The Simple Truth by David Baldacci

Elizabeth took the opportunity to slip into the study and dialed the number on the message.

“I’m returning your call,” she said into the phone.

“We need to talk, Justice Knight. How’s right now?”

“What is this about?”

“What I’m about to tell you will come as quite a shock. Are you prepared for that?”

For some reason, Elizabeth Knight sensed that the man was enjoying this. “I really don’t have time for the cloak-and-dagger rhetoric that obviously amuses you.”

“Well, I’m going to give you a crash course in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just listen.”

And she did. Twenty minutes later she threw the phone down, raced out of the room and almost knocked down Mary, who was coming down the hallway. Elizabeth raced into the powder room, where she splashed water on her face. She gripped the edges of the sink, composed herself, opened the door and moved slowly down the hallway.

She could still hear Jordan in the shower. She looked at her watch. She went out into the lobby and down the elevator to the reception area of the building and waited over by the main entrance. Time seemed to pass slowly. Actually only ten minutes had gone by since her phone call. Finally, a man she didn’t recognize, but who clearly knew her by sight, appeared and handed her something. She looked down at it. When she looked back up, he had already disappeared. She put what he had given her into her pocket and hurried back up to her apartment.

“Where’s Jordan?” she asked Mary.

“I believe he’s in the bedroom getting dressed. Are you all right, Ms. Knight?”

“Yes, I … my stomach was just a little upset, but I’m fine now. I decided to stretch my legs and do some window shopping downstairs, get some fresh air. Would you mix up some cocktails and put them out on the terrace?”

“It’s starting to rain.”

“But the awning’s up. And I feel very claustrophobic all of a sudden. I need the air. It’s been so hot and humid lately, and the rain has made things so cool. So very cool,” she said wistfully. “Make Jordan’s favorite, will you?”

“Beefeater Martini with a twist, yes, ma’am.”

“And the dinner, Mary … please make sure it’s absolutely wonderful. Just perfect.”

“I will, ma’am.” Mary headed to the bar with a puzzled look on her face.

Elizabeth Knight squeezed her hands together to fight the waves of panic. She just had to stop thinking about it. If she was going to make it through this, she had to merely act, not think. Please, God, help me, she prayed.





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


Fiske stared moodily out the car window at the dark clouds. He and Sara were halfway to Washington, and neither one had said much on the drive up.

Sara turned on the wipers as the rain started to fall. She looked over at him and frowned. “John, we’ve got a lot of information to work with. We might want to use the next hour making some sense of it all.”

Fiske glanced at her. “I guess you’re right. Do you have pen and paper anywhere?”

“Don’t you have that in your briefcase?”

He undid his seat belt, pulled his briefcase from the back seat and popped it open. He pushed through the stack of mail until his hands closed around a bulky package. “Christ, that was fast.”

“What?”

“I think this is Harms’s service record.” Fiske tore it open and started reading. Ten minutes later, he looked at her. “It’s in two different parts. His service record, portions of the record of court-martial, and the personnel list from Fort Plessy during the time Harms was stationed there.” Fiske pulled out a section marked MEDICAL RECORDS. He studied the pages and then stopped. “Would you like to guess why Rufus Harms was so insubordinate, wouldn’t take orders, was always in trouble?”

“He was dyslexic,” Sara answered promptly.

“How the hell did you know that?”

“A couple of things. Even the little I saw of it, the handwriting and spelling on the appeal was so bad. That’s a sign of dyslexia, although it’s not conclusive. But when I talked to George Barker, remember he told me that story about Rufus fixing his printing press?” Fiske nodded. “Well, he recalled Rufus saying that he didn’t want to look at the manual for the printing press, that the words would just mess him up. I went to school with a girl who had dyslexia. She once told me more or less the same thing. It’s like you can’t communicate with the world. Although, from our encounter last night, it looks like Rufus has conquered his disability.” “If he can survive in prison all those years with people trying to kill him, he can do anything he sets his mind to.” Fiske looked back at the records. “Looks like he was diagnosed with it after the murder. Probably during the court-martial proceedings. Maybe Rider discovered it. Preparing a defense requires some client cooperation.”

“Dyslexia is not a defense to murder.”

“No, but I know what is.”

“What?” Sara asked excitedly. “What?”

“First, a question: Leo Dellasandro — is he having an affair with his secretary?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“He had makeup on his coat collar.”

“Maybe it was from his wife.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

“I really doubt he was having an affair, because his secretary just got married.”

“I didn’t think they were.”

“So why did you ask me?”

“Just covering all the bases. I don’t think Dellasandro got it from his wife either. I think he was wearing it.”

“Why would a man — a chief of police, no less — be wearing makeup?”

“To cover the bruises he got when I hit him in my brother’s apartment.” Sara’s breath caught as Fiske continued. “I haven’t seen Dellasandro since that night. He wasn’t at the meeting at the Court after Wright was murdered. I’ve been with Chandler a lot and the man never came by to check up on the investigation. At least while I was there. I think he was avoiding me. Maybe afraid I’d recognize him somehow.”

“Why in the world would Leo Dellasandro have been at your brother’s apartment?”

In response, Fiske held up a sheaf of papers. “The list of personnel stationed at Fort Plessy. Luckily, it’s alphabetized.” He turned toward the end of the roster. “Sergeant Victor Tremaine.” He turned another page. “Captain Frank Rayfield.” He flipped back through some pages and stopped. “Private Rufus Harms.” Then he went back near the beginning, circled a name with his pen, and said triumphantly, “And Corporal Leo Dellasandro.”

“Good God. Then Rayfield, Tremaine and Dellasandro were the men in the stockade that night?”

“I think so.”

“How did you know Dellasandro was in the military?”

“I saw a photo of Dellasandro in his office. He was much younger, in uniform. His Army uniform. I think the three of them went there to teach Rufus Harms a lesson. I think we’ll find they all fought in Vietnam, and Rufus didn’t. He wouldn’t follow orders, was always in trouble.”

“But what the hell did they do to Rufus Harms?”

“I think they — ”

The car phone rang. Sara glanced at Fiske and then picked it up. Her face went pale as she listened. “Yes, I’ll accept the call. Hello? What? Okay, calm down. He’s right here.” She handed the phone to Fiske. “Rufus Harms. And he doesn’t sound good.”

Fiske gripped the phone. “Rufus, where are you?”

Rufus was inside the Jeep parked next to a pay phone. He had one hand on the phone, the other on Josh, who was now slipping into longer periods of unconsciousness, but still had the pistol wedged against his side. “Richmond,” he answered. “I’m two minutes from the address on the card you gave me. Josh is hurt bad. I need a damn doctor and I need him quick.”

“Okay, okay, tell me what happened.”

“Rayfield and Tremaine caught up to us.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re dead, dammit, and my brother’s about ready to join ’em. You said you’d help me. Well, I need help.”

Fiske glanced in the rearview mirror. The black sedan was still back there. He thought quickly. “Okay, I’ll meet you at my office in four hours tops.”

“Josh ain’t got four hours. He’s shot the hell up.”

“We’re going to take care of Josh right now, Rufus. I’m meeting you, not Josh.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“I’m going to call a buddy of mine who’s a cop. He’ll get an ambulance. They’ll take care of him. MCV Hospital is only a few minutes from my office.”

“No police!”

Fiske yelled into the phone,“ Do you want Josh to die? Do you?” Fiske took the silence as Rufus’s surrender to whatever help Fiske could give him. “Describe the car to me and give me the intersection where you are right now.” Rufus did so. “My friend will have help there in a few minutes. Leave Josh in the car. As soon as you hang up, walk to my office building. It’s open. Go in the front door and go down the flight of stairs on your left. You go through another door. There’s a door on your right marked ‘Supplies.’ It’s unlocked. Get in there and sit tight. I’ll be down quick as I can. I also want you to take your brother’s wallet because I don’t want him to have any ID. If they know it’s Josh, they’re going to start looking for you nearby. That includes my office. The police cordoning off the area would throw a real wrench in my plan.”

“What if somebody sees me? Maybe recognizes me?”

“We don’t have much choice now, Rufus.”

“I’m trusting you. Please help my brother. Please don’t let me down.”

“Rufus, I’m trusting you too. Don’t let me down.”

When Rufus hung up, he looked at Josh. He slipped a gun under his shirt and reached out to touch his brother. He thought Josh was completely unconscious now, but when Rufus brushed his shoulder gently with his finger, Josh opened his eyes.

“Josh — ”

“I heard.” The voice was weak; everything about him was now.

“He wants me to take your wallet, so they won’t know who you are just yet.”

“In my back pocket.” Rufus slid it out. “Now get going.”

Rufus considered this for a moment. “I can stay with you. We go together.”

“No good.” Josh spit up some more blood. “Docs’ll sew me up. I been hurt a lot worse than this.” Josh moved a shaky hand out, touched his brother’s face, brushed away the wetness from his eyes.

“I’m gonna stay with you, Josh.”

“You stay, all this is for nothing.”

“I can’t leave you alone. Not like this. Not after all these years away.”

With a painful grimace, Josh sat up. “You ain’t leaving me alone. Give it to me.”

“Give you what?”

Josh said, “The Bible.”

Without taking his eyes off his brother, Rufus slowly reached behind the seat and handed him the book. In return, Josh held out the pistol that had been wedged against his ribs for all these hours. Rufus looked at him questioningly. “Fair swap,” Josh said hoarsely.

Rufus thought he saw a smile flicker across his brother’s lips before Josh closed his eyes, his breathing shallow but steady. One large hand gripped the Bible so tightly the spine of the book twisted.

As Rufus climbed out of the Jeep, he looked back once more, and then left his brother behind.

* * *

Fiske finally reached Hawkins at home. “Don’t ask me why or how, Billy. I can’t tell you who it is. For now he’s a John Doe. Stall the paperwork and drive the Jeep to the hospital.” Fiske hung up.

“John, how are we going to meet Rufus with the FBI right behind us?” Sara said.

“I’m meeting Rufus, you’re not.”

“Wait a minute — ”

“Sara — ”

“I want to see this through.”

“Believe me, you will. You have to make a phone call for me, to my friend at the JAG.”

“What about? And you still haven’t told me what you think happened in that stockade twenty-five years ago.”

He put one hand on top of hers. “U.S. v. Stanley. An innocent soldier and LSD,” Fiske said, watching her eyes go wide. “Only worse,” he added.

* * *

After making a quick stop at Sara’s home, they drove to National Airport and parked. Fiske tugged the trench coat around him and pulled his hat down tightly over his head as the rain began to fall harder. He opened a big umbrella and covered Sara with it. They went to the general aviation terminal, and then out the other side to the boarding area, where they climbed in a sedan with tinted windows. A couple minutes later the car pulled away from the curb.

Behind them were two FBI agents, one of whom was already communicating this development to his superiors. Then he went over to the service counter to determine the destination of the flight Fiske and Sara were about to get on. The other agent went out and watched as the sedan pulled up to the private jet.

Inside the sedan, Fiske and the driver, Chuck Herman’s copilot, were busy switching places. The driver put on the trench coat and hat. From a distance he would look like Fiske. Their plan was to have Sara stay on the plane for an hour, during which time she would attempt to contact Fiske’s JAG friend, Phil Jansen. Then she would leave. They knew the FBI would question her about Fiske’s disappearance, but they would have no grounds to detain her.

The FBI agent watched as a thin, white-haired man came down the steps from the plane and greeted Sara and the man whom he assumed was Fiske as they climbed out of the car. The group went up the steps and into the plane. The sedan pulled away. The FBI agent kept his eyes on the plane as the sedan passed by him and continued on to the main road leading out of the terminal.

Driving the sedan, Fiske let out a deep breath as he pulled onto the George Washington Parkway. Within ten minutes he was headed south on Interstate 95 toward Richmond. Traffic was heavy; it was almost three hours before he pulled the car up to his office building. He had already checked in with Billy Hawkins. Josh Harms was in surgery at MCV. It didn’t look good, Hawkins had told him. Fiske parked the car and went around to the office’s rear entrance, just in case.

He made his way to the lower level and approached the supply room. Please be there, he urged Rufus. He tapped on the door. “Rufus?” he said quietly. “It’s John Fiske.”

Rufus cautiously opened the door.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Rufus gripped his arm. “How’s Josh?”

“He’s in surgery. All you can do is pray.”

“That’s all I been doing.”

They went out the rear entrance, walked quickly to Fiske’s car and climbed in.

“Where we going?” Rufus said.

“You want to tell me about the letter from the Army?”

“What about it?”

“They wanted to follow up on the phencyclidine testing, right?”

Harms stiffened. “Phen-what?”

“You know, PCP.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Same thing happened to another guy in the Army named Stanley, who was in a bogus program. They used LSD on him.”