The Escape (15 page)

J
OHN PULLER HAD
gone back and checked out of his motel. His plan was to spend the rest of the day following up leads, and then he was going to head back east, check in, and then report his findings to his new “bosses.” As he drove along the surface streets of Fort Leavenworth, to his left was the Missouri River, also known as “Big Muddy.” He knew that the currents were tricky and drownings all too frequent. And some of them were not accidental. A few years before, a platoon sergeant had dumped his unconscious wife’s body in the river late at night after she had discovered his affair with a subordinate. Whether the poor woman had regained consciousness before she drowned was unknown, but her body had eventually been recovered far downriver where it had snagged on a downed tree. Puller had been put on the case and kept on it for a month. The platoon sergeant was currently in the DB for the rest of his life and his two children would grow up without either parent.

That case he had solved. With this one he still seemed to be at the starting gate.

He pulled to the curb and put the sedan in park. About a half mile from here was the DB. The Castle—the old prison—had had its own farm and dairy cattle operation, where “installation trusty” inmates would work. That had all gone away with the demolition of large parts of the Castle and the completion and opening of the DB. No more milk cows were needed. And who said the DoD didn’t know how to cut costs?

Although there were no cow teats to pull or tractors to drive, the inmates at the DB could lift weights, play softball or soccer, or run on the track outside. They could play basketball in the indoor gym, which was named after a sergeant major who had collapsed on the court and later passed away. They could visit with family and friends. They could perform jobs and learn skills in the commercial laundry, the barbershop, sheet metal and welding facility, woodshop, textile repair section, graphic arts studio, and even an embroidery shop that made nametapes for various military purposes.

As an inmate in solitary confinement, however, Robert Puller could not lift weights or play basketball or softball or work in any of those shops. He was designated as maximum custody, at the top end of the restricted grade. His existence at the DB was a solitary one. And, truth be known, he probably preferred it that way. His intellect was so advanced that he might have found the conversation of other inmates and the rigidity of the routines at the prison more harmful than beneficial. Puller had no doubt that his brother could lose himself in his own mind. And that might be the best way for him to survive in prison.

When Puller had first visited his brother at the DB, it had been conducted in the noncontact visitors’ area, typically reserved for inmates on death row. There a wall of thick glass separated visitor and prisoner and a phone system was used to communicate. Robert Puller had largely been an exemplary prisoner, however, and the more recent visits had taken place in the general visitors’ area, which was open and pretty nice for a prison.

Puller knew that he would never again set foot in the DB’s general visitors’ area if his brother was caught and returned here. He might never be able to visit Bobby again at all, in fact.

He climbed out of the car and looked back in the direction he had left Knox. She was turning out to be a real problem. It had started off bad, gotten better, and after she had shown Puller her scars of war, he thought they had reached some level of détente. But then she’d pulled the “I can’t go there” BS with him, which had been the reason for the verbal drubbing he’d given her in the cemetery.

So right now he was going solo on this. He leaned against the hood of his car and went through some mental notes of where he stood now in the investigation.

He needed to follow up on the Croatian Ivo Mesic. He still had to interview the captain and first sergeant who had headed up the response team at the DB. He needed to make some inroads on the sources of the gun and explosion noises in pod three at the DB. If he didn’t hear back from Shireen Kirk, his JAG contact, by tonight, he would call her. This was despite her telling him that if he didn’t hear from her that was the end of it. Once Puller had a thread to follow he didn’t give up on it.

Then there was Daughtrey’s murder. And finally, at some point he would have to sit down with General Aaron Rinehart and James Schindler from NSC. It was clear that much was murky at both ends of this case, and he didn’t believe Rinehart’s and Schindler’s explanations for being interested in this case. For that matter, he didn’t really believe anyone connected to this case about anything.

And then there was the matter of who had kidnapped him. And who had fired the shots that had saved his life.

As he stared toward the DB in the distance he wondered if his brother would ever return there. He might never be found. Or he might be killed rather than captured.

And if I’m the one who runs him down? What do I do if he doesn’t want to go back to DB? What do I do if he puts up a fight?

Puller’s thoughts drifted back to the standoff in the alley behind the bar in Lawton, Oklahoma. The result was he had walked out alive and PFC Rogers had gone down with a ruined limb.

Could I pull the trigger on Bobby? Could he pull the trigger on me?

“No” and “hell no” were the answers that readily leapt to his mind. But on the other hand, his brother had been in prison for over two years. He had quite likely killed a man during his escape. If he were recaptured they might sentence him to death for the murder, even if there was evidence it was in self-defense. Under that scenario, his brother might want to go down fighting. Or he might just let his brother kill him. Puller didn’t know which one was worse.

Shaking his head clear of these numbing thoughts, Puller decided to do what he did best.

Move forward. Whether it was on the battlefield or during an investigation, if you weren’t moving forward then what good were you? He got back into the car and drove off.

He spent two hours with Captain Lewis and his first sergeant. Neither one had counted the soldiers as they formed the response team. The platoons had simply been called up and deployed to restore order at the DB. Both men seemed genuinely surprised that there was an extra man aboard. Once in the prison the MPs had fanned out to each pod, executing orders previously given.

Puller had asked about pod three, where his brother’s cell had been. Neither man could give a ready answer as to what had gone down in that pod. They had not known about the dead man until long after the fact. None of their men had reported seeing anything out of the ordinary and certainly did not know that Robert Puller might have left the prison in the uniform of an MP decked out in riot gear. In fact, they were astonished at the possibility. Yet when Puller explained how it could have happened, both men conceded that they could not prove that it
hadn’t
happened.

He examined the area where the staging had been for the response team. It was big, open, and on that stormy night probably totally chaotic. He searched the quarters where Mesic had stayed, but a cleaning team had come in to get it ready for the next occupant, so Puller couldn’t even find a usable fingerprint. He had already determined that the rental car the Croatian had used had been leased out and was currently somewhere in Montana. Another dead end.

Puller next moved on to the DB. He sat in his brother’s cell on the bed where his brother had been reading his book before the power had gone out. He looked around the small room where his brother had spent twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours of his life. Small room, big mind. It was a wonder that one could contain the other. He eyed the door, trying to imagine what his brother was thinking when the lights had been extinguished.

Did he know what was about to happen? Did he prepare for it when the door opened? He had only a few seconds to determine what was going on. How could he have been sure the soldier who came through that door was there to kill him? Maybe he hadn’t been sure. Maybe he saw it as an opportunity to make his escape. Maybe he would have tried to kill whoever had come through that opening that night.

Puller tried to meet with Captain Macri, but she was not on duty. Mike Cardarelli, the officer who was at the command desk, agreed to answer a few questions. There was nothing that was helpful until Puller asked one last query about Cardarelli’s whereabouts on the night Robert Puller had escaped.

Cardarelli said, “I was actually supposed to be on duty that night, but Captain Macri switched places with me.”

Puller came fully alert. “Why was that?”

“She was supposed to be on duty the next night but had a family commitment that had changed. So we switched nights. I guess I should consider myself lucky. Everyone here that night took a professional hit.”

“What was the family commitment?” asked Puller.

“What?” asked Cardarelli.

“Macri’s family commitment that changed? What was it?”

“I…I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t ask.”

“Does Captain Macri have family here?”

“I don’t believe so. I just assumed they were coming in from somewhere else.”

“Does she live on base?”

Cardarelli shook his head. “No. She has an off-base town home.”

“I’ll need that address.”

Cardarelli gave it to Puller. As he rose, Puller said, “Any developments on the device that made the gun and explosion sounds in pod three that night?”

“None that I’ve heard of. It was the damnedest thing.”

“Yeah,” said Puller. “The damnedest thing.”

A few minutes later he hurried back to his car and accessed a military database on his laptop.

Lenora H. Macri’s photo and service record came up along with her personal history. Puller quickly read through it. Nothing struck him. She had a good record, no blemishes. When he flipped to the screens concerning her personal history, though, things became clearer, or more muddled, depending on how you looked at it.

Her parents were dead and she was an only child. So what were the family commitments that had changed?

And Macri had told him that she had not ordered a search of the guards for the noisemaking device. He had thought that peculiar and perhaps a professional gaffe. But by not conducting a search she had actually accomplished something. She had left available hundreds of suspects who could have smuggled such a device into the prison, and there was no way to prove now which of them might have done it. And by doing so, Macri, if
she
had been the one to bring the device into the prison, was also lost among a sea of potential suspects. And she might have had enough skill and access to override the security system at the prison, resulting in the cell doors opening rather than locking when the power went out.

He started the car and piloted it toward the address the officer had given him. He had strongly cautioned Cardarelli against phoning Macri and discussing anything that they had talked about. The real reason for the admonition was to ensure that Macri not be forewarned and possibly try to make a run for it.

Energized by perhaps finally having a lead in the case, he gunned the engine and made it to the subdivision on the outskirts of Leavenworth in record time. He parked in a spot where he could see her end-unit town home. He killed the engine and waited. There was a car parked in front of her place. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from his duffel and trained them on the car. Sure enough, hanging from the rearview mirror was a parking tag for the DB. This was her ride, a late-model silver Honda Civic.

His plan was to give it some time and see if she came out, and then he would follow her. If she didn’t come out he was going to conduct another interview with the woman with the goal of making her as uncomfortable as possible.

He waited an hour, but Macri did not leave her unit. He was about to get out of the car when another vehicle pulled in and parked next to Macri’s ride.

Puller’s eyes widened when he saw the person get out of the car and head up the steps to Macri’s home.

Veronica Knox was obviously no longer cooling her heels at the cemetery.

P
ULLER WATCHED AS
Knox rapped on the door and then rang the bell when no one answered. She looked around and Puller saw her hand dip into her jacket. She withdrew something he couldn’t see but assumed it was a lock pick. Her hands moved around the knob for a few seconds and then she opened the door and stepped in.

As soon as the door closed behind her Puller was out of his car and hustling down the street. He passed by the side of Macri’s house and went around to the back. It was a three-level structure with a deck above and a walk-out basement door below. The door was a slider. There were no curtains on it so Puller could see right inside. It was not built out; concrete foundation walls stared back at him along with stacked cardboard boxes.

The lock on the slider was a simple one and Puller was through the opening and over to the bottom of the stairs in a few seconds. He could hear footsteps above him, probably Knox looking around. And where was Macri? Her car was out front. But she had’t answered the door. Was she here or not?

The familiar firecracker pops signifying gunshots caused Puller to pull his M11, crouch down, and pause, listening. There had been two shots, along with other sounds. He had heard the first shot, then a crash of something hitting something, then the second shot, then a scream and finally a thud. Someone had gone down. Was it Knox? Or Macri, if she was even here?

He took the steps three at a time. There was a door at the top of the stairs. Puller eased it open and did a turkey peek.

He saw no one. He sight-cleared the room behind him and then headed forward. He eased around the corner, his gun straight ahead.

Then he stopped.

Knox was kneeling over Macri, who was sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from a wound in her chest.

Knox still held her gun in her right hand.

“Don’t move, Knox,” Puller called out, but he was prepared for her to move fast, turn, and fire at him.

Instead she held her gun up, her finger clearly off the trigger, the muzzle pointed down. She was surrendering.

“Put it down on the floor and kick it toward me,” ordered Puller.

“She needs an ambulance.”

“I’m sure she does. Kick the gun to me and then I’ll call one.”

Knox did as he instructed. He picked the gun up by the muzzle and laid it on the hall table. He punched in 911 on his phone and ordered an ambulance.

“Step away from her,” he said. “Lie down on the floor, hands behind your head and your legs splayed.”

“Puller, she tried to kill me!”

“I’m sure we’ll sort it all out. But for now, just do as I say.”

Knox got on the floor with her hands behind her head and her legs spread wide.

Puller knelt next to Macri, who was sprawled on her back on the floor next to a chair, her arms up around her head. He spotted a small bullet hole in her dark blouse, and saw the spread of blood across the cloth. He took her pulse at the neck and found none. Her eyes were open and frozen. Her hands were already starting to cool just a bit.

“She’s dead, Knox. Looks like the shot hit her square in the heart.”

“I thought she was dead.”

“What happened? Why are you even here?”

She started to rise but he barked, “Stay down. I won’t tell you again.”

She froze and then settled back down on the floor.

“I came to interview her. I was going to do it with you, but, well, you know how that turned out. I had to hike back to my car from the cemetery thanks to you.”

“Why interview her?”

“Because she didn’t search the guards.”

“Explain that.”

“I read your interview notes last night. She told you she didn’t search the guards for a device that would have made the noise. She said it was because she couldn’t believe any of the guards would have been involved. But of course she should have, regardless of that. There would have been no reason for her not to do so. Except for one.” She turned her head to the side and looked up at him.

“Which was?” he asked.

“If it wasn’t found on the guards then suspicion would have shifted to her. But if she didn’t search them, then—”

“It was like she’d provided an alibi for herself,” said Puller.

Knox said, “So you thought that too. Is that why you’re here?”

“I saw you pick the lock and go in. I went in through the basement. Then I heard the gunshots. Two of them.”

“She fired at me first,” said Knox. “Look at the wall over there.” She pointed with her right hand to the far wall.

Puller looked in that direction. The round had struck the drywall and driven into it, exposing a bit of the stud behind it.

Knox went on. “I fired a split second later. And I didn’t miss.”

“Why break in here? Do you have a warrant?”

“No.”

“Then nothing you found would have been admissible in court.”

“I’m not as concerned with the legal niceties, Puller. I have a job to do.”

“So you just walked in here and she took a shot at you. She had the element of surprise. She was a soldier. How’d she miss you at this range?”

“Because I saw her a split second before she fired. I kicked that chair at her, hit the floor, and fired from there. When they do the post they’ll confirm the trajectory.”

Puller looked at the overturned chair lying next to Macri’s body.

In the distance they could both hear the sirens coming.

“So if you had gone in first instead of me,” Knox continued with a definite edge to her voice, “you might be on the floor on your belly explaining to
me
how it all went down. Or maybe you might be dead.”

“No, I wouldn’t have broken into the place.”

“Well, I can’t take it back now.”

As the sirens drew closer Puller stepped to the window and looked out. It was an ambulance and two police cars.

Knox said, “So you’ve got control of the board, Puller. How are you going to play this?”

Puller muttered, “Shit.” Then he added, “Get up, Knox.”

She rose slowly and looked up at him. He handed her back her gun.

“I have to say I’m surprised,” she said. “I thought you’d let them throw the book at me.”

“I still might.”

“What do we tell the police?” she said. “I did break in here. I had a gun. It might look like Macri was just defending herself and her home. And I shot her.”

“We tell them the truth.”

“They might ding us for being here.”

“But you did knock and ring the bell first. And you did identify yourself and you had your creds out?”

“Absolutely. She knew who I was. And she still fired.”

“Okay, just follow my lead.”

The police were skeptical at first, but Puller’s demeanor and statement were unshakably professional, as were Knox’s. Their credentials carried great weight with the local police, who were well aware of what had happened at the DB. They took the agents’ statements. Then one of the cops said, looking down at Macri, “What about the body?”

“She’s an active-duty Army captain shot in her home. This is, without exception, a CID investigation. We’ll take charge of the scene. Everything will be preserved.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,” said the older cop.

“Then you have your superiors call my superiors and they’ll
get
comfortable. For now, the body doesn’t leave the house and the crime scene is not touched.”

The cop finally nodded and pulled out his cell phone. “Way over my pay grade.”

An hour later the cops left and a CID forensics team from Leavenworth showed up, did an examination of the scene and the body, and then slipped the remains into a zippered body bag and rolled it away on a gurney.

Puller had assisted the local CID agents with processing the scene, while Knox, after giving her statement—and under strict orders from Puller—sat in the other room.

When the CID agents had finished they left. Puller and Knox were alone in the house.

“Forensics will confirm everything I told you was true, Puller.”

“Forensics can do many things, but it can’t do that, Knox, not entirely.”

She said heatedly, “I almost got my head blown off. It was either her or me. What else could it have been?”

“That you came here to see Macri because she knew something incriminating. And you killed her to silence her.”

“Oh, so now you think I’m both in on whatever this is and also a killer?”

“I don’t know you, Knox. You just showed up on my doorstep. You sure as hell haven’t earned my trust.”

“Well, you haven’t earned mine either,” she shot back.

“So the fact that I didn’t let the cops or CID arrest you carries no weight with you? That I gave you your gun back? That I backed your story with them? That I haven’t slapped you in cuffs? None of that earned me even a bit of trust in your eyes?”

The anger quickly receded from her features and was replaced with embarrassment. “I appreciate that, Puller, I really do. Me being arrested would not be good.”

“Certainly not good for
you
. And whoever else is behind you at INSCOM. And that could include a
lot
of folks,” he said provocatively.

She slumped down in a chair. “I thought a lot about what you said back at the cemetery.” She gave him a wry look. “Your Custer brother analogy was original, I’ll give you that.”

Puller leaned against the wall and waited for her to continue.

“What do you know about your brother’s court-martial?”

“Nothing. I told you that already. The file was sealed. And I was overseas when it happened. He was charged with and convicted of treason, that’s all I know.”

“Your brother escaping has made a lot of people in the intelligence field very nervous, Puller.”

“That one I’d worked out for myself.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“People shouldn’t do a lot of things.”

“I came here not just because of your case notes but because of something else.”

“What?” he asked.

“We traced a series of deposits totaling one million dollars into an account in the Caymans that Captain Macri had set up about a month ago.”

“Her payoff for doing what she did?”

Knox nodded.

“Where did the money come from?”

“Untraceable, even by us. We were fortunate to pick it up on her end, but the origin remains a mystery.”

“How did you get on to her?”

“INSCOM had been getting chatter, nothing definite, but certainly strange, that made them start to focus on DB. We did a personnel rundown. A few people raised enough concerns to warrant markers being placed on them. Macri was one of them.”

“What concerns? I found nothing unusual in her record.”

“She was single, no family in the area, and she was ambitious.”

“So are lots of military folks.”

“And she had considerable personal debt.”

“She was an officer. The Army paid for her ride at West Point.”

“She also dabbled in the stock market. Options on margin accounts. She was in the hole for about eighty thousand dollars. Her payoff would have taken care of that debt and left her a lot of extra to get back on her feet.”

“None of that was in her record.”

“No, it wasn’t. What she does with her personal finances is not really the Army’s business. And the amounts she owed hadn’t been called yet.”

“But you guys found out about it.”

“Yes,” replied Knox.

Puller frowned. “So why the hell didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I’m telling you now even though it’ll probably cost me my job if my superiors find out.” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair and exhaled a long breath. “We came up through different tracks, Puller. I was bred from day one for clandestine service. That means we trust no one outside our circle and keeping a secret and outright lying are part of the job description. Just as you’re trained to investigate a crime scene, I’m trained to deflect and deceive. I’ve spent years honing those skills, and if they knew I was telling you this, well, I’m not sure what they’d do to me.”

Puller relaxed a bit. “So why
are
you telling me?”

She laughed, but it died halfway out of her throat and she quickly turned somber. “Because your honesty and, well, this damn nobleness about you,
shamed
me. I just felt ashamed having to string you along. It was humbling, frankly. When I thought I was well past that emotion. Along with a lot of others,” she added, her voice growing very soft.

“So where does that leave us?” asked Puller quietly after a lengthy pause.

“With me asking for a second chance, or what is it now, a
third
chance with you? And even if you give me one I won’t blame you if you don’t believe me this time.”

He glanced down at her hip. “That scar is real enough and the wound underneath. You were limping when you walked in here and I saw you wince when you sat down.” He glanced at the other room. “When you fell to the floor to avoid getting shot, I guess you landed right on that hip. Probably hurts like a bitch.”

“Yes, it does,” admitted Knox. “More than a bitch, actually. I’d kill for a Percocet right now.”

“So is the 902d Intelligence Group at Leavenworth under the NSA’s thumb?”

“The NSA is pretty much everywhere, Puller. And the 902d is no exception.”

He nodded. “I appreciate how hard that must have been for you to say.”

“Training is training,” she replied. “But I still have a bit of free will left and I mean to exercise it.”

“Okay. It’s a start.”

Puller’s phone rang. It was Shireen Kirk.

“Hello, Shireen. Can I call you back in a few minutes? I’m a little tied up.”

She said, “No, you can’t call me back. Where are you?”

“Leavenworth.”

“So am I.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just landed and I’m in a cab heading out to find you.”

“What the hell are you doing in Kansas?”

“I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

Puller glanced at Knox, who was watching him closely.

“Yeah, there’s a diner.” He gave her the address. “I’ve got an agent from INSCOM with me. I’d like her to get read in too.”