Bones of the Lost(45)

“Sure.”

I dumped my gear. As we walked, I told Blanton about Katy. He said he’d look into tracking her down.

A quick burger and chips and I was back at the B-hut.

“Breakfast at oh-eight-hundred?”

“I can find my way.”

“Things look different in the light.”

“Sure. I’d appreciate an escort.” I did.

“Maybe I should have contact info in case there’s a change of plans?”

Doubting they’d be functional, I gave him my mobile number and e-mail address.

After a touchdown run to the toilet, I set my alarm, positioned my flashlight on the nightstand, and collapsed into bed.

My last thoughts were these.

You will not need to pee before morning.

Why the tension between Welsted and Blanton?

• • •

I awoke to the sound of boots on plywood. Male voices beyond the partition to my left. Aircraft shrieking overhead.

I checked my watch.

6:50. How long had I slept? Not long enough.

I looked around, hoping I’d underestimated the dismal room the night before. I hadn’t.

Naked walls, linoleum flooring, here and there a tacked and curling USO poster or photo. No window. One electrical outlet per bed. Typical barracks hut. Easy up, easy down. Life expectancy three to four years.

I dressed, gathered my toiletries and flashlight, and set off for my hundred-yard hike.

And got my first stunning glimpse of Bagram.

Mountains soared in a circle around me, high and commanding, their snowy peaks white against a sky slowly oozing from dawn into day.

Crunching past rows of B-huts, I remembered Katy’s e-mailed comments. Not the Hilton, she’d said, but better than tents. Her main problem had been bugs. No Hershey bar remnants could be left around. No half-drunk sodas. I smiled at the thought of my daughter cleaning house every day.

And found myself searching. A pair of slim legs climbing the stairs. A blond head disappearing into a stall.

Could I bump into Katy in the dressing room? At the DFAC? Walking down a street?

While showering, I distracted myself by pulling up what I’d learned about Bagram before leaving home. There was little to pull.

Built as an airfield by the U.S. in the 1950s, the base was now the size of a small town. Its population of roughly six thousand military and twenty-four thousand civilians was composed of allied troops, international contractors, and Afghan day workers.

In addition to standard amenities, Bagram had coffee shops, fast-food joints, a tower left over from the days of Russian occupation, and a bazaar in which local vendors sold their wares. Disney Drive was the main drag, named in honor of a fallen soldier, not Uncle Walt.

Bagram Air Base lay close to the ancient Silk Road city for which it was named. And light-years distant.

Showered and shampooed, I hiked back to my quarters. And was delighted to find that the old PC actually allowed me Internet access.

Having twenty minutes to kill, I checked my e-mail. And found nothing from anyone I actually knew. I shot a note to Larabee, asking for an update on the hit-and-run case. Sent another to Slidell, knowing I’d get no response.

Blanton arrived at eight on the dot. While ingesting enough carbs to lay a rugby team flat, I learned that he held a BA in history, that he’d never been married, that he’d worked briefly as a cop, and that he was in his fourteenth year with NCIS.

Blanton was heading stateside as soon as the exhumation and analysis were completed. Surprisingly, he’d been born and raised in Gastonia.

Funny world. Come seven thousand miles and meet someone from right near home.

Blanton learned that I was board certified by the ABFA. And that I have a cat.

Why not share more? It might have been the way Blanton looked at me, never shifting his gaze, rarely blinking. Or the superior tone he used in phrasing some things. If asked, I couldn’t articulate a reason. But an inner voice advised against candor.

I wondered if I’d been wise in talking about Katy. I’d been brain-dead from exhaustion. Too late. That was done.

When we returned, Welsted was leaning against a van outside my B-hut. Seeing us, her eyes went to her watch.

“Good morning, captain,” I said brightly.

“Good morning.” Welsted didn’t smile or acknowledge Blanton. “Ready?”

“And eager.” That was the third coffee talking.

Five minutes later, we arrived at a corrugated-metal building with a sign that identified it as the headquarters for base operations. We entered and climbed to the second floor.

Hearing boots, an Air Force sergeant popped from a doorway and led us to a conference room that would have looked right at home in a midsize law office. Blond oak table with chairs for a dozen. Blackboard. Sideboard with a coffee setup. Only the rough walls looked out of place.