The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (18 page)

Pruitt Farm Early September 2003

J
on Pruitt reclined in his favorite armchair, where his giggling little daughter had often climbed on his knees.

“Cay…Cay…Cay…”
the three-year old would sing, hiccupping as she bounced. Her father drew her arms back and forth over her head, pretending to dance with her.

“I think that’s what she wants to be called,”
he said to Connie.

His wife shook her head.
“She needs a nickname at this age?”

“I don’t know,”
he laughed, enjoying another swallow of after-dinner Scotch.
“It works.”

“Daddy!”
Caroline exclaimed.
“I try?”

The father felt her mother’s disapproval without even looking.

“No, sweetheart,”
he said.
“Not till you’re older.”

Caroline’s pout melted his heart.

Returning to the present, Pruitt stared at the window sheers bulging into his office with each gust of the fall breeze. One of the horses whinnied in the stable.

“Goethe…” he sighed.

He remembered saddling up that Thanksgiving morning.

She hardly knew Wes—but already loved him! Just like what happened when he first met Connie! Cay’s aura was renewed after months of her feeling confused, inadequate, rejected, and defiled.

She was giddy.

Why the hell did that asshole former fiancé have to call later that morning and ruin it?

He had never heard his daughter use pejoratives before when she spoke to him on the phone.

Then it was my turn to tell him off!

After that, all she wanted to do was go back to Chicago to see Wes—that night! He remembered thinking: if the spark is mutual…God save him! Wes is a goner!

Then Wes came for a visit!

They were standing on the sprawling plantation porch getting acquainted.

“Cay, honey…it’s a delightful afternoon. Why don’t we relax out here for a bit?”
He could tell Morgan’s nerves were on edge.
“Sun’s going down. There’s a breeze. Give your Yankee boyfriend a taste of Virginia old-time charm.”

“Daddy, don’t embarrass yourself!”
Caroline swatted her father’s arm.
“Wes knows you’re from Connecticut, for God’s sake.”

She put her arm around Morgan’s waist and kissed his cheek.

“I’m a real Southern gal.”
The twang poured out.
“Sugar-pie, why don’t we set right down on these here comfy wicker rockin’ chairs, and spin out the tale to my country folk about our big jet airplane ride? Mom will serve you up some sweet potato pie and iced tea.”

“
The hell she will
,” he had said, recalling he was already on the move into the house. “
We’re drinking Macallan.
”

“Then you’d better bring one of your old bottles, Daddy,”
Cay suggested.

“You know I will, sweetheart.”

“That’s not necess—”
he heard Morgan say, but Caroline interrupted him.

“Didn’t you once say you wanted to understand all my bad habits?”

He returned with a tray with four antique snifters, a small silver pitcher with spring water, and an unopened bottle.

Caroline seemed surprised by his immediate return.
“That fast?”

“Had the fifty-year-old handy.”

“Always organizing,”
Connie said.
“Planning this for days.”

“Daddy treats drinking scotch like a sacrament,”
Cay said to Wes.

“Oh, and you don’t?”
Morgan stated.

“Obligated to pass on a family tradition.”
He filled three of the glasses generously, the fourth less so, handing it to Connie.

“I understand now who taught Cay to pour.”
Morgan laughed.

“Jon has many better traits,”
said Connie.
“This is not what I’d call an ideal first impression.”

“I have to admit, in a way I already feel like we’ve met,”
said Morgan
. “Cay’s been a good proxy.”

“Like father, like daughter!
He raised his glass
. “Cheers!”

“And, my Scotch education advances,”
said Morgan, smelling it several times before taking a communion-sized taste.
“Mr. Pruitt, that’s very good.”

“It’s Jon…and don’t chinch your taste buds. Still have another case of this in the cellar.”

When he saw Morgan’s incredulous glance at Cay, he looked at his daughter, curled the corner of his mouth in satisfaction, and gave her an approving nod. She hadn’t told Morgan about their wealth. He loved her for the right reasons, not just the old man’s money—unlike that other SOB.

“So…Cay…honey…I’m glad you didn’t pull your luggage from the car. You’re going to stay in the cabin.”

Caroline blushed.

“It was mom’s idea.”

“Jon…”
The mother’s firm look softened.
“You know that’s not true.”

“All right, I confess…I persuaded your mother it was the right thing to do. And, Wes, I know you’ll like the privacy.”

With a timid smile, Caroline looked at Wes.
“When I was a teenager, we used to have sleepovers there. It’s hidden from the lane by almond trees. When the patio door’s open, there’s a sweet breeze. The birds sing at sunrise!”

“Actually, we wanted to have you stay in the house”
—he was savoring a rare opportunity to torment his daughter—“
but decided that neither of us wants to hear you.”

“Daddy!”

Caroline lost most of her drink to the floor. Connie’s mouth fell open in synchrony.

How lucky you are…”
he grinned, knowing Morgan’s interest was piqued.
“Connie did mention that I have better traits.”

Caroline’s head sank into her folded arms.
“Oh no…”
she groaned, her remaining Scotch spilling to the porch.

“Jon…”
Connie’s warned.

“As I was saying…”

“No…no…no!
” cried Caroline, her face burrowing deeper into her arms.
“Oh, this is so embarrassing!”

“Wes, just so you know…”
He wouldn’t let either woman win this round.
“Cay has the same hormones as her father.”

“Oh, Daddy!”
she cried out from beneath her auburn hair.

As Connie glared in horror, Morgan nudged Caroline’s shoulder.
“I would never have guessed that about you,”
he said with a smirk.

The ringing phone pulled Pruitt from his trance.

“Jon?” Connie stood at the threshold of his study, her palm covering the mouthpiece. With a confused crinkle of her mouth, she said, “Airport Security…in Houston?”

His face gave a similar look, then he took the phone. His wife sat near him on the ottoman.

“Hello, Jon Pruitt. Who’s this?”

“Mr. Pruitt, my name is Sandra Rodriguez.” The voice was authoritative, familiar after years of working with the military and government agencies. “I’m the Director of Airport Security at the Bush International Airport.”

He looked for the caller name and number. “Ms. Rodriguez, your caller ID is blocked. May I have your number please?”

There would be no conversation until he was confident that what the woman said was true. Although much time separated him from his former associates, he still worried about deception and maintained the habit years later.

“Certainly. Let me give it to you.”

Pruitt jotted the number. “I’ll call this number immediately.”

He disconnected and tapped in the digits.

“IAH Security.”

“Sandra Rodriguez, please.”

“Transferring…”

The connection was immediate.

“Sandra Rodriguez.”

“This is Jon Pruitt. So how may I help you?”

“Sir, we’ve impounded a vehicle here that’s been abandoned for more than a month. It’s registered to Wesley Randall Morgan of Chicago.”

Pruitt said nothing. Years of contract negotiations taught him it was best at first to let the other party talk.

“We saw it had a flat tire and then discovered the car’s license plate didn’t match the VIN. We were unable to contact the owner, so we obtained a warrant and searched it.”

The information was troubling, but as Rodriguez spoke more, Pruitt’s worry compounded.

“In the trunk was a cardboard box with your name, address, and necessary postage…and a hand-drawn red heart on the outside. We have no information about Mr. Morgan’s whereabouts. How do you know him?”

“He and my daughter were in a serious relationship, possibly moving toward marriage.”

“Were?”

“She died two years ago.” He could barely speak.

“I’m sorry, sir. I apologize for having to ask,” said Rodriguez. “Have you had any contact with Dr. Morgan recently?”

“Not for several months, I think.” Pruitt tried to remember exactly when the last time was.

“Do you know where he might be?”

“No.”

He whispered to his bride of thirty-seven years, “Wes is missing.”

Her face immediately showed the despondency he felt. “Oh, dear,” she sighed.

It was his turn to question. Perhaps it might provoke a forgotten statement that Wes made sometime earlier, giving Pruitt a hint.

“What’s in the box?” he asked.

“I can share that,” said Rodriguez. “Let’s see…a picture of a man and woman formally dressed…a small painting of a house…broken reading glasses…a hairbrush…two crystal glasses…a half-full bottle of Scotch…a box from Cartier containing a large diamond ring…and a CD.”

“A CD of what?” Pruitt was afraid of the answer.

“A woman’s voice…sounds like a cell phone greeting.”

“Oh God…” The pain was growing unbearable. “Anything else?” Pruitt asked.

His mind started hunting for explanations.

The agent continued. “Also, inside were two envelopes…one with his birth certificate and his Social Security card, the other a brief note to you and your wife.”

This was all bad.

“Sir,” asked Rodriguez, “do you know why Dr. Morgan would leave his car here?”

“I can only suspect he left Houston for a vacation. He’s got a lot on his mind, as you can understand.”

As much as he hoped, Pruitt didn’t believe an extended holiday was the reason, but until he had more time to ponder, he wanted to emphasize to the agent the least worrisome scenario.

“I would hope that’s right, but as I’m certain you will understand,” Rodriguez said, “we’ll have to do a more checking. If you hear or think of anything—”

“My wife and I will be in touch.” Pruitt was about to disconnect when he asked, “Would you be able to send us the box?”

“Not yet.” Her words offered no guarantee when that might happen. “I promise…I’ll do my best to see that it gets to you at some point.”

Pruitt sat with his elbow resting on the chair arm, his index finger supporting his nose. He retold the entire conversation to Connie. Before speculating, he walked to an inlaid walnut door.

“I need to think.”

His finger traced along the long row of bottles until he found the one he wanted. Pouring several ounces of the fifty-year-old single malt in a crystal snifter, he offered a taste to Connie then nursed the golden whiskey until only the smoky aroma remained.

“Wes did call us…regularly…then he stopped.” Jon Pruitt tore away from his brooding. “That woman got me thinking. Wes always asked…
do your friends know where bin Laden is
?”

“Everybody wants to know that,” said Connie.

“Why would he ask each time?”

“Wes certainly has a good reason,” she countered. “
You
told him some things about your company. I suspect he was hoping a friend of yours might know if bin Laden was close to capture.”