The Forgotten (John Puller 2)

“How long do you paddle?”

“About forty-five minutes.”

“That’s how long I’ll run, then,” he replied. “I’m going to work out afterwards in the gym.”

“Okay.”

“You too?”

He said, “Me too. I haven’t done much lately. Need to get back into it.”

“You look like you’re in great shape.”

He held the elevator door open for her as she eased the long paddleboard inside the car.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

Puller found a swath of hard-packed sand and began his run. He had watched as Landry shed her T-shirt and walked into the water with her board past the breakers. She lay flat on the board and paddled out farther to where the ocean was calm and flat. She hoisted herself up on the board and began paddling, alternating sides.

She paddled parallel to the beach in the same direction Puller was running, so he could keep an eye on her. It was early enough that there weren’t many folks out yet. A few older fishermen with their poles mounted in PVC pipe wedged in the sand were talking and sipping coffee from thermoses. An older woman walked along, head down but swinging her arms in elliptical motions as she did so. To Puller it looked like she was performing some sort of physical therapy. Maybe she’d blown out both rotators.

A couple jogged along with a sleek Irish setter keeping pace. Seagulls soared and dove, looking for breakfast in the green waters.

He checked his watch, turned, and headed back the way he had come. He looked out and saw Landry make her turn and do the same thing.

Nearly twenty-five minutes into his run Puller felt nicely warmed up. His lungs were operating fully, his legs felt juiced, his arms kept pumping. He had run literally thousands of miles training to become an Army Ranger. Special Forces was mostly about weapons training and endurance. Yeah, they all pumped weights. Yeah, they were all strong as bears. But it was the stamina that really was the difference between living and dying.

At the end of forty-five minutes he stood in the sand at the spot where he had begun, moving his arms and legs, keeping his heart rate up, but allowing his body to cool down slowly.

Landry paddled back in, hit the breakers, stood, and worked her way through them before arriving back on the sand. She snagged her T- shirt and towel from the beach and carried her board over to Puller.

“I need to do a quick change,” she said. “How was the run?”

“It was a run,” replied Puller. “They’re all the same.”

“You don’t look out of breath for having just run all that way.”

“It wasn’t that far. How was the paddling?” “Enlightening.”

“Really?” he said, looking at her skeptically.

“It gives you time to think. Just you and the paddle and the water.” She paused and looked up at him as they walked back to the condo building. “Did you do any thinking while you were running?”

“Now that you mention it, I suppose I did.” “And?”

“And I need to do some more of it.”

She toweled off before going into the building and then they rode the elevator up to her condo.

She took five minutes to rinse the saltwater off and change, and came back out in black tights that ended above her knees, a tight T-shirt with a sports bra underneath, and sneakers with ankle socks. Her wet hair was tied back with a green scrunchy.

The condo gym was large and efficiently laid out. There were Universal machines, free weights, squat racks, dumbbells, a cardio section with treadmills, elliptical machines, stair climbers, and an open floor space where exercise classes were apparently conducted.

Landry hit the Universal circuit while Puller stretched and then did pull-ups and push-ups, calisthenics, and a lot of leg exercises, pushing his lower body hard.

Finished, they toweled off, grabbed some waters from a small fridge next to the exit door, and headed back to the elevator.

She said, “You do a lot of leg work. Most guys focus on the biceps.”

“I’ve never been able to run on my hands.”

She laughed.

“You do this every morning?” asked Puller. “Every morning that I can, yeah.”

“Then you’ll live forever.”

She smiled and then became serious. “Unless I go down in the line of duty.”

“There’s always that.”

“I guess for you too.” She eyed his calf and his forearm where his combat scars were prominent. She pointed to them. “Iraq? Afghanistan?”

He took a swallow of water and said, “Both.” “My brother’s still over there.”

“Hope he comes home soon and safe.”

“Me too.”

“Will he come here?”

“Doubtful. He plans to stay in for the full ride.”

“The Army’s a good employer. He’ll do just fine.”

“But you’re a little biased, aren’t you?” “Actually, I’m a lot biased.”

“So what’s on your agenda for today?”

“I’m going back to my aunt’s house, check some things out.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Puller, you heard what Chief Bullock said.”

“That’s all worked out. Remember I told you I saw him last night. It was at the house. My aunt left it to me. Legal docs prove it and the lawyer gave me the key.”

She removed her hand. “Oh. Hey, that’s great.” She paused and added, “So do you really think her death was more than an accident?” “When I know for sure, you’ll be one of the first people I tell.”

They got back to the condo, showered, and changed.

Puller made some fresh coffee, and when Landry came out in her uniform he poured her a cup. They drank it out on the patio, watching the sun continue its rise. The beach below was starting to get more crowded as families jockeyed for the best pieces of sand.

“You see yourself staying here long-term?” he asked.

“I haven’t really thought about it. What about you? I guess you’re in for the full ride too with Uncle Sam.”

“I guess I am.”

“And after that? You’ll still be a young guy.” “Who knows?”

“You could become a cop.”

“Maybe.”

She smiled again. “You always so loquacious?”

“Compared to other times, I’m being downright gregarious.”

His phone buzzed. He looked at the readout.

It was Kristen Craig from USACIL. Hopefully she had an answer on the men following him. Landry looked at the phone.

“Back to work?” she asked, looking a little disappointed.

“Back to work,” he answered.

CHAPTER 36

Landry and Puller parted company as Puller answered the phone.

“Hey, Christine.”

But it wasn’t Christine. It was a man’s voice. “Agent John Puller?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Colonel Peter Walmsey, that’s who, soldier.” “Yes, sir,” said Puller, automatically snapping to attention even though he was only on the phone. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I want to know why you’re calling USACIL to perform work on things unrelated to your duties at CID. That’s what I want to damn well know. Do you view the Army’s premier forensics lab as your personal playpen?”

Puller licked his lips and pondered how to respond to this. “Would you be referring to my phone call to Ms. Craig?”

“I would be referring to that, specifically your request that she run down a license plate number for you. And also why a duffel full of investigative equipment owned by this man’s army is on its way to you at Eglin Air Force Base to be used on a matter not involving CID.”