The Escape Page 3

  human head had nine basic shapes. With a full head of hair his looked more moon-shaped. With no hair his head appeared bullet-shaped. It was a subtle but distinct change.

  He slipped a length of moldable soft plastic in front of his upper row of teeth. This caused a slight bulging and broadening of the skin and muscle there as he flexed his mouth and jaw, changing the shape of the plastic insert until it rested comfortably in place.

  Keeping out the mirror, water, and the towel, he put the other things away in the box and replaced it on the shelf.

  Another box held articles of a more technical nature. He pulled them all out and set them up neatly on the desk like a surgeon lining up his instruments before commencing an operation. He covered his shoulders and front with the towel and then sketched out what he wanted to do on a piece of paper. He applied spirit gum to his nose and tapped it with his finger to make it sticky. He then quickly added a bit of a cotton ball to the surface before the adhesive dried out. He used a Popsicle stick to remove from a jar a small quantity of nose putty mixed with Derma Wax. He rubbed the putty into a ball, warming it with his body heat, making it easier to manipulate. He applied the putty to sections of his nose, all the while looking at his work in the mirror, first face on and then from the profile. He smoothed out the putty using KY Jelly. The smoothing and shaping took a long time, but he was patient. He had just spent more than two years in a prison cell. If nothing else, that taught you considerable patience.

  Once he was satisfied with the shape, he used a stipple sponge to add texture and sealed it all. Then he let it dry. Finally, he applied makeup over his entire face, highlighting and shadowing and then using transparent powder to finish up.

  He sat back and looked at himself. The changes were subtle, to be sure. But the overall impact was significant. Few things on a person were more distinctive than the nose. He had just made his unrecognizable from the original.

  Next he used the spirit gum to pin his normally slightly protruding ears against his head. He looked at himself once more, scrutinizing every detail, looking for any mistake or imperfection caused by the changes, but came away satisfied.

  He scanned a few more box labels and then pulled out another one and opened it. Inside was a fake goatee. He applied spirit gum first and then positioned the goatee while looking in the mirror. When that was done he used a comb to smooth some of the synthetic hairs into place. Facial hair was not allowed in the military—for prisoners or soldiers—so this was a good disguise tactic.

  Next he removed his shirt and undershirt and drew out two tat sleeves from the box. He slid one on each arm and once more examined the results in the mirror. They definitely looked like the real thing, he concluded.

  Tinted contact lenses were next, changing the color of his eyes.

  Then he trimmed his eyebrows, making them much thinner and narrower.

  He sat back once more and looked in the mirror, again first face on and then from his right and left profiles.

  He doubted even his brother would recognize him.

  He went through his mental checklist: Hair, nose, ears, mouth, goatee, eyes, tats, eyebrows. Check, check, and check.

  He pulled down another box and slipped out the clothes. He had kept his weight constant over the last two years, and the jeans and short-sleeved shirt fit him fine. He slipped the sweat-stained Stetson on over his shaved head, careful not to dislodge his pinned ears. Reaching into the box once more, he pulled out and put on one-inch worn boots that increased his height to that of his brother’s nearly six feet four. He slid the belt with the two-inch buckle depicting a man on a bull through his jean loops and cinched it tight. His fatigues, cap, and combat boots went into the box and he put it back on the shelf.

  The third box contained the documents he would need to accomplish things in the outside world. A valid Kansas driver’s license, two credit cards with a year of life remaining on them, and a thousand dollars in cash, all in twenties. And a checkbook tied to an active bank account with fifty-seven thousand dollars in it plus whatever interest had accrued to it over the years.

  He had put in automatic purchase instructions for the credit cards with payments tied to his checking account that had been executed before and during the time he had been in prison. That’s how he had been paying for this storage unit and some other recurring expenses. Under his fake identity he had also purchased and sent gifts and items to nursing homes, hospitals, and strangers whom he had discovered to have been in low circumstances. It had cost him several thousand dollars, but he had done a little bit of good at the same time. It also ensured that there was activity on his accounts, which built up a credit history with reliable payments. Otherwise financial institutions might have looked suspiciously at a dormant account suddenly active after more than two years. And people were watching, Puller knew, because he used to be one of the watchers.

  He hefted the last items. A Glock nine-mil and two extra boxes of ammo. And an M4 carbine with three boxes of ammo. Kansas was an open-carry state, which meant so long as your firearm was in plain sight a license was not required. But one did need a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and Puller had one of those too, issued by the great state of Kansas under his fictitious identity. It was still good for another eighteen months.

  He slipped the Glock into the clip holster he’d put on his belt and covered this with a denim jacket he’d earlier pulled from his clothes box. He disassembled the M4 and slipped it into a carrier bag, which he placed in the duffel. Then he put on a watch, also from the clothes box, and set it to the proper time. He put a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket.

  There would be a wide manhunt going on for him. And while he now didn’t look anything like his former self, he also had no margin for error.

  He well knew the chaos that must be reigning at the prison right now. He wasn’t sure how it had all gone down, but he realized that he was one of the luckiest people on the planet. This was particularly gratifying since over the last few years he had been one of the unluckiest. The massive swing in his fortunes made him feel a bit lightheaded. He had seized an opportunity when one had presented itself. It was up to him now to carry it all the way to its logical conclusion. He was nothing if not logical. Indeed, some would claim he was too logical at times. And maybe he was.

  It seemed to run in the family, though, for his father surely had that capacity. And his younger brother, John, might be the most logical of the three Puller men.

  Brother John, he thought. What would he make of all this?

  Brothers on opposite sides of the cell door. Now brothers on opposite sides, period. It didn’t feel good, but it never had. And there was nothing he could do right now to change that.

  He put everything away and then turned to his laptop. To his delight it came on, though the battery was still charging. He unplugged it and put the computer in a canvas duffel bag. From another box he pulled some more articles of clothing and assorted toiletries and put them in the duffel. Then he slipped it over his shoulder, turned off the light, and exited, locking the overhead door and quickly walking away.

  He hoofed it to a diner that was just opening for business as he walked in. Two cops went in ahead of him. They both looked tired, so maybe they were coming off their shifts instead of going on. Puller sat as far away from them as he could. He huddled behind the plastic menu the waitress gave him and ordered coffee, black.

  She brought it in a chipped cup and he drank it down in gratifying measures. This was the first cup of coffee outside of prison he’d had in over two years. And that didn’t count the time he had been in custody while his court-martial was going on. He smacked his lips appreciatively and looked over the menu.

  He ordered pretty much one of everything, and when his meal came he ate slowly, luxuriating over each bite. It wasn’t that the food at the DB was awful. It was passable. But food just tasted different when you were eating it in a prison cell after it was slid through a notch cut in the steel door.

 
He finished the last bit of toast and bacon and had another cup of coffee. He had been eating so slowly that the cops had finished and gone. Which was just fine with him. What he didn’t want to see was a couple of MPs take their place, which they did, right as the waitress deposited the bill at his table.

  “You have a good one, hon,” she said to him.

  “Thanks,” said Puller, before realizing that he had not changed the tone or cadence of his voice.

  Pick up your damn game, Bobby.

  “Um, you got Wi-Fi here, shug?” he asked in a twangy voice.

  She shook her head. “Honey, all we got is stuff to eat and drink. You want that Wi-Fi thing, you got to get yourself down to the Starbucks on the corner.”

  “Thanks, shug.”

  He zipped up his jacket all the way and made sure his gun was covered.

  As he passed by the MPs, one of them flicked a gaze his way and nodded.

  Puller drawled, “You boys have a good one.” Then he tacked on, “Go Army.” And then he smiled crookedly.

  The man thanked him with a weary smile and returned to looking over his menu.

  Puller was careful to close the swing door after him so it wouldn’t bang shut and maybe get those MPs to take a second look at him.

  In under a minute he was disappearing into a darkness just about to be broken by the coming Kansas dawn. It was his first daybreak as a free man in a long time.

  It tasted first sweet and then turned to vinegar in his mouth.

  In another thirty seconds he had turned the corner and was out of sight.

  CHAPTER

  5

  JOHN PULLER KNEW something was wrong the minute he stepped off the elevator and onto his father’s ward.

  It was far too quiet.

  Where were his father’s baritone shouts that tended to explode down the hall like mortar rounds, reducing men of iron in uniform to lumps of mush? All he could hear were the normal sounds one associated with a hospital: rubber soles on linoleum, the squeaks of carts and gurneys, the whispers of medicos huddled in corners, visitors coming and going, the occasional shriek of an alarm on a vitals monitor.

  He strode down the corridor, quickening his pace when he saw three men coming out of his father’s room. They weren’t doctors. Two were in their branch’s standard service uniforms, while one wore a suit. One of the uniformed men was Army, the other Air Force. Both were generals. The Air Force guy was a one-star. As Puller quickened his pace and closed the gap, he could read the Air Force guy’s nameplate: Daughtrey. The Army man carried three stars pinned to the epaulets on his shoulders and his plate read Rinehart. Puller recognized the name but couldn’t place him. The collection of decorations on his chest ran nine horizontal rows. He was a big man with his hair shaved close to his scalp. And his nose had been broken, at least once.

  “Excuse me, sirs?” Puller said, coming to attention. He didn’t issue a salute since they were inside and none were under cover, meaning they did not have their caps on.

  They all turned to him.

  Puller eyed the generals and said, “I’m Chief Warrant Officer John Puller Jr. with the 701st CID out of Quantico. I apologize for being out of uniform, but I just got back from a mission in Oklahoma and was given some news I needed to see my father about.”

  “At ease, Puller,” said Rinehart, and Puller relaxed. “You’re not the only visitor your father’s receiving today.”

  “I saw that you were coming out of his room,” Puller noted.

  The suit nodded and then flipped out his ID. Puller read it thoroughly. He liked to know who was in the sandbox with him.

  James Schindler, with the National Security Council.

  Puller had never dealt with anyone from there before. The NSC was a policy group and their people normally didn’t go around investigating things. But these folks were also wired right to the White House. It was heady stuff for a humble chief warrant officer. Then again, if someone wanted to truly intimidate him he would need to have placed a gun muzzle against Puller’s skull. And even that might not be enough.

  Rinehart said, “You received ‘news’? I’m sure it’s the same news that prompted our visit here today.”

  “My brother.”

  Daughtrey nodded. “Your father was not particularly helpful.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t know anything about this. And he has a condition.”

  “Dementia, we were told,” said Schindler.

  Puller said, “It’s beyond his control now. And he hasn’t been in contact with my brother since before he went to prison.”

  “But patients with dementia have their lucid moments, Puller,” noted Daughtrey. “And with this case no possible lead is too small to follow up. Since you were next up on our list, why don’t we find a quiet place where we can talk?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you want, but only after I see my dad. It’s important for me to see him now,” he added, acutely aware that he was collectively outranked by a country mile.

  The one-star was clearly not pleased by this, but Rinehart said, “I’m sure that can be accommodated, Puller. There’s not a soldier in uniform today who doesn’t owe Fighting John Puller due deference.” As he said this he glanced sharply at Daughtrey. “There’s a visitors’ room right down this hall. You’ll find us in there when you’re done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Puller slipped inside his father’s room and shut the door. He didn’t like hospitals. He’d been in enough of them while wounded. They smelled overly clean, but they were actually more full of germs than a toilet seat.

  His father was seated in a chair by the window. John Puller Sr. had once been nearly as tall as his youngest son, but time had robbed him of nearly two inches. Yet, at over six-one, he was still a tall man. He wore his usual uniform these days—white T-shirt and blue scrub pants and hospital slippers. His hair, what was left of it, was cottony white and surrounded the crown of his head like a halo. He was fit and trim, and his musculature, while not at the level of his prime, was still substantial.

  “Hello, General,” Puller said.

  It was usually around this time that his father started jabbering on about Puller being his XO here to receive orders. Puller had gone along with his father’s delusion, though he didn’t want to. It seemed a betrayal of the old man. But now his father didn’t even look at him and didn’t say a word. He just continued to gaze out the window.

  Puller perched on the edge of the bed.

  “What did those men ask you?”

  His father sat up and tapped the window, causing a sparrow to lift into the air and fly off. Then he settled back against the fake leather.

  Puller rose and walked over to him, gazing over his head at the outdoor courtyard. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had been outside. He’d spent the majority of his military career out of doors, more than holding his own against enemies doing their best to defeat him and his men. Virtually none of them had succeeded. Who could have predicted it would be a defect in his own brain that would finally bring him down?

  “Heard from Bobby lately?” asked Puller, being intentionally provocative. Usually the mention of his brother’s name sent his father into spasms of vitriol.

  The only reaction was a grunt, but at least it was something. Puller stood in front of his father, blocking his view of the courtyard.

  “What did the men ask you?”

  His father inched up his chin until he was staring directly at his youngest child.

  “Gone,” said his father.

  “Who, Bobby?”

  “Gone,” said his father again. “AWOL.”

  Puller nodded. This wasn’t technically correct, but he wasn’t holding it against his father. “He is gone. Escaped from the DB, so they say.”

  “Bullshit.” The word wasn’t uttered in anger. There was no raised voice. His father just said it matter-of-factly, as though the truth behind its use was self-evident.

>   Puller knelt down next to him so his father could lower his chin.

  “Why is it bullshit?”

  “Told ’em. Bullshit.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  He had caught his father in these moments before, though they were growing less frequent. It was like the one-star general had said: Lucidity was still possible.

  His father looked at his son like he was suddenly surprised he wasn’t actually talking to himself. Puller’s spirits sank through the floor when he noted this look. Was that all the old man had in his tank today?

  Bullshit?

  “Is that all you told them?” asked Puller.

  He waited in silence for a minute or so. His father closed his eyes and his breathing grew steady.

  Puller closed the door behind him and headed down to confront the stars and suit. They were seated in the otherwise empty visitors’ room. He sat next to Rinehart, the Army three-star, figuring the bond within the same branch of service might be stronger by the physical proximity.

  “Nice visit with your father?” asked Schindler.

  “In his condition the visits are rarely nice, sir,” said Puller. “And there was no lucidity.”

  “We can’t discuss this here,” said Rinehart. “You can drive back with us to the Pentagon. After the meeting we’ll get you transport back here for your car.”

  The drive took about thirty minutes before they pulled into one of the parking lots of the world’s largest office building, though it comprised only seven floors, two of which were basement-level.