The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1) - James Patterson Page 0,1
the sins I’ve committed over the years in service to my country.
I’ve never been a particularly religious woman, but as I reach the top of the stairs, my prayers to whatever god is “up there” have deteriorated from “Please, God, let my family be safe,” to “Please, God,” and now, as I step onto the second floor, just to whispers of “Please, please, please.”
My mom instinct kicks in, and I go into Denise’s room.
Messy, but clear.
Our bedroom, across the way.
Much neater, but also clear.
The bathroom.
The door is closed.
I take a deep breath, bat my eyelids to blink out the tears. I spin the doorknob and fling the door open.
The floor mat is tumbled, like it’s been disturbed.
Clothes from Denise—her practice soccer uniform—are in a pile on the floor.
My girl’s room may be messy, but she knows enough to pop her soiled clothes in the nearby hamper.
Wrong, it’s all wrong.
With a hard, deep breath, I rip the shower curtain open.
Clear.
But still oh so wrong.
And now I’m on the ground floor, revolver still in both hands, still looking, hunting, evaluating, and there’s a smell I hadn’t noted before.
A scent of fear, of sweat, of terror.
I pass by the dining room and there’s something there I missed earlier, partially hidden by the vase holding the single rose.
I go into the room, pushing back the happy memories made at this very table—of family dinners, helping Denise with her math homework, Christmas mornings and Thanksgiving afternoons, meals with my fellow officers and civvies from Fort Belvoir—all sorts of pleasant thoughts that are now gone.
There’s a sheet of paper on the table.
Next to the paper is a cell phone I don’t recognize. Mine is in my purse, and both Tom and Denise have iPhones.
This cell phone is square, with a small screen and a keypad underneath.
I step closer to the paper.
Look down.
Standard eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of white paper, with the words centered, the black letters looking like they came off an inkjet printer.
Typical and usual, except the words underneath are neither typical nor usual.
WE HAVE YOUR HUSBAND AND DAUGHTER. NO FBI, STATE POLICE, CID, MILITARY POLICE. YOU AND YOU ALONE.
FOLLOW OUR INSTRUCTIONS TO THE LETTER AND COMPLETE YOUR TASK IN 48 HOURS, OR THEY BOTH DIE.
I read and re-read the message, clear and to the point, and I’m in the middle of reading it for the third time when the strange phone rings, jolting me so hard that I nearly drop my weapon.
CHAPTER 2
I KEEP the revolver in my right hand and pick up the unfamiliar phone with my left, push the Answer button, and say, “Cornwall.”
There’s a male voice on the other end. No hint of static, or crackling, or anything else. This is a burner phone, but it’s a high-end burner phone.
“We have your husband and your daughter,” he starts, in a low but straightforward voice with just a hint of an accent that I can’t place. “They are perfectly fine for now. Within the next forty-eight hours, you are to proceed to Three Rivers, Texas, to a secure location under the control of your intelligence services and free a man very important to us. Forty-eight hours. Once this man is free, we will perform the exchange for the safe return of your husband and daughter.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself to memorize the man’s voice, the inflections, the slight accent, and I do my best to tamp down the emotions roaring through me, from fear to terror to pure hate.
“All right,” I say.
He says, “I know there are instructions for you, left on your dining room table. Those instructions are not a joke. If we get any indication that you have contacted any law enforcement agency, either civilian or military, then you will never hear back from us, and you will never see your husband or daughter again.”
“Who is the prisoner?” I ask.
The man says, “Let’s just say one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and leave it at that.”
“Where is this man?” I go on, eyes still closed, still working the problem. “Where in Three Rivers?”
“Do you agree to this task?”
The black hate in me that’s been stirred up by this man wants me to scream, What choice do you think I have, asshole?
But I keep it professional.
Trying to keep my voice calmer than my mind, I say, “I need assurances that my husband and daughter are safe.”
The man says, “That sounds reasonable. Hold on.”
I put the Ruger on the table, push a finger into my other ear, try to see if