Chapter XLII
CHAPTER XLII
It would not have been true to claim that I had good relations with the Veterans Administration. I knew one person in the VA who probably never wished to hear from or see me again, and she was the best contact I had. However, if I’d let such feelings stand in my way, I’d never have left the house. People not wanting to talk to me came with the territory.
Dr. Carrie Saunders was based at the Togus VA Medical Center in Augusta, where she specialized in PTSD. I’d met her some years earlier when a group of war veterans decided to get into the antiquities-smuggling business. It hadn’t ended well, with the resulting fallout leaving me persona non grata in military circles. I could have tried pointing out that I wasn’t the one who thought it might be a good idea to transport stolen artifacts halfway across the world, but it wouldn’t have gotten me very far. Where the U.S. military was concerned, bad press was bad press.
I was waiting in the lobby of the mental health center when Saunders appeared. In fact, I’d been waiting for almost two hours, even though she knew I was there. It was my own fault. I hadn’t told her I was coming, out of concern that she, like Jason Rybek, might feel a sudden hankering for someplace else. I’d shown up at reception, handed over a business card in a sealed envelope, told the receptionist I’d like the envelope passed to Dr. Saunders, and confirmed that I was happy to take a seat until she found a convenient gap in her schedule. I’d even brought a book to pass the time, along with a large coffee in my reusable Coffee By Design travel mug, which had nostalgia value since the original outlet on Congress Street, where I’d purchased the mug, no longer existed. Short of producing a pipe and slippers, I couldn’t have looked more ready to make myself comfortable for the long haul.
Saunders stood over me as I closed my book. She was now in her forties, her blond hair still worn short, but she’d acquired a wedding ring since last we’d met, along with the altered physique that came with recent motherhood. She still looked like she could go three rounds with the champ, but would now try to put him down in the first to conserve her energy.
“I hope you’re reading something improving,” she said.
“ Little Dorrit .” I showed her the cover to prove I wasn’t lying. “I aim to get through all of Dickens by next year, except after Little Dorrit , I only have the difficult novels left, the ones that make even hardened Dickensians suck their teeth in a concerned manner. I fear I may run out of steam.”
“Or you may die. I’m surprised you’ve survived long enough to get as far as Little Dorrit .”
“I hear that a lot—oddly, with the same tone of wistfulness you just adopted.”
“It’s important to live in hope. What do you want, Mr. Parker?”
“I’d like to buy you lunch.”
“I’m married.”
“We can sit at separate tables if it makes you happier.”
“Nothing would make me happier about having lunch with you, except not having lunch with you.”
She walked away. I fell into step beside her and held the door as we moved outside, because Mother raised a gentleman.
“I’m looking for a missing veteran,” I said.
“Then I wish you luck, and better luck to him.”
“He may have been involved in the abduction of children from Mexico.”
Saunders stopped walking.
“You know,” she said, “today was a good day until now.”
“Sorry.”
“Really?”
“Not so much,” I replied. “But at least you won’t have to pay for your lunch.”
THERE WEREN’T MANY PLACES to eat by the VA Medical Center, so we drove in convoy about three miles northwest to the Countryside Diner, where I stopped for takeout sandwiches and sodas before continuing to the parking lot of the Viles Arboretum. I pulled in beside Saunders’s Escalade, and we found a bench where we could sit and talk. I told her what I’d learned about Wyatt Riggins while Saunders ate an egg salad sandwich.
“They get themselves into such quandaries, these men,” she said.
“Some more than others.”
“And you’ve no idea who these children might be?”
“Only that if Jason Rybek is right, and Riggins wasn’t fantasizing because of weed and booze, they’re connected to Blas Urrea, who can hardly be faulted for coming after them. If Riggins is running, it’s because he’s afraid Urrea may have his name on a list.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Try to find Riggins—and the children too.”
“Why not just go to the police with what you know?”
“Right now, all I have is a drunken hearsay conversation at Ruski’s, and the person who told me about it could be at risk from his employer if it’s discovered that he’s been speaking out of turn—and by ‘at risk,’ I don’t mean the loss of medical and dental, though he may need both once Devin Vaughn’s people have finished with him. I’m not even sure I could get in touch with him again if the police asked me to. If I were Rybek, I wouldn’t surface until winter comes around again. But I’m also worried that if I make this official, Vaughn may decide to cut his losses and dispose of the children, if he hasn’t already. No kids, no evidence, no crime.”
“Is Vaughn holding them for ransom?” Saunders asked.
“He’s hurting for money, but kidnapping children possibly belonging to a Mexican crime lord doesn’t seem like the most advisable way to improve his finances. Even if Vaughn succeeded in getting a ransom paid, Urrea isn’t just going to walk away and swallow the pain. Vaughn would never be able to sleep with both eyes closed again.”
“Revenge, then?”
“That may be part of it. If it’s the only reason, the children are already dead, so I hope it’s not the case.”
But neither ransom nor revenge made complete sense to me, which left leverage. By holding the children, Vaughn was hoping to pressure Urrea, but that still left the certainty of Urrea seeking payback later. As Louis, Angel, and I had discussed, the only way I could see Vaughn coming out of this with some hope of reaching old age was by fatally weakening Urrea. Could Urrea have been responsible for protecting the children so that whoever had entrusted them to him would punish him for his failure?
Saunders folded the remaining half of her sandwich in paper and set it aside.
“The wreckage left by that Iraq incident still hasn’t been fully cleaned up,” she said, “and I doubt it ever will be. Your involvement hasn’t been forgotten either.”
Nothing makes a man feel anxious quite like being hated by an army.
“If I can track down Wyatt Riggins or Emmett Lucas, I may be able to handle this quietly,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
For the first time since we’d met, Saunders grinned, though it might have had more appeal if she hadn’t looked so skeptical.
“Okay, I’m being optimistic,” I said. “With both Vaughn and Urrea involved, I’ll be lucky not to end up dismembered or buried in a barrel.”
“As I said earlier, your luck on that front is holding up surprisingly well. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been at Death’s door so often, he’s probably left a key under the mat for you.”
She took in the park. A pair of dads, either stay-at-homes or guys goofing off with their kids for the day, were kicking a ball with three young boys while a white terrier did its best to complicate matters. I knew how the dog felt.
“I have two girls of my own now,” said Saunders. “The youngest is less than a year old.”
“Congratulations.”
“If someone took them, I wouldn’t rest until whoever did it was dead.”
“That would be Urrea’s line of thinking.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Whatever you can find out about Riggins: people he was close to in the service and people he remained close to afterward, including his childhood friend Emmett Lucas, as well as pertinent material from his medical records and anything else that might prove helpful. I’m in the dark here. It’s down to his training, but Riggins is proving hard to locate.”
“If your information is correct, and Riggins was attached to Civil Affairs, I may struggle for access. If I start digging too hard, alarm bells will sound. Do you have a name for the clinician who prescribed the medication found at the Nadeau house?”
I did: Noah Harrow.
“I’ve had some dealings with Noah,” she said. “He’s been working with the VA for a long time. He’s a realist about the scrapes veterans can get themselves into. There may be some leeway with him.”
I thanked her.
“Don’t thank me yet. I could come up with a big fat zero.”
She put the rest of her sandwich in her pocket and prepared to leave. I stayed where I was. I’d give her time to drive off before I returned to my car.
“If you decide to go to the police—” she began.
“Your name won’t be mentioned.”
“Likewise on my side, for obvious reasons. By the way, it was smart of you to seal your business card in an envelope.”
“Sometimes I think I might even be able to make a career of this,” I said.
Out on the grass, the terrier took a hard ball to the head and stopped running.
“Or maybe not.”