No Middle Name

by Lee Child

  Henry and Suzanne were right there at the arch. Just the two of them. They had their backpacks on. The arch had tape tied across it, three lengths, one knee-high, one waist-high, and one chest-high, all two-inch plastic ribbon, blue and white, twisted on itself in places, saying Police Line Do Not Cross.

  Henry said, “See?”

  Reacher said, “I believed you the first time.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think the trail is closed.”

  Henry turned away and stared at the tape, like he could make it dematerialize by willpower alone. Reacher walked back to Main Street, and onward out of town, to the welcome board on the shoulder. Ten minutes, he thought. Maybe less. He figured that morning’s exodus would be brisker than normal.

  —

  But the first vehicle he saw was coming, not going. Into town, not out. And it was a military vehicle. A Humvee, to be precise, painted up in black and green camouflage. It roared past, all thrashing gears and whining tires. It took the curve and disappeared.

  Four guys in it, hard men, all in the new army combat uniform.

  Reacher waited. A minute later a car came driving out of town, but it was full. Two in the front, two in the back. No room for a hitchhiker, especially one as large as Reacher. He recognized people he had seen in the diner, disconsolate and complaining, boots on and ready, backpacks piled in the corner, no place to go.

  He waited.

  Next up was another Humvee, heading in, not out. Roaring engine, thrashing drive train, howling tires, four guys wearing ACUs. Reacher watched it around the corner and even at a distance he heard it slow, and change gear, and speed up again. A right-hand turn, he thought, and he would have bet the few bucks in his pocket it was heading for the wooden arch.

  He stared after it, thinking.

  Then another car came driving out of town. A sedan. Two people. An empty back seat. The driver was the guy who still had the number for the motel in Cripps. He slowed and stopped and the woman next to him buzzed her window down. She asked, “Where are you headed?”

  Reacher said nothing.

  She said, “We’re going back to Boston.”

  Which would have been great. Three hours from New York. Multiple routes. Lots of traffic. But Reacher said, “I’m sorry, but I changed my mind. I’m going to stay here.”

  The woman shrugged and the car took off without him.

  —

  He walked back to the cabin rental office and rang the bell. His cabin was still available. He paid for another night, and got the same key in return. Then he headed for the arch, a hundred yards along the side street, and when he got there he found the two Humvees and their eight occupants. The Humvees were parked side by side, noses out, blocking the whole width of the road. Their occupants already had their boots on the ground. They were all armed with M16s. They were setting up an exclusion zone. Reacher knew the signs. Two squads, four hours on, four hours off. Military police, for sure. Reacher knew those signs, too. Not the National Guard, either. Regular U.S. Army. Not a drill. No one was going to get past them.

  There was no sign of Henry or Suzanne.

  Reacher said, “Sergeant?”

  One of the grunts turned around. Chevrons on the tab in the center of his chest. Twenty years younger than Reacher, at least. A whole different generation. The military police has no secret handshake. No magic word. And no real inclination to shoot the breeze with some ancient geezer, no matter who he might claim to have been, one day long ago, way back when.

  The sergeant said, “Sir, you need to step back ten yards.”

  Reacher said, “That would be a hell of a long step, wouldn’t it?”

  Two PFCs were hauling sawhorses out of a Humvee. A-shaped ends, and planks to fit between, marked No Entry.

  Reacher said, “I’m guessing your orders are to keep people out of the woods. Which is fine with me. Knock yourselves out. But close observation of the terrain will reveal the woods start where the woods start, not a Humvee’s length plus ten yards down the street.”

  The sergeant said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m a guy who once read the Constitution.”

  “This whole place is woods.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “So back off now.”

  “Unit?”

  “345th MP.”

  “Name?”

  “Cain. Spelled C, A, I, N, with no E.”

  “You got a brother?”

  “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  Reacher nodded. He said, “Carry on the good work, sergeant,” and he turned and walked away.

  —

  He went back to the cabin rental office, and rang the bell again. The old guy stepped up, creakily, and Reacher asked him, “Are my friends still here? The people I came in with? Henry something and Suzanne something?”

  “They checked out early this morning.”

  “They didn’t come back again?”

  “They’re gone, mister.”

  Reacher nodded, and headed for his hut, where he spent the next four hours on the back deck, sitting in one lawn chair, his feet up on the other, watching the sky. It was another beautiful day, and he saw nothing except bright blue emptiness, and wispy contrails arching way overhead, eight miles up.

  —

  In the early afternoon he headed to the diner for a late lunch. He was the only customer. The town felt deserted. No trail, no business. The waitress didn’t look happy. Not just about the lack of revenue. She was on the wall phone, listening to someone, concern on her face. A tale of woe, clearly. She hung up after a long minute and walked over to Reacher’s table.

  She said, “They’re sending search parties south from Cripps. For the walkers. They’re grabbing them and hustling them out. Real fast.”

  Reacher said, “Soldiers?”

  She nodded. “Lots of them.”

  “Weird.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. They’re holding them for questioning afterward. They want to know if they saw anything.”

  “Soldiers are doing that, too?”

  “Men in suits. My friend thinks they’re the FBI.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “She works at the motel in Cripps.”

  “What are people supposed to have seen?”

  “All we have is rumors. A bear gone rogue, maybe. A man-eater. Packs of wild coyotes, mountain lions, bigfoot monsters. Or some vicious murderer escaped from the penitentiary. Or wolves. Or vampires.”

  “You believe in vampires?”

  “I watch the television, same as anyone else.”

  “It’s not vampires,” Reacher said.

  “There’s something in those woods, mister.”

  —

  Reacher ate a tuna melt and drank coffee and water, and then he headed back to the arch for a second look. The sawhorses were in place, ten yards upstream of the parked Humvees. Four grunts were standing easy, weapons shouldered. A show of force. No entry. Not a drill. Pleasant duty, overall, given the season. Winter would have been much worse.

  Reacher walked back to town. Just as he hit Main Street the colorless minivan came around the corner. Helen was at the wheel. She pulled over next to him and buzzed her window down.

  She said, “Have you seen Henry and Suzanne?”

  He said, “Not since breakfast time.”

  “People say the trail is closed.”

  “It is.”

  “So I came to pick them up.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I think Henry is a hard man to dissuade.”

  “They went anyway?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “After it was closed?”

  “There was a brief window of opportunity. After the tape went up, before the soldiers arrived.”

  “I heard about the soldiers.”

  “What else have you heard?”

  “There’s something bad in the woods.”
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  “Vampires, maybe,” Reacher said.

  “This isn’t funny. I heard it might be escaped prisoners or rogue military units. Something very dangerous. Everyone is talking. It’s on the local AM station. There are anchors in Cripps already.”

  “You want a cup of coffee?”

  —

  Helen parked in front of the diner, and they went in together, to the same table Reacher had used before. The waitress brought coffee, and then hustled away and got on the wall phone again. To her friend in Cripps, presumably. For updates, and gossip, and rumor.

  Helen said, “Henry is an idiot.”

  “He likes the woods,” Reacher said. “Can’t blame him for that.”

  “But there’s something in there now, obviously.”

  “I guess there is.”

  “Which he must have known. It’s not brain surgery. He’s an idiot, but he’s not an idiot. But he went in anyway. And dragged Suzanne in with him. He is an idiot. Both sorts.”

  “Suzanne could have said no.”

  “Actually, she’s just as bad. No impulse control. I heard they have search parties moving south from Cripps.”

  Reacher nodded. “I heard that, too. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Or slightly secondhand, I suppose. Our waitress has a friend up there.”

  “What are they searching for?”

  “People like Henry and Suzanne. They’re getting them out and asking questions about what they saw.”

  “But they’ll miss Henry and Suzanne. Won’t they? It’s inevitable. They’re expecting a three-day pipeline. They’ll stop when they get all the people who started out yesterday morning. Henry and Suzanne will be twenty-four hours behind them. They’ll leave them in there. With whatever else is in there. This is not good.”

  “It’s a big woods.”

  “The thing could be roaming and hunting. Or if it’s escaped prisoners they’ll stick close to the trail anyway. They would have to. Henry and Suzanne will be in there alone with them.”

  Reacher said, “It’s not escaped prisoners.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I went to see the soldiers at the arch. They’re military police, like I was. But technically what they’re doing isn’t entirely kosher. The military can’t perform civilian law enforcement duties. There are all kinds of rules about that. But their sergeant told me his unit number with no hesitation at all. And then he told me his name, just as fast. He even spelled it out for me. Cain, with no e.”

  “What does all that mean?”

  “It means he’s not afraid of anything. So he can get right in my face. Which means he has a solid gold get-out-of-jail-free card. Which must be urgent orders from somewhere very high up. From an unimpeachable source. As in, if some citizen like me makes a fuss, I’m going to get crushed by the machine. He’s going to get a medal. Which makes this a national security issue. It’s showing all the signs. And people escaped from the penitentiary isn’t national security. That’s a state affair.”

  Helen was quiet for a second.

  Then she said, “A national security issue could be a rogue military unit. Or a band of terrorists. Or escaped prisoners from Homeland Security. Or some kind of mutant has gotten free. Like a genetic experiment. Or someone else’s genetic experiment, set free. On purpose. Maybe this is an attack. And they’re right there in it.”

  “It’s none of the above,” Reacher said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I sat in a chair all morning and watched the sky.”

  “Which told you what?”

  “No circling spotter planes, no drones, no helicopters. If they were hunting a warm-blooded creature or creatures, they’d have been up there all day with heat-seeking cameras. And air-to-ground radar, and whatever other fancy things they have now.”

  “So what do you think they’re looking for?”

  “They aren’t looking. I told you that. No aerial surveillance.”

  “Then what aren’t they looking for?”

  “Something with no heat signature, and too small to show up on radar.”

  “Which would be what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But something they don’t want us to see, obviously. Something we can’t know about.”

  “Evidently.”

  “It could be a cold-blooded creature. Like a snake.”

  “Or a vampire. Are they cold-blooded?”

  “This isn’t funny. But OK, maybe it’s not a creature at all. Maybe it’s a piece of secret equipment. Inert, somehow.”

  “Possibly.”

  “How did it get in there?”

  “That’s a great question,” Reacher said. “I think it must have fallen off an airplane.”

  —

  They got refills of coffee, and Helen worried away at the problem in her mind, and eventually she said, “This is very bad indeed.”

  Reacher said, “Not really. Henry and Suzanne don’t have much to fear from a piece of inert equipment. It’s not going to jump up and bite them in the ass.”

  “But it is. That’s exactly what it’s going to do. Figuratively speaking. They’re in the woods illegally, twenty-four hours behind anyone else. That looks secretive. Like their job is to find the thing and smuggle it out. Suppose it’s a bomb or a missile? That happens, right? Bombs and missiles fall off airplanes. Accidently. Sometimes, right? I read it in a book. But more likely deliberately. Like it’s one big conspiracy. What do we do if Henry and Suzanne are taken to be the designated retrieval party? It wouldn’t take much imagination. They sneak in through the tape, they’re all alone in a deserted twenty-four-hour time window, their job is to grab the missile ahead of your government, and pass it on down the chain, until one day an airliner comes down at JFK and it’s 9/11 all over again.”

  “Henry and Suzanne are hikers. Wilderness enthusiasts. It’s the summer vacation. They’re Canadians, for God’s sake.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nicest people in the world. Almost as good as being Swiss.”

  “But whatever, they’ll check them out.”

  “Names and numbers, in a couple of databases. Nearest thing to doing nothing at all.”

  “Suzanne has a history.”

  Reacher said, “What kind?”

  “She’s a lovely person. You have to understand that. She has sympathy for everybody.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Helen said, “Of course it is. Because everybody means everybody. Plain English. Which means if you focus the spotlight one particular way, you can see sympathies going where your country doesn’t want them to go. Out of context and more than balanced by other things elsewhere and not at all fair, but facts are facts.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  Helen said, “And she’s very passionate politically. And very active.”

  “How active is very active?”

  “It’s what she does. Like a job. Henry runs the bike shop on his own most of the time.”

  “So she’s in more than a couple of databases. A couple hundred, at least.”

  “Red-flagged in most of them, probably. I mean, she’s not Che Guevara or Chairman Mao, but computer memory is very cheap these days, and they have to fill it up with something. She’s in the top million, I’m sure. And I’m equally sure they have pre-programmed responses ready. The screens will light up like a Christmas tree and she’ll be hauled off to Egypt or Syria. She’ll be in the system. They might let her come home in a year or so, all weird and slightly off. If she lives through it.”

  Reacher said, “It might not be a missile. It might be some boring black box full of coded data. Maybe it fell off a satellite, not an airplane. No possible use to anyone else. Which makes the idea of a retrieval party insane to them. They’re not going to be chasing shadows. If they see Henry and Suzanne coming around the corner, dressed like hikers, walking like hikers, and sounding like hikers, then they’re going to call them hikers. They’re going to give them a drink of wate
r and send them on their way.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “It’s one of a number of possibilities.”

  “What are all the others?”

  “I guess some of them could come uncomfortably close to the kind of thing you’re worried about.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Practically all of them, really. Bottom line is she’s a foreign national with a history in the middle of a national-security lockdown.”

  Helen said, “We have to go get them out.”

  —

  Resistance was futile. Reacher knew that right away. He was a realistic man. A Stoic, in the original meaning of the name. A guy who accepted circumstances for what they were, and didn’t seek to change them. He asked, “How fast do they walk?”

  Helen said, “Not very. They’re communing, not commuting. They’re stepping off the path and making footprints in the virgin earth. They’re looking at everything. They’re listening to the birds and the wind in the trees. We should be able to catch up to them.”

  “Better to get ahead of them.”

  “How?”

  —

  They started in the diner’s kitchen, where the bewildered day guy gave up two machete-like weapons. Cleavers, possibly, for cutting meat. Then they hustled down to the kayak dock and rented a slim two-place vessel. It was bright orange in color. It had waterproof fabric around the seat holes. To tie around the rower’s waist, Reacher figured. Like wearing the boat like a pair of pants. To stop water getting in. Which he thought was overkill, on a fine day in August, on an inland body of water about as placid as a millpond.

  Reacher took the back seat. It was a tight fit. Helen looked better, in the front. The rental guy let go of a rope and they paddled away, chaotic at first, then getting better. Much better. All about building up a rhythm. Long, steady, propulsive strokes. Like swimming. But faster than swimming. Faster than walking, too. Certainly faster than communing, and putting prints in the virgin earth, and listening to birds. Maybe twice as fast. Maybe more. Which was good. The lake turned like a crooked come-on finger, which gave them a natural outflanking maneuver, at first running parallel to the trail, and then cutting up and in, all the way to the far end of the finger, right to where the nail would be, which would be as near the trail as they could hope to get. Because after the turn the lake dug into the woods, just like Maine itself dug into Canada. Like a blade. Like a knife wound. The far tip might dump them just a couple hundred yards from the path itself. A quarter mile, maximum. The primeval part of the forest was not wide at that location. Because of the water. Like a bay. Like a river estuary.