by Lee Child
“I’m good,” Reacher said. “Are you OK? He’s as likely to hit you as me. Wherever you are.”
“We’re good.”
“Where’s Jacob?”
“Still heading south and west. He’s slowing down.”
“Stay on him,” Reacher said. He put the phone back on the seat. He kept his Glock in his pocket. The problem with being a right-handed man in a left-hand-drive truck was that he would have to bust out the windshield to fire, which used to be easy enough back in the days of pebbly safety glass, but modern automotive windshields were tough, because they were laminated with strong plastic layers, and anyway his heavy wrench was in the burned-out Tahoe, probably all melted back to ore.
Seth rested, bending forward from the waist, his head coming down almost to his shins, and he forced air into his lungs, and he panted once, then twice, and he straightened up and held his breath and aimed the gun again, this time with much more concentration and much better control. Now the muzzle was moving through a circle the size of a baseball. Reacher turned the wheel and stamped on the gas and took off to his right, in a fast tight circle, and then he feinted to come back on his original line but wrenched the wheel the other way and rocked the truck through a figure eight. Seth fired once into empty space and then aimed again and fired again. A round smacked into the top of the Yukon’s windshield surround, on the passenger side, six feet from Reacher’s head.
One round left, Reacher thought.
But there were no rounds left. Reacher saw Seth thrashing at the trigger and he saw the gun’s wheel turning and turning to no effect at all. Either the gun was a six-shooter that hadn’t been fully loaded, or it was a five-shooter. Maybe a Smith 60, Reacher thought. Eventually Seth gave up on it and looked around desperately and then just hurled the empty gun at the Yukon. Finally, a decent aim. The guy would have been better off throwing rocks. The gun hit the windshield dead in front of Reacher’s face. Reacher flinched and ducked involuntarily. The gun bounced off the glass and fell away. Then Seth turned and ran again, and the rest of it was easy.
Reacher stamped on the gas and accelerated and lined up carefully and hit Seth from behind doing close to forty miles an hour. A car might have scooped him up and tossed him in the air and sent him cartwheeling backward over the hood and the roof, but the Yukon wasn’t a car. It was a big truck with a high blunt nose. It was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. It caught Seth flat on his back, everywhere from his knees to his shoulders, like a two-ton bludgeon, and Reacher felt the impact and Seth’s head whipped away out of view, instantaneously, like it had been sucked down by amazing gravity, and the truck bucked once, like there was something passing under the rear left wheel, and then the going got as smooth as the dirt would let it.
Reacher slowed and steered a wide circle and came back to check if any further attention was required. But it wasn’t. No question about it. Reacher had seen plenty of dead people, and Seth Duncan was more dead than most of them.
Reacher took the phone off the passenger seat and said, “Seth is down,” and then he lined up again and drove away fast, south and west across the field.
Chapter 61
Jacob Duncan had gotten about two hundred yards from his house. That was all. Reacher saw him up ahead, all alone in the vastness, with nothing but open space all around. He saw Dorothy Coe’s truck a hundred yards farther on, well beyond the running man to the north and the west. It was holding a wide slow curve, like a vigilant sheepdog, like a destroyer guaranteeing a shipping lane.
On the phone Dorothy said, “I’m worried about the gun.”
Reacher said, “Seth was a lousy shot.”
“Doesn’t mean Jacob is.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Pull over and wait for me. We’ll do this together.”
He clicked off the call and changed course and crossed Jacob’s path a hundred yards back and headed straight for Dorothy Coe. When he arrived she got out of her truck and headed for his passenger door. He dropped the window with the switch on his side and said, “No, you drive. I’ll ride shotgun.”
He got out and stepped around and they met where the front of the Yukon’s hood was dented. No words were exchanged. Dorothy’s face was set with determination. She was halfway between calm and nervous. She got in the driver’s seat and motored it forward and checked the mirror, like it was a normal morning and she was heading out to the store for milk. Reacher climbed in beside her and freed the Glock from his pocket.
She said, “Tell me about the photographs. In their silver frames.”
“I don’t want to,” Reacher said.
“No, I mean, I need to know there’s no doubt they implicate the Duncans. Jacob in particular. Like evidence. I need you to tell me. Before we do this.”
“There’s no doubt,” Reacher said. “No doubt at all.”
Dorothy Coe nodded and said nothing. She fiddled the selector into gear and the truck took off, rolling slow, jiggling and pattering across the ground. She said, “We were talking about what comes next.”
Reacher said, “Call a trucker from the next county. Or do business with Eleanor.”
“No, about the barn. The doctor thinks we should burn it down. But I’m not sure I want to do that.”
“Your call, I think.”
“What would you do?”
“Not my decision.”
“Tell me.”
Reacher said, “I would nail the judas hole shut, and I would leave it alone and never go there again. I would let the flowers grow right over it.”
There was no more conversation. They got within fifty yards of Jacob Duncan and switched to operational shorthand. Jacob was still running, but not fast. He was just about spent. He was stumbling and staggering, a short wide man limited by bad lungs and stiff legs and the aches and pains that come with age. He had a revolver in his hand, the same dull stainless and the same stubby barrel as Seth’s. Probably another Smith 60, and likely to be just as ineffective if used by a weak man all wheezing and gasping and trembling from exertion.
Dorothy Coe asked, “How do I do this?”
Reacher said, “Pass him on the left. Let’s see if he stands and fights.”
He didn’t. Reacher buzzed his window down and hung the Glock out in the breeze and Dorothy swooped fast and close to Jacob’s left and he didn’t turn and fire. He just flinched away and stumbled onward, a degree or two right of where he had been heading before.
Reacher said, “Now come around in a big wide circle and aim right for him from behind.”
“OK,” Dorothy said. “For Margaret.”
She continued the long leftward curve, winding it tighter and tighter until she came back to her original line. She coasted for a second and straightened up and then she hit the gas and the truck leapt forward, ten yards, twenty, thirty, and Jacob Duncan glanced back in horror and darted left, and Dorothy Coe flinched right, involuntarily, a civilian with forty years of safe driving behind her, and she hit Jacob a heavy glancing blow with the left headlight, hard in his back and his right shoulder, sending the gun flying, sending him tumbling, spinning him around, hurling him to the ground.
“Get back quick,” Reacher said.
But Jacob Duncan wasn’t getting up. He was on his back, one leg pounding away like a dog dreaming, one arm scrabbling uselessly in the dirt, his head jerking, his eyes open and staring, up and down, left and right. His gun was ten feet away.
Dorothy Coe drove back and stopped and stood off ten yards away. She asked, “What now?”
Reacher said, “I would leave him there. I think you broke his back. He’ll die slowly.”
“How long?”
“An hour, maybe two.”
“I don’t know.”
Reacher gave her the Glock. “Or go shoot him in the head. It would be a mercy, not that he deserves it.”
“Will you do it?”
“Gladly. But you should. You’ve wanted to for twenty-five years.”
She nodded slowly. She stared down at t
he Glock, laid flat like an open book on both her hands, like she had never seen such a thing before. She asked, “Is there a safety catch?”
Reacher shook his head.
“No safety on a Glock,” he said.
She opened the door. She climbed down, to the sill step, to the ground. She looked back at Reacher.
“For Margaret,” she said again.
“And the others,” Reacher said.
“And for Artie,” she said. “My husband.”
She stepped sideways around her open door, touching it with one hand as she went, slowly, with reluctance, and then she crossed the open ground, small neat strides on the dirt, ten of them, twelve, turning a short distance into a long journey. Jacob Duncan went still and watched her approach. She stepped up close and pointed the gun straight down and to one side, holding it a little away from herself, making it not part of herself, separating herself from it, and then she said some words Reacher didn’t hear, and then she pulled the trigger, once, twice, three four five six times, and then she stepped away.
Chapter 62
The doctor and his wife were waiting in Dorothy Coe’s truck, back on the two-lane road. Reacher and Dorothy parked ahead of them and they all got out and stood together. The Duncan compound was reduced to three vertical chimneys and a wide horizontal spread of ashy gray timbers that were still burning steadily, but no longer fiercely. Smoke was coming up and gathering into a wide column that seemed to rise forever. It was the only thing moving. The sun was as high as it was going to get, and the rest of the sky was blue.
Reacher said, “You’ve got a lot of work to do. Get everyone on it. Get backhoes and bucket loaders and dig some big holes. Really big holes. Then gather the trash and bury it deep. But save some space for later. Their van will arrive at some point, and the driver is just as guilty as the rest of them.”
The doctor said, “We have to kill him?”
“You can bury him alive, for all I care.”
“You’re leaving now?”
Reacher nodded.
“I’m going to Virginia,” he said.
“Can’t you stay a day or two?”
“You all are in charge now, not me.”
“What about the football players at my house?”
“Turn them loose and tell them to get out of town. They’ll be happy to. There’s nothing left for them here.”
The doctor said, “But they might tell someone. Or someone might have seen the smoke. From far away. The cops might come.”
Reacher said, “If they do, blame everything on me. Give them my name. By the time they figure out where I am, I’ll be somewhere else.”
Dorothy Coe drove Reacher the first part of the way. They climbed back in the Yukon together and checked the gas gauge. There was enough for maybe sixty miles. They agreed she would take him thirty miles south, and then she would drive the same thirty miles back, and then after that filling the tank would be John’s own problem.
They drove the first ten miles in silence. Then they passed the abandoned roadhouse and the two-lane speared onward and empty ahead of them and Dorothy asked, “What’s in Virginia?”
“A woman,” Reacher said.
“Your girlfriend?”
“Someone I talked to on the phone, that’s all. I wanted to meet her in person. Although now I’m not so sure. Not yet, anyway. Not looking like this.”
“What’s the matter with the way you look?”
“My nose,” Reacher said. He touched the tape, and smoothed it down, two-handed. He said, “It’s going to be a couple of weeks before it’s presentable.”
“What’s her name, this woman in Virginia?”
“Susan.”
“Well, I think you should go. I think if Susan objects to the way you look, then she isn’t worth meeting.”
They stopped at a featureless point on the road that had to be almost exactly halfway between the Apollo Inn and the Cell Block bar. Reacher opened his door and Dorothy Coe asked him, “Will you be OK here?”
He nodded.
He said, “I’ll be OK wherever I am. Will you be OK back there?”
“No,” she said. “But I’ll be better than I was.”
She sat there behind the wheel, a solid, capable woman, about sixty years old, blunt and square, worn down by work, worn down by hardship, fading slowly to gray, but better than she had been before. Reacher said nothing, and climbed out to the shoulder, and closed his door. She looked at him once, through the window, and then she looked away and turned across the width of the road and drove back north. Reacher pulled his hat down over his ears and jammed his hands in his pockets against the cold, and got set to wait for a ride.
He waited a long, long time. For the first hour nothing came by at all. Then a vehicle appeared on the horizon, and a whole minute later it was close enough to make out some detail. It was a small import, probably Japanese, a Honda or a Toyota, old, with blue paint faded by the weather. A sixth-hand purchase. Reacher stood up and stuck out his thumb. The car slowed, which didn’t necessarily mean much. Pure reflex. A driver’s eyes swivel right, and his foot lifts off the gas, automatically. In this case the driver was a woman, young, probably a college student. She had long fair hair. Her car was piled high inside with all kinds of stuff.
She looked for less than a second and then accelerated and drove by at sixty, trailing cold air and whirling grit and tire whine. Reacher watched her go. A good decision, probably. Lone women shouldn’t stop in the middle of nowhere for giant unkempt strangers with duct tape on their faces.
He sat down again on the shoulder. He was tired. He had woken up in Vincent’s motel room early the previous morning, when Dorothy Coe came in to service it, and he hadn’t slept since. He pulled his hood up over his hat and lay down on the dirt. He crossed his ankles and crossed his arms over his chest and went to sleep.
It was going dark when he woke. The sun was gone in the west and the pale remains of a winter sunset were all that was lighting the sky. He sat up, and then he stood. No traffic. But he was a patient man. He was good at waiting.
He waited ten more minutes, and saw another vehicle on the horizon. It had its lights on against the gloaming. He flipped his hood down to reduce his apparent bulk and stood easy, one foot on the dirt, one on the blacktop, and he stuck his thumb out. The approaching vehicle was bigger than a car. He could tell by the way the headlights were spaced. It was tall and relatively narrow. It had a big windshield. It was a panel van.
It was a gray panel van.
It was the same kind of gray panel van as the two gray panel vans he had seen at the Duncan depot.
It slowed a hundred yards away, the automatic reflex, but then it kept on slowing, and it came to a stop right next to him. The driver leaned way over and opened the passenger door and a light came on inside.
The driver was Eleanor Duncan.
She was wearing black jeans and an insulated parka. The parka was covered in zips and pockets and it gleamed and glittered in the light. Its threads had been nowhere near any living thing, either plant or animal.
She said, “Hello.”
Reacher didn’t answer. He was looking at the truck, inside and out. It was travel stained. It had salt and dirt on it, all streaked and dried and dusty. It had been on a long journey.
He said, “This was the shipment, right? This is the truck they used.”
Eleanor Duncan nodded.
He asked, “Who was in it?”
Eleanor Duncan said, “Six young women and ten young girls. From Thailand.”
“Were they OK?”
“They were fine. Not surprisingly. It seems that a lot of trouble had been taken to make sure they arrived in marketable condition.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Nothing.”
“Then where are they?”
“They’re still in the back of this truck.”
“What?”
“We didn’t know what to do. They were lured here under false
pretences, obviously. They were separated from their families. We decided we have to get them home again.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m driving them to Denver.”
“What’s in Denver?”
“There are Thai restaurants.”
“That’s your solution? Thai restaurants?”
“It isn’t nearly as dumb as it sounds. Think about it, Reacher. We can’t go to the police. These women are illegal. They’ll be detained for months, in a government jail. That would be awful for them. We thought at least they should be with people who speak their own language. Like a supportive community. And restaurant workers are connected, aren’t they? Some of them were smuggled in themselves. We thought perhaps they could use the same organizations, but in reverse, to get out again.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“Everybody’s. We discussed it all day, and then we voted.”
“Terrific.”
“You got a better idea?”
Reacher said nothing. He just looked at the blank gray side of the van, and its salt stains, all dried in long feathered aerodynamic patterns. He put his palm on the cold metal.
Eleanor Duncan asked, “You want to meet them?”
Reacher said, “No.”
“You saved them.”
Reacher said, “Luck and happenstance saved them. Therefore I don’t want to meet them. I don’t want to see their faces, because then I’ll get to thinking about what would have happened to them if luck and happenstance hadn’t come along.”
There was a long pause. The van idled, the breeze blew, the sky darkened, the air grew colder.
Then Eleanor Duncan said, “You want a ride to the highway at least?”
Reacher nodded and climbed in.
They didn’t talk for twenty miles. Then they rumbled past the Cell Block bar and Reacher said, “You knew, didn’t you?”
Eleanor Duncan said, “No.” Then she said, “Yes.” Then she said, “I thought I knew the exact opposite. I really did. I thought I knew it for absolute sure. I knew it so intensely that eventually I realized I was just trying to convince myself.”
