by Child, Lee
‘What name shall I give?’
‘Reacher.’
‘What’s the nature of your business?’
‘Personal.’
‘Wait one, sir.’ The guy picked up a phone and called ahead. A Mr Reacher to see Major Turner. The call went on much longer than Reacher expected. At one point the guy covered the mouthpiece with his palm and asked, ‘Are you the same Reacher that was CO here once? Major Jack Reacher?’
‘Yes,’ Reacher said.
‘And you spoke to Major Turner from somewhere in South Dakota?’
‘Yes,’ Reacher said.
The guy repeated the two affirmative answers into the phone, and listened some more. Then he hung up and said, ‘Sir, please go ahead.’ He started to give directions, and then he stopped, and said, ‘I guess you know the way.’
‘I guess I do,’ Reacher said. He walked on, and ten paces later he heard a grinding noise, and he stopped and glanced back.
The gates were closing behind him.
The building ahead of him was classic 1950s DoD architecture. Long and low, two storeys, brick, stone, slate, green metal window frames, green tubular handrails at the steps up to the doors. The 1950s had been a golden age for the DoD. Budgets had been immense. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, the military had gotten whatever it wanted. And more. There were cars parked in the lot. Some were army sedans, plain and dark and well used. Some were POVs, personally owned vehicles, brighter in colour but generally older. There was a lone Humvee, dark green and black, huge and menacing next to a small red two-seater. Reacher wondered if the two-seater was Susan Turner’s. He figured it could be. On the phone she had sounded like a woman who might drive such a thing.
He went up the short flight of stone steps to the door. Same steps, same door, but repainted since his time. More than once, probably. The army had a lot of paint, and was always happy to use it. Inside the door the place looked more or less the same as it always had. There was a lobby, with a stone staircase to the second floor on the right, and a reception desk on the left. Then the lobby narrowed to a corridor that ran the length of the building, with offices left and right. The office doors were half glazed with reeded glass. The lights were on in the corridor. It was winter, and the building had always been dark.
There was a woman at the reception desk, in the same ACU pyjamas as the guy at the gate, but with a sergeant’s stripes on the tab in the centre of her chest. Like an aiming point, Reacher thought. Up, up, up, fire. He much preferred the old woodland-pattern battledress uniform. The woman was black, and didn’t look happy to see him. She was agitated about something.
He said, ‘Jack Reacher for Major Turner.’
The woman stopped and started a couple of times, as if she had plenty she wanted to say, but in the end all she managed was, ‘You better head on up to her office. You know where it is?’
Reacher nodded. He knew where it was. It had been his office once. He said, ‘Thank you, sergeant.’
He went up the stairs. Same worn stone, same metal handrail. He had been up those stairs a thousand times. They folded around once and came out directly above the centre of the lobby at the end of the long second-floor corridor. The lights were on in the corridor. The same linoleum was on the floor. The office doors to the left and right had the same reeded glass as the first-floor doors.
His office was third on the left.
No, Susan Turner’s was.
He made sure his shirt was tucked and he brushed his hair with his fingers. He had no idea what he was going to say. He had liked her voice on the phone. That was all. He had sensed an interesting person behind it. He wanted to meet that person. Simple as that. He took two steps and stopped. She was going to think he was crazy.
But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He shrugged to himself and moved on again. Third on the left. The door was the same as it always had been, but painted. Solid below, glass above, the reeded pattern splitting the dull view through into distorted vertical slices. There was a corporate-style name plate on the wall near the handle: Maj. S. R. Turner, Commanding Officer. That was new. In Reacher’s day his name had been stencilled on the wood, below the glass, with even more economy: Maj. Reacher, CO.
He knocked.
He heard a vague vocal sound inside. It might have been Enter. So he took a breath and opened the door and stepped inside.
He had been expecting changes. But there weren’t many. The linoleum on the floor was the same, polished to a subtle sheen and a murky colour. The desk was the same, steel like a battleship, painted but worn back to shiny metal here and there, still dented where he had slammed some guy’s head into it, back at the end of his command. The chairs were the same, both behind the desk and in front of it, utilitarian mid-century items that might have sold for a lot of money in some hipster store in New York or San Francisco. The file cabinets were the same. The light fixture was the same, a contoured white glass bowl hung off three little chains.
The differences were mostly predictable and driven by the march of time. There were three console telephones on the desk, where before there had been one old rotary-dial, heavy and black. There were two computers, one a desktop and one a laptop, where before there had been an in-tray and an outtray and a lot of paper. The map on the wall was new and up to date, and the light fixture was burning green and sickly, with a modern bulb, all fluorescent and energy-saving. Progress, even at the Department of the Army.
Only two things in the office were unexpected and unpredictable.
First, the person behind the desk was not a major, but a lieutenant colonel.
And second, he wasn’t a woman, but a man.
THREE
THE MAN BEHIND the desk was wearing the same ACU pyjamas as everyone else, but they looked worse on him than most. Like fancy dress. Like a Halloween party. Not because he was particularly out of shape, but because he looked serious and managerial and desk-bound. As if his weapon of choice would be a propelling pencil, not an M16. He was wearing steel eyeglasses and had steel-grey hair cut and combed like a schoolboy’s. His tapes and his tags confirmed he was indeed a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army, and that his name was Morgan.
Reacher said, ‘I’m sorry, colonel. I was looking for Major Turner.’
The guy named Morgan said, ‘Sit down, Mr Reacher.’
Command presence was a rare and valuable thing, much prized by the military. And the guy named Morgan had plenty of it. Like his hair and his glasses, his voice was steel. No bullshit, no bluster, no bullying. Just a brisk assumption that all reasonable men would do exactly what he told them, because there would be no real practical alternative.
Reacher sat down, in the visitor chair nearer the window. It had springy bent-tube legs, and it gave and bounced a little under his weight. He remembered the feeling. He had sat in it before, for one reason or another.
Morgan said, ‘Please tell me exactly why you’re here.’
And at that point Reacher thought he was about to get a death message. Susan Turner was dead. Afghanistan, possibly. Or a car wreck.
He said, ‘Where is Major Turner?’
Morgan said, ‘Not here.’
‘Where then?’
‘We might get to that. But first I need to understand your interest.’
‘In what?’
‘In Major Turner.’
‘I have no interest in Major Turner.’
‘Yet you asked for her by name at the gate.’
‘It’s a personal matter.’
‘As in?’
Reacher said, ‘I talked to her on the phone. She sounded interesting. I thought I might drop by and ask her out to dinner. The field manual doesn’t prohibit her from saying yes.’
‘Or no, as the case may be.’
‘Indeed.’
Morgan asked, ‘What did you talk about on the phone?’
‘This and that.’
‘What exactly?’
‘It was a private conversation, colonel. And I don’t know w
ho you are.’
‘I’m commander of the 110th Special Unit.’
‘Not Major Turner?’
‘Not any more.’
‘I thought this was a major’s job. Not a light colonel’s.’
‘This is a temporary command. I’m a troubleshooter. I get sent in to clean up the mess.’
‘And there’s a mess here? Is that what you’re saying?’
Morgan ignored the question. He asked, ‘Did you specifically arrange to meet with Major Turner?’
‘Not specifically,’ Reacher said.
‘Did she request your presence here?’
‘Not specifically,’ Reacher said again.
‘Yes or no?’
‘Neither. I think it was just a vague intention on both our parts. If I happened to be in the area. That kind of a thing.’
‘And yet here you are, in the area. Why?’
‘Why not? I have to be somewhere.’
‘Are you saying you came all the way from South Dakota on the basis of a vague intention?’
Reacher said, ‘I liked her voice. You got a problem with that?’
‘You’re unemployed, is that correct?’
‘Currently.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I left the army.’
‘That’s disgraceful.’
Reacher asked, ‘Where is Major Turner?’
Morgan said, ‘This interview is not about Major Turner.’
‘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 neighbourhood.’
‘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 pyjamas.’
‘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.’
FOUR
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 for ever.’
‘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 0800 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 honour. 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, he 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.
