by Lee Child
“It was your choice of words,” Reacher said. “You thanked me for my help. My help in what exactly? A spontaneous split second emergency? I don’t think you would have used that phrase. You would have said, Wow, that was something, huh? Or an equivalent. Or just a raised eyebrow. As a bond, or an icebreaker. Like we’re just two guys, shooting the shit. But instead you thanked me quite formally. You said, Thank you very much for helping us out with that.”
Aaron said, “I was trying to be polite.”
Reacher said, “But I think that kind of formality needs a longer incubation. And you said with that. With what? For you to internalize something as that, I think it would need to be a little older than a split second. It would need to be previously established. And you used a continuous tense. You said I was helping you out. Which implies something ongoing. Something that existed before the kid snatched the bag and will continue afterward. And you used the plural pronoun. You said thanks for helping us out. You and Bush. With something you already own, with something you’re already running, and it just came off the rails a little bit, but ultimately the damage wasn’t too bad. I think it was that kind of help you were thanking me for. Because you were extremely relieved. It could have been much worse, if the kid had gotten away, maybe. Which is why you said thank you very much. Which was way too heartfelt for a trivial mugging. It seemed more important to you.”
“I was being polite.”
“And I think my witness statement is mostly for the chief of police and the selectmen, not a computer game. To show them how it wasn’t your fault. To show them how it wasn’t you who just nearly screwed up some kind of long-running operation. That’s why you wanted a regular person. Any third party would do. Otherwise all you would have is your own testimony, on your own behalf. You and Bush, watching each other’s back.”
“We were taking a stroll.”
“You didn’t even glance at each other. Not a second thought. You just chased after that bag. You’d been thinking about that bag all day. Or all week.”
Aaron didn’t answer, and got no more opportunity to discuss it, because at that moment the door opened and a different head stuck in. It gestured Aaron out for a word. Aaron left and the door snicked shut behind him. But before Reacher could get around to worrying about whether it was locked or not, it opened up again, and Aaron stuck his head back in and said, “The rest of the interview will be conducted by different detectives.”
The door closed again.
Opened again.
The guy who had stuck his head in the first time led the way. He had a similar guy behind him. Both looked like classic New England characters from historic black-and-white photographs. The product of many generations of hard work and stern self-denial. Both were lean and wiry, all cords and ligaments, almost gaunt. They were wearing chino pants, with checked shirts under blue sport coats. They had buzzed haircuts. No attempt at style. Pure function. They said they worked for the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. A statewide organization. They said state-level inquiries outbid county-level inquiries. Hence the hijacked interview. They said they had questions about what Reacher had seen.
They sat in the chairs Aaron and Bush had vacated. The one on the left said his name was Cook, and the one on the right said his name was Delaney. It looked like he was the team leader. He looked set to do all the talking. About what Reacher had seen, he said again. Nothing more. Nothing to be concerned about.
But then he said, “First we need more information on one particular aspect. We think our county colleagues went a little light on it. They glossed right over it, perhaps understandably.”
Reacher said, “Glossed over what?”
“What exactly was your state of mind, in terms of intention, at the moment you knocked the kid down?”
“Seriously?”
“In your own words.”
“How many?”
“As many as you need.”
“I was helping the cops.”
“Nothing more?”
“I saw the crime. The perpetrator was fleeing straight toward me. He was outrunning his pursuers. I had no doubt about his guilt or innocence. So I got in his way. He wasn’t even hurt bad.”
“How did you know the two men were cops?”
“First impressions. Was I right or wrong?”
Delaney paused a beat.
Then he said, “Now tell me what you saw.”
“I’m sure you were listening in, the first time around.”
“We were,” Delaney said. “Also to your continued conversation afterward, with Detective Aaron. After Detective Bush left the room. It seems you saw more than you put in your witness statement. It seems you saw something about a long-running operation.”
“That was speculation,” Reacher said. “It didn’t belong in a witness statement.”
“As an ethical matter?”
“I suppose.”
“Are you an ethical man, Mr. Reacher?”
“I do my best.”
“But now you can knock yourself out. The statement is done. Now you can speculate to your heart’s content. What did you see?”
“Why ask me?”
“We might have a problem. You might be able to help.”
“How could I help?”
“You were a military policeman. You know how this stuff works. Big picture. What did you see?”
Reacher said, “I guess I saw Aaron and Bush following the girl with the bag. Some kind of surveillance operation. Surveillance of the bag, principally. When the thing happened they ignored the girl completely. Best guess, maybe the girl was due to hand the bag off to an as-yet-unknown suspect. At a later stage. In a different place. Like a delivery or a payment. Maybe it was important to eyeball the exchange itself. Maybe the unknown suspect is the last link in the chain. Hence the high-status eyewitnesses. Or whatever. Except the plan failed because fate intervened in the form of a random purse-snatcher. Sheer bad luck. Happens to the best of us. And really no big deal. They can run it again tomorrow.”
Delaney shook his head. “We’re in murky waters. People like we’re dealing with here, if you miss a rendezvous, you’re dead to them. This thing is over.”
“Then I’m sorry,” Reacher said. “But shit happens. Best bet would be get over it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not my monkeys,” Reacher said. “Not my circus. I’m just a guy passing by.”
“We need a word about that, too. How could we get ahold of you, if we needed to? Do you carry a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Then how do folks get ahold of you?”
“They don’t.”
“Not even family and friends?”
“No family left.”
“No friends, either?”
“Not the kind you call on the phone every five minutes.”
“So who even knows where you are?”
“I do,” Reacher said. “That’s enough.”
“You sure?”
“I haven’t needed rescuing yet.”
Delaney nodded. Said, “Let’s go back to what you saw.”
“What part?”
“All of it. Maybe it ain’t over yet. Could there be another interpretation?”
“Anything’s possible,” Reacher said.
“What kind of thing would be possible?”
“I used to get paid for this kind of discussion.”
“We could trade you a cup of county coffee.”
“Deal,” Reacher said. “Black, no sugar.”
Cook went to get it, and when he got back Reacher took a sip and said, “Thank you. But on balance I think it was probably just a random event.”
Delaney said, “Use your imagination.”
Reacher said, “Use yours.”
“OK,” Delaney said. “Let’s assume Aaron and Bush didn’t know where or when or who or how, but eventually they were expecting to see the bag transferred into someone else’s custody.”
Reacher said, “O
K, let’s assume.”
“And maybe that’s exactly what they saw. Just a little earlier than anticipated.”
“Anything’s possible,” Reacher said again.
“We have to assume secrecy and clandestine measures on the bad guys’ part. Maybe they gave a decoy rendezvous and planned to snatch the bag along the way. For the sake of surprise and unpredictability. Which is always the best way to beat surveillance. Maybe it was even rehearsed. According to you the girl gave it up pretty easily. You said she went down on her butt, and then she sprang back up and ran away.”
Reacher nodded. “Which means you would say the kid in the black sweatshirt was the unknown suspect. You would say he was due to receive the bag all along.”
Delaney nodded. “And we got him, and therefore the operation was in fact a total success.”
“Easy for you to say. Also very convenient.”
Delaney didn’t answer.
Reacher asked, “Where is the kid now?”
Delaney pointed to the door. “Two rooms away. We’re taking him to Bangor soon.”
“Is he talking?”
“Not so far. He’s being a good little soldier.”
“Unless he isn’t a soldier at all.”
“We think he is. And we think he’ll talk, when he comes to appreciate the full extent of his jeopardy.”
“One other major problem,” Reacher said.
“Which is?”
“The bag looked empty to me. What kind of a delivery or a payment would that be? You won’t get a conviction for following an empty bag around.”
“The bag wasn’t empty,” Delaney said. “At least not originally.”
“What was in it?”
“We’ll get to that. But first we need to loop back around. To what I asked you at the very beginning. To make sure. About your state of mind.”
“I was helping the cops.”
“Were you?”
“You worried about liability? If I was a civilian rendering assistance, I get the same immunity law enforcement gets. Plus the kid wasn’t hurt anyway. Couple of bruises, maybe. Maybe a scrape on his knee. No problem. Unless you got some really weird judges here.”
“Our judges are OK. When they understand the context.”
“What else could the context be? I witnessed a felony. There was a clear desire on the part of the police department to apprehend the perpetrator. I helped them. Are you saying you’ve got an issue with that?”
Delaney said, “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
Reacher didn’t answer. Cook and Delaney got up and shuffled out from behind the crossways table. They stepped to the door and left the room. The door snicked shut behind them. This time Reacher was pretty sure it locked. He glanced at the mirror. Saw nothing but his reflection, gray tinged with green.
Ten minutes of your time. What’s the worst thing could happen?
Nothing happened. Not for three long minutes. Then Cook and Delaney came back in. They sat down again, Cook on the left and Delaney on the right.
Delaney said, “You claim you were rendering assistance to law enforcement.”
Reacher said, “Correct.”
“Would you like to revisit that statement?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No,” Delaney said.
“Why not?”
“We think the truth is very different.”
“How so?”
“We think you were taking the bag from the kid. The same way he took it from the girl. We think you were a second surprising and unpredictable cutout.”
“The bag fell on the ground.”
“We have witnesses who saw you bend down to pick it up.”
“I thought better of it. I left it there. Aaron picked it up.”
Delaney nodded. “And by then it was empty.”
“Want to search my pockets?”
“We think you extracted the contents of the bag, and handed them off to someone in the crowd.”
“What?”
“If you were a second cutout, why wouldn’t there be a third?”
“Bullshit,” Reacher said.
Delaney said, “Jack-none-Reacher, you are under arrest for felonious involvement with a racketeer-influenced corrupt organization. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to the presence of an attorney before further questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, then one will be appointed for you, on the taxpayers’ dime.”
—
Four county cops came in, three with handguns drawn and the fourth with a shotgun held at port arms across his body. Across the table Cook and Delaney merely peeled back their lapels to show off Glock 17s in shoulder holsters. Reacher sat still. Six against one. Too many. Dumb odds. Plus nervous tension in the air, plus trigger fingers, plus a completely unknown level of training, expertise, and experience.
Mistakes might be made.
Reacher sat still.
He said, “I want the public defender.”
After that, he said nothing at all.
They handcuffed his wrists behind his back and led him out to the corridor, and around two dogleg corners, and through a locked steel door in a concrete frame, into the station’s holding area, which was a miniature cell block with three empty billets on a narrow corridor, all ahead of a booking table that was currently unoccupied. One of the county cops holstered his weapon and stepped around. Reacher’s handcuffs were removed. He gave up his passport, his ATM card, his toothbrush, seventy bucks in bills, seventy-five cents in quarters, and his shoelaces. In exchange he got a shove in the back and sole occupancy of the first cell in line. The door clanged shut, and the lock tripped like a hammer hitting a railroad spike. The cops looked in for a second more, like people at the zoo, and then they about-turned and walked back past the booking table and out of the room, one after the other. Reacher heard the steel door close after the last of them. He heard it lock.
He waited. He was good at waiting. He was a patient man. He had nowhere to go, and all the time in the world to get there. He sat on the bed, which was a cast concrete structure, as was a little desk, with an integral stool. The stool had a little round pad, made of the same thin vinyl-covered foam as the mattress on the bed. The toilet was steel, with a dished-in top to act as a basin. Cold water only. Like the world’s lousiest motel room, further stripped back to the unavoidable minimum requirements, and then reduced in size to the barely bearable. The old-time architects had used even more concrete than elsewhere. As if prisoners trying to escape might exert more force than atom bombs.
—
Reacher kept track of time in his head. Two hours ticked by, and part of a third, and then the youngest of the county uniforms came by for a status check. He looked in the bars and said, “You OK?”
“I’m fine,” Reacher said. “A little hungry, maybe. It’s past lunchtime.”
“There’s a problem with that.”
“Is the chef out sick?”
“We don’t have a chef. We send out. To the diner down the block. Lunch is authorized up to four dollars. But that’s the county rate. You’re a state prisoner. We don’t know what they pay for lunch.”
“More, I hope.”
“But we need to know for sure. Otherwise we could get stuck with it.”
“Doesn’t Delaney know? Or Cook?”
“They left. They took their other suspect back to their HQ in Bangor.”
“How much do you spend on dinner?”
“Six and a half.”
“Breakfast?”
“You won’t be here for breakfast. You’re a state prisoner. Like the other guy. They’ll come get you tonight.”
—
An hour later the young cop came back again with a grilled cheese sandwich and a foam cup of Coke. Three bucks and change. Apparently Detective Aaron had said if the state paid less than that, he would cover the differenc
e personally.
“Tell him thanks,” Reacher said. “And tell him to be careful. One favor for another.”
“Careful about what?”
“Which mast he nails his colors to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Either he’ll understand or he won’t.”
“You saying you didn’t do it?”
Reacher smiled. “I guess you heard that before.”
The young cop nodded. “Everyone says it. None of you ever did a damn thing. It’s what we expect.”
Then the guy walked away, and Reacher ate his meal, and went back to waiting.
—
Another two hours later the young cop came back for the third time. He said, “The public defender is here. She’s going through the case on the phone with the state guys. They’re still in Bangor. They’re talking right now. She’ll be with you soon.”
Reacher said, “What’s she like?”
“She’s OK. One time my car got stole and she helped me out with the insurance company. She was in my sister’s class in high school.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Three years older than me.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Did you get your money back for your car?”
“Some of it.”
Then the guy went and sat on the stool behind the booking table. To give the impression of proper prisoner care, Reacher supposed, while his lawyer was in the house. Reacher stayed where he was, on the bed. Just waiting.
—
Thirty minutes later the lawyer came in. She said hello to the cop at the desk, in a friendly way, like a person would to an old high school classmate’s kid brother. Then she said something else, lawyer-like and quietly, about client confidentiality, and the guy got up and left the room. He closed the steel door behind him. The cell block went quiet. The lawyer looked in the bars at Reacher. Like a person at the zoo. Maybe at the gorilla house. She was medium height and medium weight, and she was wearing a black skirt suit. She had short brown hair with lighter streaks, and brown eyes, and a round face, with a downturned mouth. Like an upside-down smile. As if she had suffered many disappointments in her life. She was carrying a leather briefcase too fat to zip. There was a yellow legal pad poking out the top. It was covered with handwritten notes.
