Puller sat there mulling all of this over. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me to find the truth, Father Rooney?”
The old man sat there for such a long time that Puller thought he might have fallen asleep.
Finally, Rooney stirred. “Your father came to see me several days after your mother went missing.”
Puller went rigid. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to take confession. And before you ask, I can say nothing about what he talked about.”
Puller looked frustrated. “Well, I’m not sure that’s very helpful, actually.”
“What I can tell you is that your father was devastated by her disappearance. I have never seen him so inconsolable. So if you’re thinking he had anything whatsoever to do with whatever did happen to her, well, I would say that you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, but I hope it helped. I have witnessed much guilt in the confessional, Agent Puller. And the only guilt your father had that day was not being there for the woman he loved when she needed him.”
Puller stood and held out his hand, which Rooney took.
“Thank you, Father. That was the most helpful thing I’ve heard in a very long time.”
Behind the glasses, the old priest’s eyes twinkled. “If you start going to Mass regularly you’ll hear something uplifting like that every Sunday.”
Chapter
21
PAUL ROGERS ADJUSTED his shirt cuffs and then the headset, placing the mic an inch or so from the right side of his mouth.
He had added tinted glasses and a fedora covering his shaved head to his appearance, keeping in mind that somewhere a bench warrant had been issued for his arrest and cops here could very well know what he looked like. He was also growing a goatee.
Into the mic he said, “Rogers, checking in.”
There was a squawk and then a voice came back to him. “Copy that, Paul. Loud and clear. Have a good shift.”
He settled his back against the brick wall next to the entrance door. In front of the door were two metal stands with a red velvet rope strung between them, like at a theater.
It was thirty minutes until opening, but there was already a line of people down the street and around the corner. They were mostly young, many clearly military with their shaved heads and toned physiques. The ladies were dressed to impress; the men looked ready to drink and score with the aforementioned ladies.
Rogers looked down at his phone where the VIP list was up on the screen. Ten names. Bigwigs in some way, he supposed. At least locally.
He studied the people in line. Most of them were on their phones, tapping keys and, he supposed, communicating with someone. Some were taking pictures of themselves. He had heard about Facebook and that Twitter thing, although he had no idea what the purpose for either was. He had seen a young waitress inside posting something on her Facebook account. To Rogers it looked like a picture of what she’d had for lunch. But then there had been a photo of her nearly naked and he had turned away before she caught him looking.
The world really had changed a lot in ten years.
There were a few guys in line watching him. He knew what they were doing, because he was doing the same thing: sizing them up.
He could tell these guys were going to test him. Maybe with a fake ID, or a sob story, or a plan of misdirection to get some buddies into the bar unseen.
Rogers popped his neck and then rubbed the back of his head. It had started to tingle there. That was never a good sign.
Do not screw this up. Do not overreact. Do nothing to let them come and get you.
Using tools he’d found in the van and some black spray paint and tape, he had methodically doctored the license plates on the van, changing one letter and one number. He felt he was good to go there. So now he had to focus on the job at hand.
Finally, the thirty minutes were up and Rogers rose and unhooked the red rope.
“Single file, IDs ready. No problems, no trouble,” he called out in a loud voice. “Any fake IDs are subject to confiscation at my sole discretion. If you don’t like that rule, head somewhere else.”
The line of people surged forward.
Rogers had been given a special light like the TSA used at airports. If the person looked anywhere close to the age limit, and most did, he pulled it out and hit the surface of the ID. Three times he held on to the ID because it was fake but good enough to fool almost anyone without the same equipment. The two girls and one guy affected by this did not want to go quietly, but Rogers gave them a look that made them turn and leave.
Then came a group of guys big enough to look like they played major-college football. Three blacks and three whites, and none looked over twenty.