The Forgotten (16 page)

He walked through the kitchen and entered his aunt’s bedroom. The bed was made. She had not gone to sleep that night, obviously. She had gone into the backyard, either voluntarily or not, and there her life had ended.

A nightstand next to the bed was filled with books. His aunt had been a reader when Puller had known her all those years ago, and she had obviously kept up that habit. He scanned the titles with his light. Mostly mysteries and thrillers. His aunt did not strike him as the love story type. If she was going to cry, it would be for a legitimate reason as opposed to a manufactured one.

Puller’s light skimmed over the top of the nightstand and then came back to it. He risked turning on a light because he wanted to get a clearer view.

With the table lamp turned on he leaned down and saw that his first impression had been right. A small rectangular shape with a slight dust pattern around its edges. He picked up a Robert Crais paperback from the shelf below and laid it on the rectangle. It didn’t fit.

Too small.

He tried a Sue Grafton hardback.

Too big.

He opened the drawer and saw a small black journal inside. He lifted it out, opened it. The pages were blank. He placed the journal down on the rectangle. A perfect fit.

There must have been another journal. And it seemed to be missing. And something told Puller that that journal would not have blank pages.

They’d murdered his aunt and taken her journal because of something that was in it.

Perhaps it would elaborate on what had been in her letter.

People who were not what they seemed.

Mysterious happenings in the night.

Things that just did not seem right.

He put the blank journal back, switched off the light, and left the room.

He took a few minutes to check the bedrooms upstairs but found nothing of interest or help with his investigation. One closet was full of old clothes. Some were men’s pants and shirts that had presumably belonged to his uncle Lloyd. The other closets were filled with empty hangers, old vacuums, boxes full of musty sheets and comforters, and the odds and ends that folks collected over a long life.

On a shelf at the back of the closet he found several boxes. One was filled with jewelry that even to Puller’s inexperienced eye looked valuable. He went through the box methodically. There was also a collector’s book with old coins inserted in it. These looked valuable too. He wondered how long she had had all of this.

He walked back downstairs through the kitchen and into the garage. The Camry sat there looking polished and ready to go, unaware that its owner would not be coming back for another ride. Puller scanned the exterior of the car with his light, looking for damage or unusual marks, but he saw none.

The car looked to be in reasonable shape. He calculated that it was about five or six years old. His aunt might have bought it before she had developed all of the issues with her spine.

He leaned up against the wall and started contemplating things, trying to fill in holes in his aunt’s recent actions.

He was primarily thinking that if his aunt had seen something that had caused her death, it was either in the neighborhood or elsewhere. If elsewhere, she had had to get there somehow. And even though Cookie didn’t think that Betsy drove anymore, he was often gone at night and wouldn’t know if she only took her car out after dark.

He opened the driver’s side door and sat down in the front seat. He noted that, though tight for him, the seat was set back far enough for a tall woman.

Then he saw the special devices that had been fitted onto the car. They were controls set within arm’s reach to work both the brake and gas pedal.

So his aunt could have driven this car despite her infirmities.

He noted the sticker on the upper left side of the windshield. It was from a lube shop in Paradise. It listed the next date for service and the mileage the car should reach by that time. The date was from exactly thirty days ago. Puller looked at the mileage listed and then shined his light on the dashboard. He did a quick calculation, and also factored in his aunt’s death.

In the roughly twenty-six days she could have driven it the car had gone an average of ten miles per day. He thought rapidly. Could his aunt with all of her back issues have driven hundreds of miles at a stretch? It was doubtful. But could she have driven shorter distances? That was more likely.

What if she had driven the same distance every day? Ten miles a day, in fact. That sounded doable even with her back problems.

So five out and five back. It at least gave Puller something to go on, something to check when there was so much that wasn’t clear. He could do that route on all points of the compass and see where he ended up.

The next moment Puller quickly climbed out of the car and softly closed the door. He extinguished his light and pulled his M11.

Someone had just come in the front door of the house.

Puller went through the garage door back into the kitchen, making hardly any noise. The other person in the house was not being nearly as quiet. That could be both good and problematic for him.

He edged around the doorway leading into the family room. He heard squeaks from above. The person had to be upstairs. He wondered briefly if it could be the police, but surely they would have announced themselves. However, if it was Hooper, Puller might shortly find himself in a shootout with the hair-triggered cop. The last thing he needed right now was to be arrested for blowing away a police officer. Yet if anyone was going to get shot tonight he much preferred it not be him.

His hand slipped to his trigger guard. When it moved to the trigger he had to be prepared to fire.

And he would.

And then he saw the person come down the stairs.

And his military cop voice roared, “Down on the floor. Now. Or I will fire my weapon.”

The person did not get down on the floor.

She screamed and ran.

S
HE DID NOT MAKE IT
to the front door before Puller reached her. He wrenched her arm back, pulling her face-to-face with him.

“Omigod, please, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.

Puller let go of her arm, stepped back, but kept his M11 at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to aim it up at her if the necessity arose. He switched on a table lamp, partially illuminating the room.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded as he ran his gaze over her.

She was about twenty-five, with blonde hair in a ponytail. She wore faded blue jean shorts cut high up her thighs, a tight-fitting lime green T-shirt, and flip-flops with “Corona” printed on the straps.

“I’m Jane Ryon. Who the hell are you?”

Her tone and words had grown more defiant when it appeared that he was not going to shoot her, but her fearful gaze held on his gun and she still seemed wobbly.

“John Puller.” He held out his ID and badge. “CID agent with the Army.”

“Good God, you’re Betsy’s nephew,” she exclaimed.

“And you’re her caregiver. Or were her caregiver,” replied Puller.

“How did you know that?”

“I ask questions. Like I’m doing now. What are you doing here?”

She opened up her bag so he could see inside. “I left some things in an upstairs bedroom. A jacket and some slacks. I thought I’d be back for them when I came to see Betsy again, but of course that didn’t happen.”

Puller holstered his gun. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“It’s okay. At least I know my heart is strong now. Otherwise I would’ve dropped from a coronary.”

She was about five-five and in good shape. The definition in her legs and the extreme trimness of her frame made Puller deduce that she was a runner.

“I’m really sorry about your aunt,” she said. “She was a nice person. Do they know how she died?”

“How did you find out?”

“I came here on the day they found her body. I was actually coming to visit another client on this street. The police cars were here and then a hearse arrived. I talked to one of the cops. He said Betsy had been found in the backyard dead. That’s all I know. I thought maybe she had a heart attack or something.”

“Her official cause of death was drowning.”

“Drowning? I thought they said she was in the backyard. Did she actually drown in the bathtub?”

“No, in the fountain out back.”

“But it’s not that deep.”

“Apparently she fell, hit her head, and slipped into the water unconscious.”

“Oh my God, how awful is that?”

“Well, if she was unconscious she would have felt no pain or panic, but it’s still not a pleasant way to go.”

“Who found her?”

“Next-door neighbor.”

“Cookie?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’s really broken up. They were good friends. It was funny to see them together. He’s short and she’s tall. She reminded me of that lady from
The Golden Girls
TV show. I’d watch it on TV Land when I was a kid.”

“Right,” said Puller.

“She was her own person, and although sometimes she was hard to get along with, I admired her spunk.”

“Yeah, spunk runs in the family,” replied Puller. “Cookie told me you help him too?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve got a lot of clients in Paradise. Keeps me hopping.”

“You a native?”

“No. And I don’t technically live in Paradise. I’m in Fort Walton Beach, which is nearby. I came down here about five years ago from New Jersey. The winters are a lot nicer, meaning warmer.”

“I bet. How was my aunt before she died?”

“She had the typical aches and pains associated with someone of that age. She was on meds—again, no surprise there. She used a walker. She was tall, a lot taller than me, but her spine was curved. She had her good days and bad ones. Like all of us.”

“Yeah, but she recently had a
really
bad day.”

“Well, yeah.”

“How were her spirits? Did she seem depressed, annoyed, worried?”

“Not more than usual. I’ve been a caregiver for quite some time now, and I’ve found that older people’s emotions can run the gamut during the day. They tend to be in higher spirits in the morning. As night approaches they start to falter a bit. At least that’s been my experience.”

“Did she drive? Or did you drive for her?”

“I would run errands. To the store, the pharmacy, stuff like that.”

“In her car?”

“No. I’d use my own. The company I work for doesn’t allow us to drive our clients’ cars. Insurance thing.”

“So did she drive, then?”

“Not while I was here.”

“Which was how often?”

“Two-three times a week.”

“Every week?”

“Usually, yes.”

“And did you stay over every time?”

“No, hardly ever. She didn’t really require it.”

“When would you leave?”

“Around nine.”

“So if she went out at night for a drive after you left you wouldn’t know about it?”

“No. But why would she go out for a drive? I mean, where would she go?”

“Asking the wrong person. I just got down here. Don’t really know the lay of the land yet. But if she did drive around and went, say, five miles out and five miles back, where might that take her?”

Ryon mulled this over for a few moments. “Well, if she went south that would take her right into the Gulf. If she went north, it would take her into Choctawhatchee Bay. This part of the Emerald Coast is fairly long but pretty narrow, with water on both sides.”

“East and west?”

“West, that would come out around the jetty, although it’s all back roads there. If she stayed on Highway 98 it would angle northwest and take her to Destin.”

“And east?”

“Then you’d be heading toward Santa Rosa Beach, Seaside, and then, way past five miles, Panama City.”

“Anything interesting along that way?”

“Lots of beaches. The Emerald Coast stretches for about a hundred miles. You’ve got Eglin Air Force base to the west, and east of Panama City there’s Tyndal Air Force base.”

“Lot of military bases around here,” commented Puller.

“Right. I guess you’d know that being in the military.”

“And there’s Pensacola, where all the naval aviators go to learn to fly. And Hurlburt Field, although that’s really part of Eglin. Air Force has its special operations command there among other things.”

“You obviously know a lot more about that than I do.”

“Probably not a lot. I’m Army. The Air Force operates at a higher altitude.”

“Well, again, I’m sorry about your aunt.”

“And I’m sorry for scaring you. I really appreciate everything you did for Betsy.”

He walked her to the door, turned on the outside door light so she could see better, and watched Ryon walk down the driveway to her car, a blue Ford Fiesta with a large dent in the passenger door.

As she drove off, Puller saw a police cruiser coming down the
road. He didn’t manage to close the door in time. And he was aware that the exterior door light made him about as visible as a digital billboard.

The cruiser did a hard left into the driveway and the driver hit the rack lights.

Puller stood there watching as Chief Bullock stepped out of the car and headed toward him, one hand on his sidearm, his gaze dead center on Puller.