casualty.
“You don’t think the Boss is going to blame us for this, do you, Wu?”
Cui asked.
“I don’t know,”
Wu said, worried.
“He might.”
“You have to tell him that I was working at my desk when it happened,”
Cui said.
“You have to tell him we are innocent.”
“Don’t worry,”
Wu said
, “I’ll tell him,”
though he didn’t plan on going back to work any time soon.
Chapter Four
IT WAS 370 MILES FROM COLORADO SPRINGS TO Albuquerque, but DeLuca didn’t like to fly, and the point was moot because a snowstorm
dumping twelve to eighteen inches in Colorado along the eastern slope of the Rockies had closed the airport anyway, so he
drove, sometimes in near white-out conditions, following Interstate 25 south through towns like Pueblo and Walsenburg and
Trinidad, the Burlington Northern & Santa Fe freight trains on the tracks parallel to the freeway reminding him of the Polar
Express from the classic children’s book. The way he saw it, if he could drive thousands of miles across the back country
of Iraq, getting shot at by Hadjis wielding Kalishnikovs and RPGs, and come through safely on the other side, then a little
snow wasn’t going to deter him. He checked in with the other members of Team Red as he drove, calling Sgts. Colleen MacKenzie,
Dan Sykes, and Julio Vasquez on his mobile but getting through to none of them, so he left messages, telling them to enjoy
their vacations and to check their voice mail—it was possible, he said, that he was going to need them. He called Walter Ford
and Sami Jambazian as well, both former partners of his on the Boston P.D. and both working for him in their retirements,
and left similar messages, noting again how, now that everyone had cell phones and voice mail, you never actually talked to
people anymore. He called his wife from the road and learned his son Scott would be coming home from Iraq on extended leave,
which was good news. DeLuca told Bonnie he’d check in with her when he found a motel. She said it was late (he’d forgotten
he was in the Mountain time zone) and to call in the morning.
He told her he missed her.
She said she missed him, too.
He was having dinner in a truck stop in Las Vegas, New Mexico, when his telephone rang. He’d just watched an obese four-hundred-pound
trucker polish off four pancakes, each the equivalent of a loaf of bread, in a room full of giant truckers eating giant pancakes,
and he idly wondered how much extra diesel fuel was consumed, hauling their fat asses up and over the Rockies—it was a thought
he kept to himself.
“Mr. David?” the voice said, the accent thick but not impenetrable.
“Theresa, how are you?” he asked.
“You said I would call you if I thought anything,” she said.
“What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I am fine,” she said. “I wanted to tell you a man called, for Cheryl. I don’t know what.”
“What man?”
“I will play it for you if you will wait,” Theresa Davidova said. He heard some fumbling with buttons, and then a man’s voice,
saying:
“This is Brother Antonionus calling for Cheryl Escavedo, returning your call. I’m sorry I missed you, but feel free to call
me back at the same number you called before, and I look forward to speaking with you.”
“Is that good?” she asked. “You heard?”
“Thank you, I did,” he told her. “I’m heading for Albuquerque now, so maybe tomorrow I can stop by and listen to it in person—are
you going to be around?”
“Yes, I will be here,” she said. “I also found a note. Just two words. Sometimes Cheryl would make notes to write down telephone
numbers on whatever she finds near the telephone. I found this on one of my notebooks this way, in her handwriting.”
“What did she write?” DeLuca asked.
“Tom never,” Theresa said.
“Tom never what? Who’s Tom? And what didn’t he do?”
“I don’t know this,” Theresa said. “This is all it
“You don’t think the Boss is going to blame us for this, do you, Wu?”
Cui asked.
“I don’t know,”
Wu said, worried.
“He might.”
“You have to tell him that I was working at my desk when it happened,”
Cui said.
“You have to tell him we are innocent.”
“Don’t worry,”
Wu said
, “I’ll tell him,”
though he didn’t plan on going back to work any time soon.
Chapter Four
IT WAS 370 MILES FROM COLORADO SPRINGS TO Albuquerque, but DeLuca didn’t like to fly, and the point was moot because a snowstorm
dumping twelve to eighteen inches in Colorado along the eastern slope of the Rockies had closed the airport anyway, so he
drove, sometimes in near white-out conditions, following Interstate 25 south through towns like Pueblo and Walsenburg and
Trinidad, the Burlington Northern & Santa Fe freight trains on the tracks parallel to the freeway reminding him of the Polar
Express from the classic children’s book. The way he saw it, if he could drive thousands of miles across the back country
of Iraq, getting shot at by Hadjis wielding Kalishnikovs and RPGs, and come through safely on the other side, then a little
snow wasn’t going to deter him. He checked in with the other members of Team Red as he drove, calling Sgts. Colleen MacKenzie,
Dan Sykes, and Julio Vasquez on his mobile but getting through to none of them, so he left messages, telling them to enjoy
their vacations and to check their voice mail—it was possible, he said, that he was going to need them. He called Walter Ford
and Sami Jambazian as well, both former partners of his on the Boston P.D. and both working for him in their retirements,
and left similar messages, noting again how, now that everyone had cell phones and voice mail, you never actually talked to
people anymore. He called his wife from the road and learned his son Scott would be coming home from Iraq on extended leave,
which was good news. DeLuca told Bonnie he’d check in with her when he found a motel. She said it was late (he’d forgotten
he was in the Mountain time zone) and to call in the morning.
He told her he missed her.
She said she missed him, too.
He was having dinner in a truck stop in Las Vegas, New Mexico, when his telephone rang. He’d just watched an obese four-hundred-pound
trucker polish off four pancakes, each the equivalent of a loaf of bread, in a room full of giant truckers eating giant pancakes,
and he idly wondered how much extra diesel fuel was consumed, hauling their fat asses up and over the Rockies—it was a thought
he kept to himself.
“Mr. David?” the voice said, the accent thick but not impenetrable.
“Theresa, how are you?” he asked.
“You said I would call you if I thought anything,” she said.
“What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I am fine,” she said. “I wanted to tell you a man called, for Cheryl. I don’t know what.”
“What man?”
“I will play it for you if you will wait,” Theresa Davidova said. He heard some fumbling with buttons, and then a man’s voice,
saying:
“This is Brother Antonionus calling for Cheryl Escavedo, returning your call. I’m sorry I missed you, but feel free to call
me back at the same number you called before, and I look forward to speaking with you.”
“Is that good?” she asked. “You heard?”
“Thank you, I did,” he told her. “I’m heading for Albuquerque now, so maybe tomorrow I can stop by and listen to it in person—are
you going to be around?”
“Yes, I will be here,” she said. “I also found a note. Just two words. Sometimes Cheryl would make notes to write down telephone
numbers on whatever she finds near the telephone. I found this on one of my notebooks this way, in her handwriting.”
“What did she write?” DeLuca asked.
“Tom never,” Theresa said.
“Tom never what? Who’s Tom? And what didn’t he do?”
“I don’t know this,” Theresa said. “This is all it
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