Zero Day, Page 22

  good.”

  She made the coffee and poured it out in two mugs. They carried it outside and sat on the swing in the backyard. She took off her heels and rubbed her feet.

  “No mosquitoes. I’m surprised,” he said.

  “I spray,” she said. “And one benefit of the mining up here is that the skeeters don’t seem to like the coal dust and other by-products any more than we do. Plus they’ve filled in so many sources of water that it’s cut down on the breeding grounds.”

  They drank their coffee.

  “I appreciate you letting me vent tonight about my family.”

  “No problem with venting. Helps to clear the mind.”

  “But we have seven homicides and a bombing to solve. And to think just last week the biggest problems I had were drunk and disorderlies, a few moonshine stills, and a burglary involving a microwave and a set of false teeth.”

  “Part of my brain has been working it all through dinner and right up to now.”

  “And what does your brain say?”

  “That we’re making progress.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Somebody tried to kill us.”

  “So what next?”

  “Keep digging. But I have to go back to D.C. tomorrow.”

  Her face fell. “What? Why?”

  “Reynolds worked for DIA. I’ve got interviews set up there. Angle I have to cover.”

  “Can’t somebody up there do that? Army must have lots of agents.”

  “They do. They’ve just decided not to deploy them on this case.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It is what it is, Cole. But I’ll be back soon.”

  Her cell phone rang. She answered it. Listened and asked a few questions. Then she clicked off.

  “That was Sheriff Lindemann.”

  “And what did he have to say?”

  “He’s not happy that his peaceful hamlet is now the scene of murders and bombings.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “They put the fire out. The house where you were going to has been abandoned for years. No prints on the letter slipped under your door. The explosive used was dynamite and the ATF guy said the detonators on both devices were professional jobs.”

  “Good. I hate going up against amateurs. They’re too unpredictable.”

  “I’m glad you can pull some good news from all that.”

  “So no clues? No leads?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Seems hard to believe that someone could get the necessary elements and set two bombs in a place like this and no one notices.”

  “Lots of explosives up here, Puller. And lots of people who know how to use them.”

  He finished his coffee and set the cup down on the arm of the swing. He stood. “I better get going.”

  “Yeah, I guess you better.”

  “Thanks for the primer on coal country.”

  “You’re welcome. Still beating yourself up about that trip wire?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re a strange man.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I actually meant it as a compliment.”

  She looked over at the door to her house and then back at him. “It’s late. You can stay the night, if you want.” She kept looking at him.

  Reading her mind, he said, “You know, sometimes the timing on things really stinks.”

  She smiled weakly and said, “You’re right, it does.” She rose, took his cup. “Get going. It’s late. What time do you want to meet tomorrow? I’ll buy breakfast.”

  “Let’s sleep in. Zero-eight-hundred at the Crib.”

  She smiled. “Juliet.”

  “Not time for Romeo yet.”

  She went up on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek, her hand pressing lightly against his chest. “Famous last words again.”

  He climbed into his car and drove off. She waved at him from the front porch and then went inside.

  He eyed her in the rearview mirror until he couldn’t see her anymore.

  He steered his car in the direction of Annie’s Motel.

  CHAPTER

  42

  PULLER KILLED HIS HEADLIGHTS and slid his M11 out.

  The lights were on in the motel office. A pickup truck was parked out front. He had planned to check on Louisa’s cat. But someone else was in there now.

  He crept forward, keeping his weight balanced and his gaze swiveling. It might be nothing, but after nearly being blown up Puller was taking nothing for granted. The bomber obviously knew he was staying here. Maybe he was back for another try.

  He reached the truck and made sure it was empty. He opened the passenger door, checked the glove box, and read off the name on the registration.

  Cletus Cousins.

  The name meant nothing to him.

  He left the truck and moved to the little porch in front of the office and peered in the window. The man was short, in his twenties, and carrying a large cardboard box.

  Puller tried the doorknob. Not locked. He opened it, his gun pointed at the man’s head.

  The young man dropped the box.

  “Please, God, don’t shoot. Please.”

  His head was shaven. He had a flabby gut, a trim goatee, and looked ready to crap in his dirty jeans.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Puller.

  The man was shaking so badly, Puller finally lowered his gun a notch. He flipped out his creds. “Army investigator,” said Puller. “I’m not going to shoot you unless you give me good reason. What are you doing here?”

  “My granny told me to come.”

  “Who’s your granny? Not Louisa. She said she didn’t have any family in the area.”

  “She don’t. But my granny is her best friend.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Wally Cousins. My granny is Nelly Cousins. We been in Drake our whole lives. Everybody knows us.”

  “Truck registration says Cletus Cousins.”

  “That’s my daddy. My truck’s in the shop, so’s I took his.”

  “Okay, Wally, one more time, why are you here and what are you taking?”

  The young man pointed at the box on the floor. It had fallen open and its contents had spilled out. Puller could see some clothes, a Bible, some books, a few framed photographs, and some knitting needles and balls of colored yarn.

  “To get this stuff,” he said.

  “Why? Are you taking it to Louisa at the hospital?”

  The young man looked confused. “No, sir.”

  “What then?”

  “Taking it to my granny.”

  “So you’re taking Louisa’s belongings to your grandma. And that’s not stealing why?”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “Well, she ain’t gonna use it no more. She’s dead.”

  Puller blinked. “Dead? Louisa’s dead? When?”

  “Yes, sir. Died about three hours ago. And Louisa told my granny she could have this stuff when she passed. Like I said, they were good friends. About the same age and all.”

  Puller eyed the box again and then lifted his gaze to Cousins. “You don’t wait very long around here, do you? Before you start scavenging the body?”

  “Don’t you know, mister?”

  “Know what?”

  “Lotta folks around here ain’t got nothing. They find out you dead and ain’t got no relations, your stuff’s gone before you know it. Why you think so many empty houses around here all trashed? So when Ms. Louisa passed on, Granny told me to get myself over here and get this stuff Louisa said she could have before it was gone.”

  Puller lowered his pistol. “How did your granny know Louisa died?”

  “She called the hospital.”

  “Someone else I know called the hospital. They wouldn’t tell her anything.”

  “My aunt is a nurse there. She told Granny.”

  “I thought she was doing better.”

  “I guess she was.
My aunt said she looked better. But then the machines started going off. She just stopped breathing. My aunt said that happens sometimes with old folks. They just get clear tuckered out. Tired of living, I guess.”

  Puller examined the box more closely and saw that there was nothing of value. He eyed one of the photos. It was of two women in their mid-twenties wearing poodle skirts, tight blouses, and pink heels with hairdos so big they looked like a bee’s nest on steroids. He flipped it over and looked at the date written in pen on the back.

  November 1955.

  “One of these ladies your granny?”

  Wally nodded. “Yes, sir. She’s the dark-haired one.” He pointed to the young blonde woman on the left. She had a mischievous smile and looked ready to take on the world. “And Ms. Louisa is right there. They sure look different now. Especially Ms. Louisa, of course.”

  “Yeah.” Puller looked around. “You taking the cat?”

  “Naw. Granny got three dogs. They’d eat that dang thing up.” He eyed the gun. “Can I go now?”

  “Yeah. Go on.”

  Wally picked up the box.

  “Tell your granny I’m sorry about her friend.”

  “I will. What’s your name?”

  “Puller.”

  “I’ll tell her, Mr. Puller.”

  A few moments later Puller heard the truck start up and roll slowly out of the motel parking lot. He eyed the room and then heard the meow. He walked past the counter and into the back bedroom. The cat was on the unmade bed lying on its back. Puller checked the food, water, and litter tray. The cat hadn’t eaten or drank much. Maybe it was waiting for Louisa to come back. If so, it would probably be dead soon too. It looked about as old in cat years as Louisa had been in human ones.

  He sat on the bed and gazed around. From 1955 and a poodle skirt with the world lying before her to this crappy existence decades later. People taking your stuff before you were even in the ground.

  I thought I’d saved her. Couldn’t do it. Just like my guys back in Afghanistan. Couldn’t save them either. Way it went. Beyond your control. But the Army taught you to control everything. Yourself. Your opponent. What all the training didn’t tell you was that the most important things, the ones that actually decided life and death, were almost completely outside your control.

  He rubbed the cat’s belly, rose, and left.

  He popped his trunk, took out the tape, and strung it across the entrance to the motel office after securely locking the door.

  The yellow tape was visible from a long way away. Its message was clear:

  Do Not Enter.

  Next, he eyed the door to his room. His gaze drifted to the spot in front of the door. He looked for wires, a new piece of wood, saw none. He hefted a large rock from the flowerbed encircling the parking lot and tossed it at a spot in front of the door. As it flew through the air he ducked down behind his car. The rock hit and nothing happened. He picked up another rock and aimed it at the door handle. It struck the spot solidly.

  Again, nothing.

  He pulled from his rucksack a long telescoping pole with grips on the end that could be fixed at virtually any angle. He placed his room key in the grips and played out the pole. He looked around. The place was empty. He seemed to be the only one staying here right now.

  He inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and using the pole pushed open the door.

  No explosion. No fireball.

  He put the pole away, locked his car, and went inside his room. He stood there for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness here.

  Everything looked just where he had put it. He checked his little booby-traps to tell him if someone had been here. None were tripped.

  He closed and locked the door. Sat on the bed. He added up his growing list of failures.

  He had failed to see the trip wire in time.

  He had failed to save Louisa.

  He checked his watch. Pondered whether to make the call.

  Cole would probably already be in bed by now. And what exactly did he have to tell her?

  He lay back on the bed. His M11 would rest in his hand all night.

  His cell phone buzzed. He looked at the number and inwardly groaned.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Damnedest thing, Gunny,” said his father. The old man would alternate referring to Puller as his XO, gunnery sergeant, or sometimes simply “you asshole PFC.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “No orders from high command and a Saturday night with nothing to do. What say we get together and bang some shots back? We can catch a ride to Hong Kong on a military transport heading out. Know some places. Good times. Lovely ladies.”

  Puller untied his jump boots and kicked them off. “I’m on duty, sir.”

  “Not if I say you’re not, soldier.”

  “Special orders, sir. Straight from HC.”

  “Why don’t I know about it?” his father said in a clenched tone.

  “Bypassed local chain of command. I didn’t ask why, General. It’s the Army. I just follow lawfully given orders, sir.”

  “I’ll make some calls. This bullshit has to stop. They try to run around me one more time they’ll regret it.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

  “Hell to pay.”

  “Yes, sir. Have a good time in Hong Kong.”

  “You hang tight, Gunny. I’ll be back in touch.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  His father clicked off and Puller wondered if they had stopped giving the man his nighttime meds yet. When medicated he usually was sound asleep by this time, but he’d now called his son twice late at night. He’d have to check on that.

  He stripped down to his civvies and lay back on the bed.

  Every time he had a conversation like this with his father, it seemed to tear a little piece of his reality away. There might come a time when his father called and Puller would actually believe everything the man said. That he was back in the Army, heading up his own corps, that Puller was his XO, or his gunny, or one of his hundred thousand asshole PFCs.