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The story went on to bullet-point some of Ballard’s successes and the work that his firm had done in connection with DARPA, the Defense Department’s research arm. The article also gave a thumbnail history of the agency.
DARPA, created in the late 1950s by President Eisenhower, had started out as the Advanced Research Projects Agency. It had come into being in response to the Soviets sending Sputnik I into orbit. The org
anization had changed its name several times over the decades, before settling on DARPA in 1996. With its new headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, it employed hundreds of people and managed a budget of $3 billion. Its mission was to nurture and support game-changing military technologies and to create surprises for America’s enemies, although some of its project outcomes had had significant influence in nonmilitary applications. It funded numerous areas of development in the private sector and was known to give long leashes, short time frames, and overly ambitious—some would say impossible—goals to its contractors. It had had many successes but also spectacular failures. An independent agency, DARPA reported directly to DoD senior management.
Rogers already knew this about DARPA and didn’t really care.
He found a mapping function on the phone and determined that the Outer Banks were only a couple hours from Fort Monroe.
His only lead to Claire Jericho was Chris Ballard.
North Carolina here I come.
Chapter
16
THE CAR HAD been in the driveway.
Puller sat on the hood of his Malibu staring at the old house on the grounds of Fort Monroe. The Puller family had owned a Buick four-door sedan back then, provided by the Army.
It had been in the driveway after his mother had left that night.
They had no other car.
She had to have walked.
Puller pushed off the hood and started to head down the sidewalk. He could have gone in one of two directions, but he had chosen the way that made the most sense to him.
Sunday best.
As he walked along he could not stop himself from imagining his mother making this same journey that night. His footsteps were following that same trek. His steps were hitting where hers had hit on this very same concrete. He visualized her all dressed up, her purse perhaps clutched at her side. Her gaze directly in front of her. Some purpose in mind.
Some destination.
When he reached St. Mary’s Church, Puller stopped.
It looked the same as when he’d been a boy here. The trees around it were larger and fuller, but the church itself had remained frozen in time.
It was a beautiful little church. It would have made a great postcard picture, he suddenly thought.
Come here and worship God. It will get you in the spirit.
The Catholic church was still open and functioning. Its official name was St. Mary Star of the Sea Catholic Church. It had a school, also named St. Mary Star of the Sea, that catered to pre-K through eighth grade and was located across the causeway from the fort on Willard Avenue.
Puller had attended Mass here every Sunday with his mother and brother, and his father if he was in town. He had never gone back since she’d vanished. He had never seen the point to it, since God had ignored his teary pleas and never returned Puller’s mother to him.
He stood out in front of the church for a few minutes, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the memories that had suddenly come charging headlong at him.
He walked up the steps and into the church. It was quiet and cool and a bit musty inside. He surveyed the interior, the blue carpeting and the sign over a shelf of written materials in the back that read Thou Shalt Not Steal.
He walked up the aisle and noted the stained glass windows on either wall.
One was a memorial to a soldier who had died in Korea. The words read, He died so the kids next door may live.
That seemed to be the lot of many a soldier, thought Puller.
You die so others don’t.
Flags hung down from the ceiling on both sides. He looked up at them as he passed by.
Then his eyes finally reached to the small altar.
All the memories overcame him once more like an enemy overrunning his position on a battlefield.
He shut his eyes and let these images wash over him. Taking the seats in the pew, his mother always between his brother and him. They were little boys after all, and seated together they would have at some point during the Mass gotten into trouble.
He could conjure the smell of her perfume, delicate and barely there. The rustle of her skirt, the slight tap of her heel against the back of the pew in front of them. The methodical turning of the hymnal pages.
Standing up to sing, to pray, listening to the homily. Rising again. Genuflecting. Reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Walking up to receive communion, Puller having qualified to do that only the year before his mother vanished.
Swallowing the host and wishing his mother would have allowed him to drink some of Jesus’s blood in the form of the red wine.
Just once.
Putting the crumpled dollar bills in the offering basket.
Singing the final hymn as the priest and the altar boys walked down the center aisle bearing the cross and the Holy Book out into the foyer.
His mother lingering to talk to the priest and some friends, while he and his brother fidgeted, anxious to get home, change their clothes, and run wild outside. Or for Robert Puller to finish reading a book or complete a science project.
Puller blinked and his gaze went toward the altar. A door had opened on one side of it and a man in a white collar had emerged from an inner room. He was carrying some hymnals. When he spotted Puller he put the books down and walked down the center aisle toward him.
He was in his fifties, with a shock of fine white hair that neatly matched the color of the collar. He had on the usual black pants and a black clerical shirt with the white tab collar. His glasses fronted watery blue eyes.
“May I help you?” he asked, offering a smile along with his greeting. The man drew closer and held out his hand. “I’m Father O’Neil.” He peered at Puller more closely. “I’m sorry, young man. Do you attend church here? I’m usually very good at remembering faces.”
“I used to. About thirty years ago.”
“Oh, then as a little boy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you go back much farther than I do. I’ve only been the pastor here for nine years. I came over from Roanoke.”
“Father Rooney was the pastor when I came here.”
“Father Rooney? That name sounds familiar. There were quite a few priests in between him and me. The Richmond Diocese likes to move us around.”
“Would you have any idea where I could find him?”
O’Neil became slightly guarded. “Can I ask why you’re looking
