The Forgotten (41 page)

P
ETER
L
AMPERT PUT DOWN
his binoculars but continued to watch the big man stride across the lawn and put his rake back in the landscaping truck.

Lampert gauged the man’s height.

Six-six, perhaps a bit more.

Weight near three hundred pounds, perhaps, but he wasn’t bulky. He was lean but with massive shoulders and legs that revealed corded muscles through the fabric of his too-small pants.

An interesting fellow.

Lampert had seen him talking to the maid, Beatriz, on several occasions. He had seen Christine Murdoch paying him attention as well. He was not a bad-looking man.

Rugged, the ladies would undoubtedly call him.

And his great size, the women appreciated such things, he knew.

The old adage that big feet meant large appendages everywhere was still popular.

Large feet, thought Lampert.

Perhaps size sixteen.

Perhaps the same feet that had been in the flowerbed outside the window of the guesthouse. He wondered what the man’s handwriting was like. Would it match the message left on the wall of his guesthouse?

And Lampert’s men had told him of the big man, the giant they called him, who had escaped from the oil platform by diving off into the water. He was presumed dead. What else could they presume after a dive off the platform into a dark ocean? No one could have swum all the way to land from there.

Yet perhaps this man had what it took to do so. Or perhaps he had help.

Lampert was a risk-taker, always had been. It would be nothing to him to risk eliminating the man even if it turned out he posed no threat at all. Collateral damage was something that did not bother him.

He did not know quite what to make of Chrissy Murdoch’s talking with him. He knew Winthrop didn’t come close to satisfying her sexually. Thus the occasional rendezvous in the guesthouse.

Perhaps she liked her men giant in all respects. Perhaps it was as simple as that.

Again, the question of risk.

He had Stiven Rojas looking over his shoulder. No, breathing down his neck, he corrected.

Such a man did not tolerate mistakes. Lampert had every incentive not to become one of those errors.

He continued to watch the big man as he toiled away under a hot sun.

Lampert had somewhere to go today. It was risky, but he felt he had to. During the journey he would decide what to do about size sixteen.

Lampert did not know that as he was watching the man, someone was watching him.

Chrissy Murdoch stood behind a tree and was peering between the branches with a small pair of binoculars she had kept in her bag. She had seen the optics signature off Lampert’s device as he watched Mecho.

In her mind she swiftly analyzed the situation. This actually could be good for her. Allowing Lampert to wipe out her competition. For that was what she now considered Mecho: her rival.

She had come too far, sacrificed too much, risked everything to be in the position she was now. She had lost no one close to her to slavery in the twenty-first century. But it seemed that Mecho had.

But part of her wondered if that was truly the right thing to do. Allow Mecho to die. For that was what she was certain Lampert
was planning. She had noticed Mecho outside the window of the guesthouse that day. If she had, Lampert could have as well.

And the night the Bentley exploded?

Had that been Mecho as well, employing some type of tactical device to either anger or frighten Lampert? If so, the tactic had failed miserably. It had done nothing save put Lampert on higher alert. And that was saying something, because the man’s alertness was always high.

Maybe that blunder alone should decide it. Mecho should perish. That would leave the way open for her.

But the decision was not that easy. Something in Mecho’s eyes had stayed with her from the very first time she had seen him.

He was a man who had suffered a great wound, an unseen wound, because all the pain was inside of him.

Murdoch could understand such a thing happening in connection with a man like Peter Lampert.

Lampert was perfect for what he did. He had no conscience. He cared about no one other than himself. There was no one he would not sacrifice to get his way, not his wife, not his only child. It was simply how he was wired.

But you could get to a man like Lampert, hit him where it hurt. These spots were few and well hidden, but they existed.

Murdoch intended to smash them all.

She withdrew from the cover of the tree and walked back to the secret garden.

She sat back down on the bench and opened her book.

Her decision was not made yet because she couldn’t make up her mind.

Live or die, Mecho?

Live or die?

But there was something in his eyes.

And Murdoch felt her own eyes tear up as she thought about this.

P
ULLER HAD PHONED AHEAD
and Lynn and Chuck Storrow were waiting for them at their house a block off the water. It was a one-story that occupied a large part of their yard. They were ushered in by Chuck Storrow. His wife sat huddled on the couch, a shawl around her shoulders even though it was brutally hot outside.

When she looked up at them the pain of the recent loss of her in-laws was evident on her face.

Puller and Carson both expressed their condolences.

Chuck said, “Please sit. Now, you said you were with the Army?”

Puller and Carson perched opposite the couple on a settee that was barely wide enough to contain them.

“We both are,” said Puller. “But I’m down here in connection with the death of my aunt Betsy.”

“Omigod, you’re John Puller, her nephew, then,” said Chuck as Lynn wiped at her eyes with a tissue and looked more interested.

“That’s right. I understand that my aunt and the Storrows were friends.”

“They were,” answered Lynn in a hushed voice. “Very good friends. And we knew Betsy too. A wonderful woman.”

“Which makes it odd that all three of them should die so close together and under such suspicious circumstances,” said Puller.

Chuck looked confused. “But I thought Betsy’s death was an accident.”

“The police think that might be the case. I don’t.”

“Why?” asked Lynn.

Puller slipped the letter from his pocket and handed it across.

The Storrows read it together.

Chuck looked up. “Mysterious happenings?”

“At night,” added Lynn.

Puller focused on her. “Right, at night. Betsy died at night. So did your parents, Chuck.”

Tears clustered around Lynn’s eyes and her husband put an arm around her shoulders.

Chuck said, “I don’t see what the connection might be.”

“They were friends. Maybe they confided in each other. Maybe they all knew something about what my aunt wrote about in that letter.”

“But surely they would have mentioned it to us,” said Chuck.

“And they didn’t?” asked Carson.

“Of course not. We would have said something.”

“Were you here all the time?” asked Puller. “Recently?”

The Storrows looked at each other.

“Well, actually—” began Chuck.

Lynn said, “We were gone for about three weeks. Africa. A safari. We got back and I phoned my in-laws. They didn’t answer. I figured they were doing their usual beach walk. When I called the next day and they didn’t answer I started to get worried. That’s when we got the police involved.”

“But your parents didn’t try to contact you when you were out of town?” Puller asked Chuck.

“Neither one liked to use the telephone and they would never call long distance even though I explained to them that calling my cell was not calling long distance. I don’t think they ever quite understood that. And they were from a generation that was very frugal. And they were not into emailing or texting.”

Lynn gave a little sob. “We should have called
them.”

Chuck shook his head. “Cell reception isn’t the best over there. I figured maybe they’d had an accident or something. I never dreamed anyone would have…”

“I can see that,” said Puller. “Did they still drive?”

She nodded. “Oh yes. They were still quite active physically.”

“Would they drive my aunt around?”

“Sometimes, yes. But she could drive too. She had her car fitted out specially with the hand controls.”

“Right, I saw that.”

Chuck eyed them. “All these questions. And that letter. Do you have any idea what could have happened to them?”

“Not really sure yet. We’re just following up any lead that presents itself. Did either of them keep a journal?”

“A journal?” said Lynn. “I don’t think so, why?”

“Just asking. There might have been one missing from my aunt’s house.”

“So maybe if we had been here this wouldn’t have happened to them,” said Lynn slowly.

“Sweetie, we can’t beat ourselves up about that. We’d been planning that safari vacation for years.”

“You really can’t blame yourselves,” said Carson. “It’s just not worth it and they wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

Lynn blew her nose.

Puller said, “Your parents’ attorney wasn’t Griffin Mason by any chance?”

“No. They used my attorney,” answered Chuck.

“Good. I think Mason will be pretty busy from now on.”

They rose to leave.

Lynn put a hand on his arm. “If you find out anything, anything at all about who did this?”

“You’ll be the first ones I’ll tell,” replied Puller firmly.

Chuck shook their hands. “Best of luck to you.”

“God bless you,” added Lynn.

“I think we’ll need luck and blessings,” muttered Puller under his breath.

Puller sat in the Tahoe but didn’t start the engine.

Carson looked over at him. “Are we going to sit here and swelter or are you going to turn this sucker on?”

Puller turned the key and the engine caught. He put it in gear and pulled away.

“So what did that get us?” asked Carson as she put the AC vents full blast on them.

“Information. Even if the Storrows had found something out they might not have told anyone, other than my aunt.”

“You said she had put all these miles on her car, right?”

Puller turned to look at her as he hit the main street and sped up. “Right.”

“And you think she kept a journal?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe she found something out and told them, not the other way around. They might have been spotted or overheard. So they all had to die. Your aunt and then the Storrows. Or maybe the other way around. Or maybe simultaneously.”

“That makes sense,” said Puller.

“We generals sometimes do.”

“So the oil spot we found near that sulfur pit?”

“A truck or a car probably. But why there?”

“Good place to do something clandestine,” he noted.

“Right, it stinks and you can’t use the beach.”

“But still, it would seem to be a nighttime endeavor.”

She nodded. “Yes, it would. So I guess I know what we’ll be doing tonight.”

“Yes, you do.”

“There is something unaccounted for,” she said.

“There are lots of things unaccounted for.”

“I’m talking about one in particular.”

“The two men in the sedan who can make the Pentagon tuck its tail between its legs and run off.”

“Exactly,” said Carson. “That has me worried.”

“All of it has me worried,” replied Puller.

H
E COULD HEAR THE SOUNDS OF
large doors being raised. He didn’t know exactly what the sounds represented, but they scared him. Everything and everyone here scared him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and jerked. Then he turned to face him.

Diego stared at Mateo and Mateo stared back at Diego.

They were in a space about twenty feet square and steel bars kept them there. They were more precisely
lying
on the floor of the cage that had been their home for the last two days.

Mateo whispered, “I’m scared, Diego.”

Diego nodded and gripped the little boy’s hand.