She turned the page to a biography on Winslow Boudreaux. He was born in 1970 in Alexandria, Louisiana, to a farmer and mill worker. Winslow was an exceptional athlete in high school who enlisted in the Army when he turned eighteen years old. After a short time in the 82nd Airborne Division, Boudreaux tried out for and was accepted into the elite commandos at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. From that point, his biography became markedly sketchy.
While Meredith understood that the files of Special Forces soldiers were necessarily pristine, she also knew that, within Special Forces, they kept detailed records on their personnel. This was the special operations file, and it was practically empty. It was almost as if Boudreaux was in the witness protection program. Everything was too neat, too tidy.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Louisiana information, may I help you?” an operator asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for a Kendrick and Emily Boudreaux in Alexandria, Louisiana.”
After a few seconds, the operator responded, “Here you go, hon.”
Meredith scribbled down the number, hung up, and then dialed. After the second ring, a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Is this Emily Boudreaux?” Meredith asked.
“Yes it is. May I ask who’s speaking, please?”
Meredith listened to the decidedly southern accent, perhaps even a bit Cajun. She seemed like a gracious lady.
“Mrs. Boudreaux, my name is Sally Jones, and I am from the Department of Veterans Affairs. I am researching a case we have not yet closed on your son, Winslow.”
Meredith listened to the awkward pause on the opposite end of the phone.
“Ma’am?” Meredith asked.
“Yes, I’m here. I just don’t understand why the VA would be calling about my son. He’s dead.” Her voice was flat, a mixture between sadness and anger.
“I’m so sorry,” Meredith said.
“He was killed in the Philippines, the Army said. Wasn’t nothing to show for it, though, but some ashes.”
“I understand. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Meredith wanted to quickly steer away from the present line of discussion out of respect.
“Why were you calling, anyway?” Mrs. Boudreaux asked.
Meredith paused for a moment, thinking, as she thumbed through the bio sketch on Winslow Boudreaux. Her eyes stopped on the second page.
“We’ve got some belongings from a missing soldier, and I was just curious, what size was your son? Was he a tall man?”
“No, hon. He wasn’t a stick over five foot six inches.”
“Then these things we’ve got don’t belong to him. I’m so sorry about having to call you and am so grateful for the service your son provided to our country. Thank you.”
“No bother. Have a nice day.” Her voice trailed off.
Meredith hung up the phone, staring out her window. She shook off the fact that she had just caused more anxiety to a grieving mother. What she had done was necessary. She looked down at the folder.
Winslow Boudreaux/6’2”/205lbs/Brn hair/Grn eyes.
If it wasn’t Winslow Boudreaux executing the mission in Canada right now, then she had two questions. First, who was in Canada? Second, where was Winslow’s body? She felt her skin crawl as she considered the possibilities.
Hellerman’s question, that simple question, “Did you see Zachary’s body?” was fluttering in her mind, refusing to disappear. The question it begged, the much larger issue, was too big to even consider.
She stood and walked to her window, her mind somehow shifting back to thinking about Matt and all that had happened over the course of the past year. She did love Matt, dearly. But she weighed the effects of her decision to hold off on marriage against her career.
Zachary. She had never met the man but certainly felt as though she knew him after being so close to Matt. She had helped Matt deal with his brother’s death. She chased away the thought that Matt’s obsession with Zachary’s death may have contributed to her decision to hold off on marriage. Then, of course, there was the funeral. Meredith thought to herself, The funeral that had no viewing — where the body was too badly mangled to show.
Looking out the window, she could see the treetops along the ridge to the south bending in the light breeze. She thought about Matt, picturing him standing in his back yard, holding the baseball bat over his shoulder, smiling, green eyes boring into her, brown hair matted to his brow, crooked grin flashing white teeth at her.
That was Matt, all six-foot-two of him.
A cold chill shot up her spine like an electrical current.
No, it couldn’t be.
Or could it?
CHAPTER 26
“Where did they attack?” Peyton demanded again. This time, though, no one was shooting at them.
Matt was negotiating a hairpin turn that led them into the valley that made Franklin County Airfield possible. Tumblers were falling into place in his mind. The terrorist pilot he killed. The cell where they were held. The chase to Sheldon Springs. This was personal as much as it was part of some grand enemy strategic plan. Ballantine wanted him, Matt Garrett, in an eye-for-an-eye exchange. Brother for brother.
“Where?” Peyton demanded again.
“Charlotte Coliseum, Mall of America, and an Amtrak train somewhere in New Jersey.”
“How is that possible?” Peyton whispered, turning her head to stare blankly out of the window.
Matt looked at Peyton and saw her determined, set jaw, eyes reflecting off the window with concern, perhaps something more.
“Probably more to come.”
Peyton continued to stare out of her window. “Last night, when we were talking, I didn’t tell you that my sister contacted me just last week,” she said. “She came down to D.C. She needed money.”
Matt let her continue, sensing there was something more.
“I told her she could stay at my place and gave her two thousand dollars. She left me a message that she was heading back to New York yesterday.”
“On Amtrak?” he asked.
“On the Metroliner.”
“Here, call her.” Matt handed Peyton the phone.
“No, I have no way to get in touch with her.”
“Call your house. Maybe she’s there.”
She turned and looked at him.
Matt pulled the truck over to the side of the road, and they sat in silence a couple of minutes. Like adrenaline masking the pain of an injury, the rapid pace of events had mitigated their ability to fully comprehend what had just transpired. Terrorists had successfully attacked the nation again. Matt knew that, most likely, thousands of people were dead, thousands more were injured and maimed, and there would be almost no family in the nation left untouched by the attacks. He suddenly felt a wave of grief sweep over him. Was his family okay, he wondered? What remained of it, anyway, with Zachary and his mother now gone.
“Here, call her now.” He offered her the cell phone again.
He saw a coldness glaze over her. She became more distant at his second urging. He thought about how he had been acting the last several months. No one could get close to him. Like a dance, if someone had tried to step closer, he would step back, keeping the distance. He saw the same hardness in Peyton. The last twenty-four hours had been traumatic, so he let it go. Then he saw her look away and mouth a curse word, as if she were scolding herself.
“Fine,” he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. He put the truck into gear and nosed onto the country road. “Let’s talk about something else. We can regroup as we drive. We might be rushing headlong into something here. Instincts are telling me that.”
Peyton looked at him and shrugged as if to say, Okay, what?