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Authors: Dan Fesperman
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from deep in his past. The idea of that letter sitting out on the kitchen table where anyone might open it made him weak in the knees. He had best be on his way.
âSee you later,â he said, moving quickly with his tray. At least no one knew the real reason he was blushing.
CHAPTER FOUR
T HE LETTER MIGHT as well have been booby-trapped from the way Falk approached it. It sat on the kitchen table, as promised, but he was still working up the nerve to touch it. Leaning forward for a closer look, he instantly recognized the handwriting. Then there was the fragrance, streaming like smoke from a campfire. Unmistakably hers, no matter how unlikely.
Up to now his plans for the day had been pretty straightforward. He would tend to the needs of the Ludwig case and try to squeeze in another session with Adnan. General Trabert had told him to put regular duties aside, but it wasnât the kind of work you shut down with the flip of a switch, particularly with subjects like Adnan. A breakthrough could be like a paper cut, clotting quickly unless you immediately dug deeper. Although Tyndallâs interruption may have already acted as a suture.
But now there was the letter to deal with. Falk circled the table. He opted first for a delaying action, heading briskly down the hall, dripping sweat in a burst of nervous energy. The heat, his lack of sleep, and this new development had his engine on the verge of overload.
He stopped at his bedroom door for a wary inspection. Nothing had been disturbed as far as he could tell. Not that any change would be noticeable in this wreckageâbed unmade, drawers ajar, a T-shirt still damp with day-old sweat draped on a chair. Newspapers and magazines were splayed on the nightstand, along with a file folder he should have returned yesterday. An appraising eye might have detected any number of reasons for further curiosity here.
He continued this cautious survey room by room, as much to calm himself as to search for anything amiss. Whitakerâs quarters were neat as a pin. A half-completed letter home sat on the bedside table next to a humming clock. Falk caught the words âboredomâ and âmy darlingâ before moving on, shamed. Whitaker had presumably left the house just before arriving at breakfast, and the letter must have come just beforehandâan early delivery, but the times often varied here. Falk hadnât been at the house since heading to Windmill Beach at 4 a.m. At Gitmo, even in private quarters your privacy wasnât guaranteed. Anyone might have come and gone in the meantime.
He returned to the kitchen and picked up the envelope. It was sealed with cellophane tape, perhaps as an extra precaution. Or had someone on the base done it after inspecting the contents? The postmark was three days old. Not bad for Gitmo. It must have arrived on yesterdayâs plane out of Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, in Puerto Rico. He pried open the flap, and the smell of hibiscus intensified. For all his momentary paranoia, plenty of pleasant memories stirred as well. He recalled their first dance, her cheek brushing his. Later the scent had filled the hotel room, the young Marine hardly believing his luck. Months later, even when he knew far more, he had never stopped believing in her devotion, at least at some level. She said as much herself, in letters that had looked just like this one, minus the tape. But that was another era, another age here on the Rock.
Two pages of pink stationery were folded inside. Before reading them Falk looked over his shoulder, then walked to the front screen, glancing down the street toward the golf course before shutting the door. He sat down on the big brown couch by the window. First he counted the paragraphs. Five. The real business was always transacted in the third, but out of nostalgia he started at the beginning:
Dear Revere,
I have miss you much and so greatly. It has been so many years, and still can I see you with
âSee you later,â he said, moving quickly with his tray. At least no one knew the real reason he was blushing.
CHAPTER FOUR
T HE LETTER MIGHT as well have been booby-trapped from the way Falk approached it. It sat on the kitchen table, as promised, but he was still working up the nerve to touch it. Leaning forward for a closer look, he instantly recognized the handwriting. Then there was the fragrance, streaming like smoke from a campfire. Unmistakably hers, no matter how unlikely.
Up to now his plans for the day had been pretty straightforward. He would tend to the needs of the Ludwig case and try to squeeze in another session with Adnan. General Trabert had told him to put regular duties aside, but it wasnât the kind of work you shut down with the flip of a switch, particularly with subjects like Adnan. A breakthrough could be like a paper cut, clotting quickly unless you immediately dug deeper. Although Tyndallâs interruption may have already acted as a suture.
But now there was the letter to deal with. Falk circled the table. He opted first for a delaying action, heading briskly down the hall, dripping sweat in a burst of nervous energy. The heat, his lack of sleep, and this new development had his engine on the verge of overload.
He stopped at his bedroom door for a wary inspection. Nothing had been disturbed as far as he could tell. Not that any change would be noticeable in this wreckageâbed unmade, drawers ajar, a T-shirt still damp with day-old sweat draped on a chair. Newspapers and magazines were splayed on the nightstand, along with a file folder he should have returned yesterday. An appraising eye might have detected any number of reasons for further curiosity here.
He continued this cautious survey room by room, as much to calm himself as to search for anything amiss. Whitakerâs quarters were neat as a pin. A half-completed letter home sat on the bedside table next to a humming clock. Falk caught the words âboredomâ and âmy darlingâ before moving on, shamed. Whitaker had presumably left the house just before arriving at breakfast, and the letter must have come just beforehandâan early delivery, but the times often varied here. Falk hadnât been at the house since heading to Windmill Beach at 4 a.m. At Gitmo, even in private quarters your privacy wasnât guaranteed. Anyone might have come and gone in the meantime.
He returned to the kitchen and picked up the envelope. It was sealed with cellophane tape, perhaps as an extra precaution. Or had someone on the base done it after inspecting the contents? The postmark was three days old. Not bad for Gitmo. It must have arrived on yesterdayâs plane out of Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, in Puerto Rico. He pried open the flap, and the smell of hibiscus intensified. For all his momentary paranoia, plenty of pleasant memories stirred as well. He recalled their first dance, her cheek brushing his. Later the scent had filled the hotel room, the young Marine hardly believing his luck. Months later, even when he knew far more, he had never stopped believing in her devotion, at least at some level. She said as much herself, in letters that had looked just like this one, minus the tape. But that was another era, another age here on the Rock.
Two pages of pink stationery were folded inside. Before reading them Falk looked over his shoulder, then walked to the front screen, glancing down the street toward the golf course before shutting the door. He sat down on the big brown couch by the window. First he counted the paragraphs. Five. The real business was always transacted in the third, but out of nostalgia he started at the beginning:
Dear Revere,
I have miss you much and so greatly. It has been so many years, and still can I see you with
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