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All three Puller men were in their dress uniforms. The senior Puller’s trio of stars reflected off the bright sun. The funeral service was at the Catholic church where Jackie had worshipped and been a volunteer. Father Rooney had come out of retirement to perform the funeral Mass.
The Army had offered to send some junior personnel to attend the funeral. The Pullers had turned the offer down.
Puller had actually used some choicer language than that, but that was the gist.
Inside the church, her coffin was placed so that Jackie Puller would
be facing the altar, in accordance with Catholic tradition. A priest’s funeral would have had him facing the congregation, as he would have done in life.
Rooney spoke openly and deeply personally of Jackie Puller and all that she had done and meant to so many, most of all her sons and husband.
Puller glanced around the church where he had attended Mass as a young boy.
He looked over at one elderly lady who was clutching her rosary.
And then it struck him.
Sunday best.
He said in a low voice, “Sunday best.”
His brother, obviously hearing this, turned to him and said, “What?”
“Mom was coming here that night. She was coming to pray over things before visiting Bristow after he called her. She was coming to seek God’s help on what to do.” He added in a hollow tone, “And maybe not just about with Bristow. But with Dad too.”
After finishing the service, Rooney slowly made his way down to the three men and gave them each his personal condolences.
Puller Sr. clung to the priest’s hand so tightly that Puller thought he saw Rooney wince in pain, but the old priest gamely hung in there until the old soldier relinquished his grip.
The Puller brothers were pallbearers, easily hoisting the coffin with their mother’s remains. Tears streamed down their faces as they performed this task, both at the church and at the gravesite.
They were not tough, hardened soldiers now.
They were simply bereaved sons.
Many people who had known the Pullers were there, including Stan Demirjian, who had come up and saluted Lieutenant General John Puller and then spent the rest of the time helping the old warrior get around, with a supportive hand ready whenever it was needed. Also there were Carol Powers and her family, the retired CID agent Vincent DiRenzo, and attorney Shireen Kirk. Lucy Bristow, whose husband Jackie had been going to meet that night, walked over to the Pullers and offered her condolences. Puller Sr. seemed to recognize her and gave her a nod.
It was telling to Puller that none of the military higher-ups were there. They obviously saw their attendance here as detrimental to their careers.
And they had all obeyed that order.
As Puller sat listening to Father Rooney delivering the gravesite service, Knox, who was sitting next to him and wearing a simple black dress, took his hand. When she squeezed it, he squeezed back.
After the service was over the Puller brothers loaded their father into the van they had driven down in.
Stan Demirjian came over to them. In a low voice he said, “I always knew your father was innocent. Always.”
“Thanks, Mr. Demirjian,” said Robert. “That means a lot.”
“And even though I know why she wrote the letter, it was wrong for Lynda to send it to the Army. You can’t do that sort of thing to people just based on what you’re feeling and without any real facts to back you up.”
The men shook hands and Demirjian gave them both sharp salutes and departed.
After he left Puller took something from his pocket. “Speaking of letters.”
“What is that?” asked Robert.
“The original letter from Mrs. Demirjian. Ted Hull sent it to me.”
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Robert.
Puller took something else from his pocket and held it up. “I brought this.” It was a lighter. “You want to do the honors?”
Puller gripped one edge of the letter while Robert ignited another edge with the lighter’s flame.
Puller held on to the letter as long as he could. When the flames were about to reach his fingers he let it go. The paper rose into the air, continued to burn, and finally disappeared into blackened curls of ash carried away by the breeze.
“Is there really no way, Bobby?” said Puller.
“Charpentier has disappeared with no leads. Myers and Quentin are dead. The official word is that the body of the old man is Chris Ballard. I’m sure they have the forensics to support that, even if it is all bullshit.”
“And the secrets they were selling? If people dig into that?”
“No one’s going to dig, John. Look at it from DoD’s point of view. The truth comes out they all look bad. It could set back defense research for decades. Reputations and silver stars falling like rain. I’m not saying the powers that be are happy about this. I’m just saying no one apparently wants to go down that road. And even if they did, Jericho’s had more than enough time to get rid of all the evidence.”
“So that’s it, then?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Puller saw Knox heading over. “Are you riding back with us?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve got some things I need to attend to.”
“Any word on Rogers?”
“No. I don’t know what they’re going to do with him. Maybe he’ll end up at Gitmo, buried forever.”
Puller said, “None of this is right. None of this is fair.”
Knox glanced at Robert before saying, “All of this is…life.”
She kissed him on the cheek, hugged Robert, and then turned and walked off.
“Things good between you two?” Robert asked.
Puller watched Knox disappear from sight before answering. “I don’t know.”
Chapter
73
PAUL ROGERS LOOKED around at the cell he was in. It resembled the one he had been in for the last ten years. The only difference was he was the only prisoner in this particular facility. They had come in late at night, but he had seen clearly that it was a military building and it was not meant to hold prisoners. But there was a secure area and he was in it.
There were bars all around, allowing the guards who stood watch around the clock a dead-on view of him.
There was a toilet and a hose for a shower. His meals were passed through the door while half a dozen guards aimed automatic weapons at him.
There was a comfortable bunk.
And nothing else.
He lay there day after day. When the pain hit him, forcing him to his knees in agony, the guards stood by and watched. He assumed their orders were not to intervene in any way. And they followed orders.
When he retched, which he often did, they passed towels through the bars for him to clean up his mess.
