Long Shadows 1st Edition David

Baldacci
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 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Columbus Rose, Ltd.
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E3-20220819-DA-NF-ORI
 Table of Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Discover More
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ACCLAIM FOR DAVID BALDACCI’S THRILLERS
Also by David Baldacci
 To Ginny and Bill Colwell,
two very special people,
for all you have done for so many
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
Tap here to learn more.
 Chapter 1
WHO THE HELL IS THIS?” barked Amos Decker.
He had been awoken from a sleep far deeper than he usually
achieved. The insomnia had been getting worse, and it was adding
nothing positive to his already unpredictable temperament. He
hadn’t looked at the phone number on the screen before answering
it. In his line of work, calls came at all times of the day or night and
not always from those on his contact list.
“Amos, it’s Mary Lancaster.” Her voice was low, tenuous. “Do you
remember me?”
Amos Decker sat up stiffly in his bed and rubbed his unshaven
face. He saw on his phone screen that it was nearly three in the
morning.
“Since I pretty much can’t forget anything, it’s not likely I’d forget
you, is it, Mary?” He patted himself on both cheeks, working to
remove the fuzziness from his mind. Then his thoughts settled on
the timing of the call, which was in itself a warning.
In a tense voice he added, “Mary, is something wrong? Why are
you even up now?”
Mary Lancaster was Decker’s former partner in the Burlington
Police Department in Ohio. A while back she’d been diagnosed with
early onset dementia. The disease had spiraled continually
downward, as her brain deteriorated and dragged the rest of her
along with it.
“I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep.”
To Decker, she didn’t sound fine at all. But he hadn’t spoken to
her in a while, and this might just be how she was now.
“I have trouble with that too.”
 “I just wanted to hear your voice. It just seemed so important to
me right now. I’ve been working up the courage to call you.”
“You don’t ever have to worry about calling me, even in the
middle of the night.”
“It’s so difficult to understand time, Amos, night and then day.
But then, everything is very difficult for me to understand right now.
And…it’s so very frightening because…every day there seems to…be
less and less of me…th-there.”
He sighed as the tragic sincerity of her words hit him especially
hard. “I know, Mary. I understand why you feel that way.”
“Yes. I believed that you would.”
Her tone had firmed up a bit. Decker hoped it was a positive
sign.
He leaned against the creaky headboard, as though using the
wood to fortify his own spine in dealing with this unexpected
development. Decker surveyed the dark confines of his small
bedroom. He had lived here for years, but it looked like he was just
moving in, or else was simply passing through.
He was a consultant with the FBI. Long before that he had
suffered a near-fatal brain injury while playing professional football.
His altered brain held two new attributes which, up to that point, he
hadn’t even known about and had no reason to: hyperthymesia, or
perfect recall; and synesthesia, which caused him to pair certain
things with unlikely colors. In his case it was dead bodies linked with
a shade of electric blue. After his football career ended he had
become a policeman and then a detective in his hometown; thus,
seeing dead bodies was not all that unusual.
 He and Lancaster had successfully partnered on many cases.
Having a perfect memory was a godsend for a detective, but a
thousand-pound ball-and-chain for a human being. Time did not heal
any of his past miseries. If anything, they were more intensified.
He lived in an apartment in Washington, DC, in a building owned
by a friend of his, Melvin Mars. Decker had first met Mars while the
man was on death row in Texas. He had proved Mars’s innocence,
and Mars had received a substantial financial windfall for his
wrongful incarceration. He’d used some of it to buy the apartment
building. Mars had recently married and moved to California.
Decker’s longtime FBI partner, Alex Jamison, had been
transferred to New York and found what looked to be love with a
Wall Street investment banker. His old boss at the FBI, Ross Bogart,
had retired and was learning to play golf—badly, he had heard—in
Arizona.
That meant Decker was now alone, which he knew he would be
one day. The phone call from his old partner was thus welcome,
even at this hour.
“How are you, Mary? I mean, really, how are you?”
“So-so,” she said. “Every day is a…challenge.”
“But you sound good.”
“You mean I can put sentences together. The…me-medications
help me with that, sometimes. This is one of those times. I’m…not
usually like this. I’m usually…not good.”
He decided to reroute the conversation. “How are Earl and
Sandy? Sleeping, I suppose.” That was Mary’s husband and their
daughter.
 “They went to visit Earl’s mother in Cleveland. She’s not doing
well. Probably won’t be long for this world. She’s old, and gaga like
me, actually.”
“You don’t sound gaga to me, Mary.”
“Yes, well…”
“Wait, if they’re in Cleveland, who’s staying with you?” The last
time he had visited her, there had been an aide helping out.
“I’m okay right now, Amos. It’s all right for me to be here.”
“I don’t know, Mary. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
She sounded almost like the old Mary. Almost.
But there was something else going on here that he didn’t like.
 Chapter 2
DECKER PUT HIS LARGE BARE feet on the cold wood of the floor.
“I’ve been meaning to come to visit you. It’s been too long. But you
sound better…than last time.”
“Yes, it has been too long. Far too long. But not you. Me.”
Decker straightened up and eyed the window, where the city
lights winked lazily at him in the darkness. “I, uh, I don’t
understand,” he replied. “I guess I’m still half-asleep,” he added by
way of explanation, but she wasn’t making much sense.
“This…is a terrible thing I have…in my head. It’s…awful.”
“I know, Mary. And I wish you didn’t have to deal with it.” He
stopped and struggled to come up with more sympathetic words; it
was a task that would have been easy for his old self, and nearly
impossible for his current one. “I…I wish there was a cure.”
“For you, too,” she said. “There is no cure for you, either.” In
these words he could sense her seeking some level of solidarity with
him in diseases of the mind that would end up doing them both in.
“We’re a lot alike in that regard,” he agreed.
“But also not alike,” she retorted in a tone she hadn’t used
before. It was an escalation of sorts, at least he took it that way.
Decker didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He sat
there listening to her breathing over the phone. In the ensuing
silence he could also feel something building, like thrust did on an
airplane about to take off. He was about to break the silence when
she did.
“Does it keep changing?” she asked in a small, measured tone.
He knew exactly what she was referring to. “It seems to,” he
answered. “But everyone’s mind changes, Mary, healthy or not.
Nothing is static. Normal or not, whatever normal is.”
“But you’re the only one I know who truly…who could maybe
understand what I’m going through.”
He heard a sound over the line and thought she might be
slapping herself in the head, as though trying to dislodge in there
what was slowly killing her. He tried to think of something to say, to
draw her back to the conversation.
“But I thought you were getting counseling. It helped me. It can
help you.”
“I did get counseling. But then I stopped getting it.”
“But why?” he said as his anxiety rose higher.
“They told me all I needed to know. After that, it was a waste of
time. And I don’t have any time to waste, Amos, not one fucking
second.” She let the blunt epithet hang there in the ether like smoke
from a discharged gun.
“Mary, please let me know what’s wrong. I can tell something’s
happened.”
Sharp as a pistol shot she barked, “I forgot Sandy today. Right
before they left to go to Cleveland. I forgot her.”
“People forget names all the time, Mary,” said Decker, sounding a
bit relieved. He sensed this was where the conversation was
intended to go when all was said and done. He didn’t think this
when next she spoke.
“I didn’t forget her name. I…I forgot who she was.” There came
another lengthy pause where all Decker could hear was the woman’s
breaths and then a sob that was so dry and drawn out it sounded
like she was strangling.
“Mary, are you—”
 She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. She said, “I just
remembered her before I called you. And only because I looked at a
photo with her name on it. I forgot I had a daughter, Amos. For a
time there was no Sandy Lancaster in existence for me. Can you
understand how…terrible that is?”
He could almost sense the tears tumbling down her sallow
cheeks.
“I was this close to…to not. Ever again. Forgetting my own child.
My flesh and blood.”
“You shouldn’t be alone, Mary. I know what you said but I can’t
believe that Earl—”
She cut in. “Earl doesn’t know that I am alone. He wouldn’t want
that. He’s normally very careful about that.”
Decker stood, rigid in hushed anxiety. Her response was stealthy
and, far worse, coolly victorious. He could feel clammy sweat
forming all over him.
“Then who’s with you? The aide?”
“She was, but I made her leave.”
In a bewildered tone he said, “How exactly did you manage that?
She shouldn’t have—”
“I have a gun, Amos. My old service automatic. I haven’t held it
in years. But it fits my hand so fine. I remembered the gun safe
combination, can you believe that? After I forgot pretty much
everything else, I remembered that. I suppose it was…an omen of
sorts,” she added offhandedly.
Every muscle that Decker had tightened. “Wait a minute, Mary.
Hold on now.”
 “I pointed the gun at her. And she left, very quickly. Right before
I called you. I woke her up, you see. With the gun. It makes you
wake up fast, you know that.”
Decker was now more awake than perhaps he’d ever been in his
life. He glanced wildly around trying to think of something, anything.
“Look, Mary, put the gun away right now, just put it down. And then
go and sit as far away from it as you can, and just close your eyes
and take deep breaths. I’ll have someone there in two minutes. No,
one minute. Just one minute and help will be there. I won’t
disconnect from you. Stay on the line. I’m going to put you on hold
for just a sec—”
She wasn’t listening to any of this. “I forgot my daughter. I forgot
S-Sandy.”
“Yes, but then you remembered her. That’s the point. That’s…You
have to keep…”
Decker clutched his chest. His breathing was ragged, his
heartbeat gonging in his ears, flailing pistons of disruptive sound. He
felt a stitch in his side, as though he’d run a long distance when he
hadn’t taken a single step. He felt nauseous and unsteady and…
helpless.
He thought fast. Surely the aide would have called the police.
Surely, they were already on their way there.
“What about tomorrow?” she said, interrupting these thoughts.
“Will I remember her tomorrow? Or Earl? Or you? Or…me? So what
does it matter? Can you tell me that?”
“Mary, listen to me—”
“She was crying so hard, my little girl was. ‘Mommy doesn’t know
who I am.’ She said it over and over and over. She was so sad, so
unhappy. I did that to her. To my own little girl. How can you hurt
someone you love so much?” Her tone was now rigid, unforgiving,
and it froze the surging blood in Decker’s body.
“Listen to me, Mary, listen closely, okay? You’re going to get
through this, okay? I’ll help you get through it. But first you have to
put the gun down. Right now.” Decker put a hand against the wall to
steady himself. He imagined the gun in her hand. She might be
staring at it, considering things. The floor under his bare feet felt
fluid, rocky, a ship’s deck in pitchy seas. He searched his mind for
the right words that would draw her back from the edge she was on,
that would make her put down the little automatic that he knew she
had killed at least one man with during her professional career. If he
could just come up with the right words that would let this episode
end well when it could so very easily go the other way.
He was about to speak again, to convince her to wait for help. He
had his lines ready. He was about to deliver them. They would make
her put the gun down, he was sure of it.
Then he heard what he had prayed he would not hear.
A single shot, which he believed—because he knew Lancaster—
had been delivered with deliberate care and competent accuracy.
She would have chosen the temple, the chin, or the open mouth as
her entry point. Any one of those would get the job done.
And then came the oppressive thud of Mary Lancaster’s body
hitting the floor. He was certain she was dead. Lancaster had always
been a good planner, results oriented. Such people excelled at killing
themselves.
“Mary? Mary!” he shouted into the phone. When no response
came, his energy wilted. Why are you screaming? She’s gone. You
know she is.
He leaned back against the wall and let gravity transport his big
body down to the floor, similar to the one on which Lancaster’s
corpse was now lying.
He was alive. She was not. Right now it was a difference without
significant distinction for him. He sat there as his little room was lit
by the electric blue of a death that had touched him from nearly a
thousand miles distant.
Years ago Amos Decker had once come within a centimeter’s
width of a trigger pull of shooting himself in the mouth and ending
his life.
But right now, part of him was as dead as Mary Lancaster.
 Chapter 3
ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO dust. And other assorted bullshit,
thought Decker.
That was the way it always ended. That and a deep, unforgiving
hole closed up with dirt. A suited Decker, usually comfortable only in
jeans or wrinkled khakis and a loose sweatshirt, stared down at the
eternal berth-to-be in the ground. It would soon be filled with Mary
Lancaster’s boxed remains.
It was a chilly, drizzly day in Ohio. For this area it was very
normal weather in spring, the vestiges of winter clinging like a dewy
spider’s web to a frosted windowpane. The crowd here was large;
Earl and Mary Lancaster were well-known and well-liked, and Sandy
had made many friends at her school. Decker eyed numerous former
colleagues from the local police force, who all stared dourly at the
ground.
Alex Jamison had been on assignment and unable to come, but
had sent a card and her condolences. Ross Bogart had done the
same, along with flowers. They hadn’t known Lancaster that well,
but Decker still wished they could have been here with him. He
usually eschewed company, but not today.
The casket had been closed. The gunshot had been fired upward
through the mouth, leaving Mary Lancaster beyond the magic of the
mortician’s cosmetics, and thus unviewable.
Decker looked over at Earl Lancaster, ashen faced and lost and
old looking, as he clutched the hand of his teenage daughter, Sandy,
who was learning disabled. The girl’s eyes darted here and there,
processing the world in her unique way. She might not understand
death the way others did, Decker knew, and that might be a good
thing, at least right now. But, at some point soon, she would realize
her mother was gone. And she would wonder when her mother
would be back. And Decker did not relish being in Earl’s position to
have to explain what had really taken place when that gun had fired.
There would be no good way to do so, he thought. But it still had to
be done, because Sandy deserved an explanation.
Sandy suddenly caught sight of Decker, broke free from her
startled father’s grip, and ran over to him. She stared up at the giant
man, her face sparkling in a sea of gloom.
“You’re Amos Decker,” she declared brightly.
This was a game that they played; well, she did. And Decker
always answered as he was about to now, though it was not easy to
form the words this time.
“I know I am. And you’re Sandy Lancaster.”
She grinned and cracked, “I know I am.”
As soon as she finished speaking, Decker’s features crumpled.
I forgot who she was. For a time there was no Sandy Lancaster
in existence for me.
Mary Lancaster, at least in her mind, could not have committed a
graver sin than not remembering that her daughter existed. He was
certain that was what had placed the finger on the trigger and given
her the strength to pull it.
He felt a nudge on his hand and opened his eyes to see Sandy’s
small, slender fingers curling around his long, thick ones.
“Amos Decker?” she said again, watching him carefully, perhaps
too carefully. For some reason he knew what she was going to ask,
and it panicked him beyond all reason. “Where’s my mommy? There
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“shouldn’t we dominate the East? You mean to tell me you’d let a
bunch of Japs do it?” Cuthwright thumped the table. “And you said
the United States should boycott Italy if it invades Ethiopia. What in
hell is it our business if they go down and fight those niggers? And
where are we to sell our goods if you communists close up all the
foreign markets? I suppose you’d let England sell guns and stack
ours up in the Metropolitan Museum! Well, do you deny any of those
statements?”
“No.”
“All right, Jameson, we’ll have to ask for your resignation.”
Jameson was very pale now but his gaze was unwavering. “For
more than twenty years I’ve lived here and taught here.”
“I know, I know, Jameson. We’re sorry about it. But our duty—what
you don’t understand, Jameson, is that the welfare of the State is
greater than that of any individual. You didn’t use to be a
communist.”
“And I’m not one now.”
“Well, any man can hide behind a definition. Anyway....”
John Benton wondered afterwards why he did not speak up in
defense of his colleague. “I’m a coward,” he told his wife. He paced
the room, agitated. “I’m a coward!” he cried. “I can see it now!” And a
week later, when the local paper again called him a communist and
demanded in a long editorial that he resign from the board, he shook
all over. He felt the nameless dread of his youth. And when his fellow
trustees called him into conference behind a locked door, he
trembled with anxiety and turned to them a face as white as death.
They asked for his resignation. They asked if he had anything to say.
He looked at them and every one of them, it seemed to him, was a
man at ease, plump, secure, certain. He rose to his feet. “Yes,” he
said, his voice shaking, “I have something to say. It’s perhaps the
last thing I’ll ever say. Yes, I want to say that I fought in the last war. I
know a lot of men who fought in the last war. Where are they? Dead
—like Harlan and Roscoe and Ainsworth.” He licked his dry lips. He
placed hands on a table to steady his shaking frame. “But you didn’t
fight in that war. Did you?—did you?—or you? No, you’re
Goddamned right you didn’t! But I did. And I was not a coward,
either!” His voice was a little wild now. “I was decorated for bravery,
wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?” he demanded, with humorless tragic pride. “And
I came back and hated war and I spoke against war, and what did
you do to me? What did this town do to me? I’ll tell you: it made a
street bum out of me. You did! You’re liars if you say you didn’t. A
street bum—a drunkard—a fool, because I hated war and spoke
against war. And then,” he said, his face awful in its white anguish,
“then I favored war, I did, and—and you turned against me again. I
couldn’t please you,” he said, with dry choked bitterness. “Just like
Jameson couldn’t—nobody can, nobody! Nobody,” he said. “And
then—then I preached peace and you liked me and I had friends and
I liked to preach peace and I was happy. I had friends. Everyone was
my friend: you—and you. Everyone,” he said, proudly. “Everyone.
But now—now nobody speaks to me and they call me a communist,
and I’m not a communist, but nobody can please you. I can’t,
Jameson couldn’t, nobody could.” His voice fell almost to a whisper,
anguished and tragic and hopeless. “I fought in that war and I was
decorated for bravery and I’ve tried to make everyone like me. But
nobody can please men like you! You don’t want war and you don’t
want peace and—nobody!” he cried, wildly. His mind darkened and
there was something terrible in his eyes now. He advanced a little,
his body shaking. “I—you—” he said. The muscles in one cheek
twitched. “I fought in that war and I was decorated!” He leaned
forward, searching their faces with dark and unreasoning eyes,
searching for friendliness and goodwill. “Three nations decorated me
for bravery,” he said. He hesitated, groping, lost. Then he smiled and
his smile was more chilling than his words. “I—” He stopped, trying
to understand. “I’d fight again,” he said, softly, terribly. He laughed,
and the trustees rose and backed away from him. “I’d fight again,” he
said, softly, terribly, advancing toward them. “Honest!” he declared,
clenching his lean hands. The knuckles on his hands were as white
as his mouth. “I’d fight again,” he said.
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