terminal, went online, and typed in a name.
Ballard Enterprises.
He got back a number of hits, some related to what he wanted and others not.
The company he was interested in had changed its name years back. It was now known as CB Excelon Corp. Chris Ballard had founded and run the eponymous Ballard Enterprises. When he tracked the man down online, Rogers found that he was still the chairman emeritus of Excelon, but had turned over the day-to-day operations to others. And Excelon’s focus was now cyber security.
Thirty years ago it’d had an entirely different focus.
Rogers rose and left. He had printed out a picture of Ballard. It wasn’t a recent one. The man was still in his fifties in the photo, the age when Rogers had known him. He wanted to know what he looked like now, but he had not been able to find a recent picture. Rogers hoped the man hadn’t aged well.
Like I haven’t.
But he wasn’t chiefly interested in Ballard. There was someone else. A woman. He had not found her name in any of the materials. That did not unduly surprise him. Back then she liked to stay in the background. He imagined that hadn’t changed.
He was hungry so he found a place to eat a block over from the library. Eggs, bacon, biscuits, and grits washed down with hot coffee.
This was a coal mining town. Rogers could see this in the bent, blackened, and exhausted-looking men who came and went, the trucks hauling the black rock down the streets, the mile-long trains carrying the mineral long-distance, and the various plants parked around the area that dealt with turning the chunks of rock into electricity in faraway places.
He had read in a newspaper in prison that coal was dying. It looked like it was very much alive here.
He walked around the town, observing all the time. He was looking for something in particular, and many hours later he found it.
The white panel van pulled up to the bar with flashing neon signs and two men got out and went inside. Rogers followed.
The place was full. It was one of the few he’d seen in town that promised a bit of fun in the face of geographical isolation and backbreaking labor. Line dancing, nonstop drinking, pool, and video games.
Men and women hooked up and then parted. Glasses were lifted to mouths and slammed back down on the scarred wood of the bar. Pool balls were hit, aliens were killed on wide screens, and lips locked and bodies curved around each other in semiprivate nooks and crannies.
The two men hung their jackets on hooks on the wall and went directly to the bar. They were both big-bellied men with huge, callused hands and trim beards. Their hardscrabble lives were bolted onto every inch of them.
One of them had a knife in a holder on his belt. The other was armed only with a smile and hands that groped any woman who came within striking distance.
Rogers went to the bathroom. When he came back out he moved over against the wall to allow a group of drunken women to pass by on their way to the ladies’ room to fix their makeup and perhaps their reputations.
His hand snuck into first the right and then the left pockets of the men’s jackets. He cupped the car keys, watched the dancing for a bit, and then left.
He got into the van, started it up, and pulled off. He stopped outside of town to change out the plates.
He had already checked the van for distinguishing marks. There were none. It was relatively new. There were a million just like this one.
The name on the registration was Buford Atkins.
Well, Mr. Atkins would have to find new wheels.
The back of the van was filled with tools, both hand and power, and several pairs of work overalls. All that might actually come in handy.
Rogers drove for six hours, covering about one hundred and fifty miles. It was slow going because the roads were two-lane for the most part, twisting and loaded with switchbacks as he made his way through a chunk of the tree-laden Appalachians. He longed for a straight shot at interstate speeds, but that was still a ways off according to the map he’d found in the glove box.
He pulled off, slept for a few hours, and got back on the road. He finally hit the interstate and headed east. An hour later he stopped to eat.
He pulled out the photograph of Chris Ballard. Brilliant guy, Rogers had to give him that. Far ahead of his time.
But the woman who liked to stay in the background was even smarter than Ballard. In her twenties back then, she was head and shoulders above all others at the company in sheer brainpower and vision.
She would be in her late fifties now. He wondered where she was.
In fact, he was obsessing over that question.
Claire Jericho.
He hadn’t said the name out loud in thirty years.
He reached down with his finger and nudged the ring. Jericho had given it to him. He had memorized the inscription carved on the inside of the band.
For the good of all.
Right.
She could be anywhere. She could even be dead. If so, he wanted to see her grave as confirmation.
And then he might dig through the earth with his bare hands, force open the coffin, and pulverize to dust whatever was left of her in there. If she was alive then he would send the woman to her grave.
He got back into the van and drove away.
A police car pulled up next to him at a stoplight. The officer glanced over.
Rogers kept his gaze straight ahead. He had no driver’s license and the van was stolen. He had a knife that still held trace amounts of a dead man’s blood. He had a stolen gun in his car that had belonged to the man he’d killed. He was wanted for a parole violation all the way across the country. He quietly contemplated how he would kill the cop if he pulled him over.
Luckily for the policeman, he pulled off when the light turned green.
Rogers accelerated slowly, and soon the cop car was out of sight.
He rubbed the back of his head. He did not want to confront the fact that the pains in his head were increasing and that they were also feeling different than they had previously.
What if my head explodes before I accomplish what I set out to do?
He flexed first his right arm and then his left. His knife wound was healing nicely.
His eyes scanned ahead. His night vision was better than his day vision, but the latter was still acceptable.
He cleared the mountains and entered the central part of the state. In another three hours he reached the Tidewater region of Virginia.
Then he pulled to a stop.
Fort Monroe was directly in front of him.
It was early in the morning. There was no one else around.
He had learned while he was in prison that Fort Monroe had been decommissioned.
That didn’t matter to him.
All Paul Rogers knew was that, after all these years, he was finally home.
Chapter
11
HE WENT BACK to the well once more. The water was still fresh.
His brother never forgot a damn thing.
The email had been returned within minutes.
Babysitter was Carol Andrews. Her father was Captain Russell Andrews in the Old Man’s command. You know how to track that.
Puller did indeed know how to track that.
Uncle Sam always knew where former career soldiers were, for two very precise reasons: military pensions and health care benefits.
Puller accessed another secure database and discovered that Russell Andrews had retired as a full colonel and lived in Florida on the Atlantic side. He got Andrews’s phone number and called him. After a few minutes of reminiscing and Andrews’s asking about his former commander, Puller was able to learn that his daughter Carol, now forty-seven, was married with three teenage children of her own and lived in Richmond. Her married name was Powers.