The Escape (John Puller, #3)(28)

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did he mention anything that got your antennae up?”

“Like what?” she said.

“Like the people who came and took the blown-up transformers away?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did you ask to see the transformers?”

“No,” she said.

“Okay.”

She stopped walking, and he did too after a few paces. He turned to face her.

“What are you driving at, Puller?”

“Just asking questions and hoping to get some answers that make some sense.”

“What about the transformers?”

“Everybody thinks the storm blew them up.”

“And you don’t think that was the case?” she asked.

“I don’t think anything. I just follow the evidence. But a pretty simple examination of the transformers’ debris would have shown whether there was a bomb involved.”

“A bomb?” she said skeptically.

“A bomb,” he repeated. “Can’t blow something up without a few essential elements. The explosive, the detonator, a timer or a remote switch.”

“That I know. But your theory is someone blew up the transformers and sabotaged the backup generator in order to break your brother out of prison?” She paused, frowning. “You didn’t tell me you were a conspiracy freak.”

“And you think a storm just rolled along, blew out the main power, the backup coincidentally failed, and my brother walked out on his own, taking advantage of an opportunity that had occurred in just a few seconds while a company of MPs from Leavenworth was charging in? And for some reason the sounds of gunfire and an explosion just happened to coincide with it all going down? And an unidentified dead body left behind?” He cocked his head and looked at her more closely. “And I can tell from the expression on your face that you’ve already thought of this, which means everything that came before between you and me was an act on your part.”

She registered surprise. “Really? Based on an expression?”

He said, “I interrogate people for a living. Reading faces is part of that. People can lie with words, but their faces, and in particular their eyes, give them away. They always do. And yours just did. So what exactly is going on here?”

She tapped her heel against the floor, her arms folded across her chest. “This is a delicate situation,” she said. “Very delicate.”

He drew closer. “I can see that. But feel free to elaborate on the point.”

“I just know my marching orders were to tread lightly. And to work with you. And that’s what I intend to do.”

“Nothing more to add?” he asked.

“Not right now. Shall we go see to the visitors’ log?”

The visitors’ records at the DB were housed electronically. Puller and Knox were given access to them at a computer terminal in a cubicle adjacent to the visitors’ room. Puller had decided to go back at least six months and maybe longer if nothing stood out. They sat next to each other, knees occasionally touching because of their long legs and the cubicle’s small space.

After a while Knox said, “You were a pretty regular visitor to see your brother.”

“You have siblings?”

“No.”

“Well then, maybe it’s hard for you to understand.”

“Okay, but I don’t see anyone else who came to visit him, Puller. Again, other than you, that is.”

“Neither do I.”

“So now what? The log shows no calls came in to him, other than from you.”

Puller studied the screen. “But this really doesn’t tell us the whole story.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning computers only regurgitate what someone puts into them.”

He rose.

She looked up at him and said, “Now where?”

“To do some real investigative work.”

“Such as?”

“Such as talking to people.”





It took the better part of the rest of the day and they had to speak to numerous people and look at paper records and then talk to supervisory officers and then go back to people originally interviewed. When they were done it was nine p.m.

“You hungry?” said Puller.

She nodded. “Breakfast was a long time ago.”

“You know Leavenworth?”

“Not that well.”

“Well, I do. Come on.”

They drove in his car to a diner on the main street where everything on the menu was fried in grease that was probably as old as the building, which said “1953” on the wall over the entrance. They both ordered their meals. Puller had a beer, while Knox sipped on an iced tea heavy on the ice.

“What we’re about to eat will mean five extra miles on my morning run,” she said, giving a fake grimace.

“You’ve got some room to spare,” he noted. He took a sip of his cold beer. “Crew or basketball in college?”

“Both.”

“Impressive. Multiple sports in college, tough thing to pull off these days.”

“Well, it was over fifteen years ago and it was a small college. And crew was a club sport at Amherst.”