The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “This interview is about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Completely unrelated to Major Turner. But she pulled your file. Perhaps she was curious about you. There was a flag on your file. It should have triggered when she pulled it. Which would have saved us some time. Unfortunately the flag malfunctioned and didn’t trigger until she returned it. But better late than never. Because here you are.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you know a man named Juan Rodriguez?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “At one time he was of interest to the 110th. Now he’s dead. Do you know a woman named Candice Dayton?”

  “No. Is she dead too?”

  “Ms. Dayton is still alive, happily. Or not happily, as it turns out. You sure you don’t remember her?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “You’re in trouble, Reacher.”

  “For what?”

  “The Secretary of the Army has been given medical evidence showing Mr. Rodriguez died as a direct result of a beating he suffered sixteen years ago. Given there’s no statute of limitations in such cases, he was technically a homicide victim.”

  “You saying one of my people did that? Sixteen years ago?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “That’s good. So what’s making Ms. Dayton unhappy?”

  “That’s not my topic. Someone else will talk to you about that.”

  “They’ll have to be quick. I won’t be sticking around for long. Not if Major Turner isn’t here. I don’t remember any other real attractions in the neighborhood.”

  “You will be sticking around,” Morgan said. “You and I are due a long and interesting conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “The evidence shows it was you who beat on Mr. Rodriguez sixteen years ago.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You’ll be provided with a lawyer. If it’s bullshit, I’m sure he’ll say so.”

  “I mean, bullshit, you and I are not going to have any kind of a long conversation. Or a lawyer. I’m a civilian, and you’re an asshole wearing pajamas.”

  “So you’re not offering voluntary cooperation?”

  “You got that right.”

  “In which case, are you familiar with Title 10 of the United States Code?”

  Reacher said, “Parts of it, obviously.”

  “Then you may know that one particular part of it tells us when a man of your rank leaves the army, he doesn’t become a civilian. Not immediately, and not entirely. He becomes a reservist. He has no duties, but he remains subject to recall.”

  “But for how many years?” Reacher said.

  “You had a security clearance.”

  “I remember it well.”

  “Do you remember the papers you had to sign to get it?”

  “Vaguely,” Reacher said. He remembered a bunch of guys in a room, all grown up and serious. Lawyers, and notaries, and seals and stamps and pens.

  Morgan said, “There was a lot of fine print. Naturally. If you’re going to know the government’s secrets, the government is going to want some control over you. Before, during, and after.”

  “How long after?”

  “Most of that stuff stays secret for sixty years.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Don’t worry,” Morgan said. “The fine print didn’t say you stay a reservist for sixty years.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It said worse than that. It said indefinitely. But as it happens the Supreme Court already screwed us on that. It mandated we respect the standard three bottom-line restrictions common to all cases in Title 10.”

  “Which are?”

  “To be successfully recalled, you have to be in good health, under the age of fifty-five years, and trainable.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  Morgan asked, “How’s your health?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m a long way from fifty-five.”

  “Are you trainable?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Me too. But that’s an empirical determination we make on the job.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Completely,” Morgan said. “Jack Reacher, as of this moment on this day, you are formally recalled to military service.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  “You’re back in the army, major,” Morgan said. “And your ass is mine.”

  Chapter 4

  There was no big ceremony. No processing-in, or reprocessing. Just Morgan’s words, and then the room darkened a little as a guy in the corridor took up station in front of the door and blocked the light coming through the reeded glass panel. Reacher saw him, all sliced up vertically, a tall, broad-shouldered sentry, standing easy, facing away.

  Morgan said, “I’m required to tell you there’s an appeals procedure. You’ll be given full access to it. You’ll be given a lawyer.”

  Reacher said, “I’ll be given?”

  “It’s a matter of simple logic. You’ll be trying to appeal your way out. Which implies you’re starting out in. Which means you’ll get what the army chooses to give you. But I imagine we’ll be reasonable.”

  “I don’t remember any Juan Rodriguez.”

  “You’ll be given a lawyer for that, too.”

  “What’s supposed to have happened to the guy?”

  “You tell me,” Morgan said.

  “I can’t. I don’t remember him.”

  “You left him with a brain injury. It caught up with him eventually.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Denial won’t work forever.”

  “I’m not denying anything. I’m telling you I don’t remember the guy.”

  “That’s a discussion you can have with your lawyer.”

  “And who is Candice Dayton?”

  “Likewise. But a different lawyer.”

  “Why different?”

  “Different type of case.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” Morgan said. “Not yet. The prosecutors will make that decision in their own good time. But until then you’re under orders, as of two minutes ago. You’ll retain your former rank, for the time being. Administratively you’re assigned to this unit, and your orders are to treat this building as your duty station and appear here every morning before 08:00 hours. You are not to leave the area. The area is defined as a five-mile radius of this desk. You’ll be quartered in a place of the army’s choosing.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  Morgan said, “Are there any questions, major?”

  “Will I be required to wear a uniform?”

  “Not at this stage.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “This is not a joke, Reacher. The potential downside here is considerable. For you personally, I mean. The worst case would be life in Leavenworth, for a homicide conviction. But more likely ten years for manslaughter, given the sixteen year gap. And the best case is not very attractive either, given that we would have to look at the original crime. I would plan on conduct unbecoming, at the minimum, with a new discharge, this time without honor. But your lawyer will run it down for you.”

  “When?”

  “The relevant department has already been notified.”

  There were no cells in the old building. No secure facilities. There never had been. Just offices. Reacher was left where he was, in the visitor chair, not looked at, not spoken to, completely ignored. The sentry stood easy on the other side of the door. Morgan started tapping and typing and scrolling on the laptop computer. Reacher searched his memory for Juan Rodriguez. Sixteen years ago he had been twelve months into his command of the 110th. Early days. The name Rodriguez sounded Hispanic. Reacher had known many Hispanic people, both inside the service and out. He remembered hitting people on occasion, inside the service and out, some of them Hispanic
, but none of them named Rodriguez. And if Rodriguez had been of interest to the 110th, Reacher would have remembered the name, surely. Especially from so early, when every case was significant. The 110th had been an experimental venture. Every move was watched. Every result was evaluated. Every misstep had an autopsy.

  He asked, “What was the alleged context?”

  No answer from Morgan. The guy just kept on tapping and typing and scrolling. So Reacher searched his memory for a woman named Candice Dayton. Again, he had known many women, both inside the service and out. Candice was a fairly common name. As was Dayton, comparatively. But the two names together meant nothing special to him. Neither did the diminutive, Candy. Candy Dayton? Candice Dayton? Nothing. Not that he remembered everything. No one remembered everything.

  He asked, “Was Candice Dayton connected to Juan Rodriguez in some way?”

  Morgan looked up, as if surprised to see he had a visitor sitting in his office. As if he had forgotten. He didn’t answer the question. He just picked up one of his complicated telephones and ordered a car. He told Reacher to go wait with the sergeant downstairs.

  Two miles away, the man who only three people in the world knew as Romeo took out his cell, and dialed the man only two people in the world knew as Juliet, and said, “He’s been recalled to service. Colonel Morgan just put it in the computer.”

  Juliet said, “So what happens next?”

  “Too early to tell.”

  “Will he run?”

  “A sane man would.”

  “Where are they putting him?”

  “Their usual motel, I expect.”

  The sergeant at the desk downstairs didn’t say anything. She was as tongue-tied as before. Reacher leaned on the wall and passed the time in silence. Ten minutes later a private first class came in from the cold and saluted and asked Reacher to follow him. Formal, and polite. Innocent until proven guilty, Reacher guessed, at least in some people’s eyes. Out in the lot there was a worn army sedan with its motor running. A young lieutenant was stumping around next to it, awkward and embarrassed. He held open the rear door and Reacher got in the back. The lieutenant took the front passenger seat and the private drove. A mile later they arrived at a motel, a run-down sway-backed old heap in a dark lot on a suburban evening–quiet three-lane road. The lieutenant signed a paper, and the night clerk gave Reacher a key, and the private drove the lieutenant away.

  And then the second car arrived, with the guys in the T-shirts and the athletic pants.

  Chapter 5

  There were no pockets in the athletic pants, and none in the T-shirts, either. And neither man was wearing dog tags. No ID at all. Their car was clean, too. Nothing in it, except the usual army document package stowed neatly in the glove compartment. No weapons, no personal property, no hidden wallets, no scraps of paper, no gas receipts. The license plate was a standard government registration. Nothing abnormal about the car at all, except the two new dents in the doors.

  The left-hand guy was blocking the driver’s door. Reacher dragged him six feet along the blacktop. He offered no resistance. Life was not a television show. Hit a guy hard enough in the side of the head, and he didn’t spring back up ready to carry on the fight. He stayed down for an hour or more, all sick and dizzy and disoriented. A lesson learned long ago: the human brain was much more sensitive to side-to-side displacement than front-to-back. An evolutionary quirk, presumably, like most things.

  Reacher opened the driver’s door and climbed inside the car. The motor was stopped, but the key was still in. Reacher racked the seat back and started the engine. He sat still for a long spell and stared ahead through the windshield. They couldn’t find you before. They won’t find you now. The army doesn’t use skip tracers. And no skip tracer could find you anyway. Not the way you seem to live.

  He adjusted the mirror. He put his foot on the brake and fumbled the lever into gear. Conduct unbecoming, at the minimum, with a new discharge, this time without honor.

  He took his foot off the brake and drove away.

  He drove straight back to the old HQ building, and parked fifty yards from it on the three-lane road. The car was warm, and he kept the motor running to keep it warm. He watched through the windshield and saw no activity ahead. No coming or going. In his day the 110th had worked around the clock, seven days a week, and he saw no reason why anything would have changed. The enlisted night watch would be in for the duration, and a night duty officer would be in place, and the other officers would go off duty as soon as their work was done, whenever that might be. Normally. But not on that particular night. Not during a mess or a crisis, and definitely not with a troubleshooter in the house. No one would leave before Morgan. Basic army politics.

  Morgan left an hour later. Reacher saw him quite clearly. A plain sedan came out through the gate and turned onto the three-lane and drove straight past where Reacher was parked. In the darkness Reacher saw a flash of Morgan at the wheel, in his ACU pajamas and his eyeglasses, his hair still neatly combed, looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel, like someone’s great aunt on the way to the store. Reacher watched in the mirror and saw his tail lights disappear over the hill.

  He waited.

  And sure enough, within the next quarter hour there was a regular exodus. Five more cars came out, two of them turning left, three of them turning right, four of them driven solo, one of them with three people aboard. All the cars were dewed over with night mist, and all of them were trailing cold white exhaust. They disappeared into the distance, left and right, and their exhaust drifted away, and the world went quiet again.

  Reacher waited ten more minutes, just in case. But nothing more happened. Fifty yards away the old building looked settled and silent. The night watch, in a world of its own. Reacher put his car in gear and rolled slowly down the hill and turned in at the gate. A new sentry was on duty in the hutch. A young guy, blank and stoic. Reacher stopped and buzzed his window down and the kid said, “Sir?”

  Reacher gave his name and said, “I’m reporting to my duty station as ordered.”

  “Sir?” the guy said again.

  “Am I on your list?”

  The guy checked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Major Reacher. But for tomorrow morning.”

  “I was ordered to report before 08:00 hours.”

  “Yes, sir. I see that. But it’s 23:00 hours now, sir. In the evening.”

  “Which is before 08:00 in the morning. As ordered.”

  The guy didn’t speak.

  Reacher said, “It’s a simple matter of chronology. I’m keen to get to work, therefore a little early.”

  No answer.

  “You could check with Colonel Morgan, if you like. I’m sure he’s back at his billet by now.”

  No answer.

  “Or you could check with your duty sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” the kid said. “I’ll do that instead.”

  He made the call, and listened for a second, and put the phone down and said, “Sir, the sergeant requests that you stop by the desk.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, soldier,” Reacher said. He drove on, and parked next to the little red two-seater, which was still there, exactly where it had been before. He got out and locked up and walked through the cold to the door. The lobby felt quiet and still. A night and day difference, literally. But the same sergeant was at the reception desk. Finishing her work, before going off duty. She was on a high stool, typing on a keyboard. Updating the day’s log, presumably. Record keeping was a big deal, all over the military. She stopped and looked up.

  Reacher asked her, “Are you putting this visit in the official record?”

  She said, “What visit? And I told the private at the gate not to, either.”

  Not tongue tied anymore. Not with the interloper Morgan out of the house. She looked young, but infinitely capable, like sergeants the world over. The tape over her right breast said her name was Leach.

  She said, “I know who you are.” />
  Reacher said, “Have we met?”

  “No, sir, but you’re a famous name here. You were this unit’s first commander.”

  “Do you know why I’m back?”

  “Yes, sir. We were told.”

  “What was the general reaction?”

  “Mixed.”

  “What’s your personal reaction?”

  “I’m sure there’s a good explanation. And sixteen years is a long time. Which makes it political, probably. Which is usually bullshit. And even if it isn’t, I’m sure the guy deserved it. Or worse.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  Leach said, “I thought about warning you, when you first came in. Best thing for you would have been just to run for it. So I really wanted to turn you around and get you out of here. But I was under orders not to. I’m sorry.”

  Reacher asked her, “Where is Major Turner?”

  Leach said, “Long story.”

  “How does it go?”

  “She deployed to Afghanistan.”

  “When?”

  “The middle of the day, yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “We have people there. There was an issue.”

  “What kind of an issue?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And?”

  “She never arrived.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “No question.”

  “So where is she instead?”

  “No one knows.”

  “When did Colonel Morgan get here?”

  “Within hours of Major Turner leaving.”

  “How many hours?”

  “About two.”

  “Did he give a reason for being here?”

  “The implication was Major Turner had been relieved of her command.”

  “Nothing specific?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Was she screwing up?”

  Leach didn’t answer.

  Reacher said, “You may speak freely, sergeant.”

  “No, sir, she wasn’t screwing up. She was doing a really good job.”

  “So that’s all you’ve got? Implications and disappearances?”

  “So far.”

  “No gossip?” Reacher asked. Sergeants were always part of a network. Always had been, always would be. Like rumor mills. Like uniformed versions of tabloid newspapers.