The Sentinel
Page 32
Five minutes passed in silence, then Reacher heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone medium weight, he thought. Wearing sturdy shoes. Trying to be discreet, but also in a hurry. The sound came closer. It paused outside the door. The handle turned. The door began to swing. Slowly. Its leading edge moved about a foot, then stopped. The muzzle of a gun appeared in the gap. A whole barrel came into view. It belonged to a revolver. A Smith & Wesson Model 60. The first stainless steel revolver made anywhere in the world. Designed to avoid the danger of corrosion when carried close to the body. Not police issue. The hand holding it became visible. Followed by a wrist. Protruding from the cuff of a white shirt beneath a grey suit sleeve.
Reacher kicked the door. It slammed shut, crushing the wrist. The guy screamed. He dropped the gun, pulled his hand free, and jumped back. Reacher jerked the door all the way open. And saw Detective Goodyear cowering against the far wall, clutching his forearm. Reacher stepped into the corridor. Grabbed Goodyear by the lapels. Dragged him into the study. And flung him head first into the wall beneath the window. Then he leaned on the edge of the desk and waited for the guy to roll over and pull himself into a half-sitting position.
‘I guess you’ve answered one question,’ Reacher said. ‘The one I asked you at the courthouse when we first met. About why you were so desperate to sweep Rutherford’s attempted kidnapping under the rug.’
Goodyear didn’t respond.
‘That means there’s one question left,’ Reacher said. ‘Why were you helping Klostermann? Money? Blackmail? What?’
‘Principle,’ Goodyear spat back. ‘Mr Klostermann was working to save our country. Our race. I was proud to help him.’
‘Stand up.’
Goodyear didn’t move.
Reacher pushed away from the desk.
Goodyear hauled himself to his feet.
‘Take off your jacket,’ Reacher said.
Goodyear slipped his arms out of his sleeves and dropped the coat.
‘Open your shirt.’
Goodyear undid his buttons, one by one, starting at the top, working down to his waist.
‘All the way,’ Reacher said.
Goodyear slowly pulled the sides of the shirt apart. Reacher looked at his chest. At the left side. Where there was a tattoo. Of an eagle. With a swastika.
‘You might have heard that I met some of your so-called brothers the other night,’ Reacher said. ‘They all resigned from your little band. With orders to explain that anyone who didn’t would get their house burned down. With them inside.’
‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘Don’t do that. Please. I’ll resign.’
‘You will. But not just yet. Your buddies told me Klostermann was planning to recreate Hitler’s Cathedral of Light. They were too stupid to understand what that was. I’m hoping you have a better grasp of history.’
‘You’re damn right I do. I helped Mr Klostermann with every stage of the planning.’
‘So you know about bringing people in from all the other states.’
‘Damn right.’
‘So you have contacts. With similar sad-ass groups in other places.’
‘You can stop right there. I’ll go to jail before I betray my brothers.’
‘Refuse, and jail will be the least of your worries. But let me ask you one thing about your cause. You shared it with Klostermann?’
‘Correct.’
‘Henry Klostermann was your brother?’
Goodyear nodded.
‘He wasn’t your brother,’ Reacher said. ‘He was a Russian agent. He was playing you for a fool. Using you every step of the way. I bet he laughed himself to sleep every night, thinking about how dumb you are.’
‘Nice try, Reacher. But I’ll never believe that.’
‘That picture.’ Reacher pointed at the wall above the filing cabinets. ‘Was it always up when you came here?’
Goodyear stood and threw out a sharp salute. He winced as he tried to straighten his hand. ‘Always.’
‘Take it down. See what’s on the other side.’
Goodyear stayed where he was. ‘Touching it would be sacrilege.’
‘I’ll do it then.’ Reacher stepped forward, but Goodyear darted in front of him.
‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘If anyone’s going to, it should be me.’
Goodyear paused in front of the picture as if saying a prayer. Then he stretched out and took hold of it. He used both hands. One on each side of the frame. Lifted it down. Paused again. And turned it over.
‘You know who that is, right?’ Reacher said. ‘Klostermann’s true idol. Henry Klostermann dedicated his entire life to destroying everything you believe in. And he tricked you into helping him. The journalist who was murdered? Toni Garza? Klostermann killed her. Because she was going to expose him. Only you buried the investigation. Because he told you to. You helped him get away with it.’
Goodyear shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,’ Reacher said. ‘The FBI will explain it to you. I wasn’t lying when I told you the agents are on their way. You can stay and help them round up the other groups. Which would be doing your brothers a favour, honestly. It would stop anyone with a double-digit IQ being able to exploit them. Or if you don’t like that idea we can go to your house.’ Reacher pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. ‘We can pick up some gas on the way.’
Goodyear sank back down on to the floor. ‘No. I’ll stay.’
‘Take out your cuffs,’ Reacher said.
Goodyear pulled them from a leather pouch on his belt.
‘Secure yourself to a filing cabinet. To the drawer handle.’
Goodyear did what he was told.
‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Two last things before I go.’ First he took the painting and smashed it over Goodyear’s head, leaving the frame hanging like a necklace. Then Reacher punched Goodyear in the face. Normally he would have used his left hand. Maybe dialled back the power a little too. But making an exception seemed the right thing to do.
Reacher left Klostermann’s burner phone on his desk. There were four numbers in its call log. Goodyear’s, which was accounted for. Marty’s, which was a dead end. Literally. But that still left two for the FBI to track down. Two more crooked cops, maybe. Or two more suitcase carriers. Whatever they turned out to be, they needed to be stopped.
He checked that Goodyear was breathing. Then made his way out of the house and across to the red Chevy. He figured he would drive to the truck stop. Leave the car in a parking lot. Walk over to the gas station. To the truck side. And go wherever the first driver willing to take him was heading.
He pulled up to the gate. Waited for it to slide to the side. Drove through. And stopped dead. A car had pulled in front of him. From out of nowhere, it seemed. Certainly not the road ahead. It must have been up on the grass verge, parallel to the wall.
Reacher waited for the car to move. It was small. A late model Honda Civic. A woman was driving. She was wearing plain clothes. Which was why it took Reacher a moment to recognize her. It was Officer Rule.
Rule recognized Reacher at the same moment. She climbed out of the Honda and walked around to Reacher’s door. He rolled down his window.
‘Reacher?’ Rule said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Leaving,’ Reacher said. ‘In fact, I was never here. You?’
Rule was silent for a moment, as if she was trying to decide whether to answer. ‘I followed someone here.’
‘Detective Goodyear?’
Rule nodded.
‘Why?’ Reacher said.
‘I figured something weird was going on. Something wrong.’
‘There was. How did you know?’
Rule shrugged. ‘Call it a cop’s instinct. I saw Goodyear take a call on a cell phone, then hurry into his office. Only it wasn’t his regular phone. We’ve all had to use our own while the department phones have been down, and I know he has an iPhone. The latest kind. But several times now
he’s used this other one. It’s old. And he’s often seemed kind of furtive. I’ve always ignored it before. Then I thought, this is it. I have to know what his deal is.’
‘This was at the courthouse, where he took the call?’
‘Right.’
‘So why aren’t you in uniform? And how come you’re using your personal vehicle?’
‘I was at the courthouse to hand in my notice. I quit. I’m sick of the place. I mean, think about it. You’re a stranger. Drifting through town. And you cared more about stopping crime here than our detective. You’ve already helped me more than anyone in the department ever did. I’ve had enough. It’s time for a fresh start somewhere else.’
‘Your letter. Will anyone have read it yet?’
‘I doubt it. Why?’
‘You might want to get it back.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘The town has a vacancy for a new detective.’
‘We only have one detective position. And it’s taken.’
‘Not any more. Goodyear just resigned.’
‘Are you serious? Why?’
‘Call it a personal crisis. So he’ll have to be replaced. They could bring someone in from the outside, I guess. But someone local would be better. Someone who cares about the town. Who has a string of recent arrests to her name. You know anyone like that?’
Rule thought for a moment. ‘Time for me to get back to the courthouse. Make that letter disappear.’ She got halfway around the hood of her car then turned back to Reacher. ‘What about you? Where are you going?’
‘I have no particular place in mind.’
‘How about my place? You know where it is. It’s Friday evening. We could get some carry out. I have some beer. Some wine.’
‘What about your neighbours? They would be bound to see me.’
‘Screw them. What are they going to do? Mess with the town’s soon-to-be only detective?’
THIRTY
Rusty Rutherford emerged from his apartment on Monday morning, exactly two weeks after he got fired.
He wasn’t normally the type of guy who dawdled in his local coffee shop. He went to the same one every day. Purely for the caffeine. He didn’t go in search of conversation. He wasn’t interested in finding new company. He stood quietly in line. Placed his order. Collected his drink as soon as it was ready. And left. Even after the week he spent with Jack Reacher it proved a difficult habit to break.
The adjustment process wasn’t made any easier by the response he received from the other patrons. Everyone was pleased to see him. He felt like a magnet with the right polarity. The surrounding customers crowded in closer than usual. By the time he reached the counter he had exchanged kind words with a dozen other people. And he had seen how the barista dealt with the two men in front of him when they stepped up to order. She had slammed their cups on the counter. Slopped coffee into the saucers then slid them forward, spilling even more. But she smiled at Rusty when it was his turn, and asked if he wanted his regular.
‘House blend, medium, no room for milk, right?’ she said.
‘Right,’ Rusty said. ‘To go.’
‘It’s on the house,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow?’
The same time Rusty Rutherford was leaving the coffee shop, Jack Reacher was standing at the side of the street. He was half a block from the town’s only set of traffic lights, which were working perfectly. He watched Rutherford set off, heading east. Not hurrying. Not dawdling. Just drifting along in his own little bubble. Following a familiar route. Comfortable with his surroundings. Heading home. Where he belonged.
A car drew up alongside Reacher and stopped. It was new and shiny and bland. A rental. Driven by the insurance guy Reacher had met the week before. He was still wearing his plain, dark-coloured suit. But he no longer seemed panic-stricken. More like he was on top of the world.
‘Need a ride?’ the guy said.
‘Where are you going?’ Reacher said.
‘Nashville. Meeting at the office. Giving a presentation about how I negotiated the ransom down forty per cent, and still got the town’s systems back up and running. All apart from some archive thing, but whatever. History. Who cares?’
Reacher thought for a moment. He had just left Nashville, and he had a rule. Never go back. It rarely ends well. But he had been making a few exceptions recently. They had all worked out OK. And if he made another one now he could go to a club.
Catch a band.
Make sure they got paid.
About The Authors
Lee Child is one of the world’s leading thriller writers. He was born in Coventry, raised in Birmingham, and now lives in New York. It is said one of his novels featuring his hero Jack Reacher is sold somewhere in the world every nine seconds. His books consistently achieve the number-one slot on bestseller lists around the world and have sold over one hundred million copies. Lee is the recipient of many awards, most recently Author of the Year at the 2019 British Book Awards. He was appointed CBE in the 2019 Queen’s Birthday Honours.
Andrew Child is the author of nine thrillers written under the name Andrew Grant. He is the younger brother of Lee Child. Born in Birmingham, he lives in Wyoming with his wife, the novelist Tasha Alexander.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE SENTINEL
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2020 by Lee Child.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-473-57903-3
Visit our website at
www.penguin.com
JOVE®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
; -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share