Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  New guy comes to gate and stares right at us, the boy wrote. Then looks all around. Knows we’re here? Trouble?

  He closed his book again and pressed himself tighter to the ground.

  “Reacher,” a voice called.

  Reacher squinted right and saw Bobby Greer in the shadows on the porch. He was sitting in the swing set. Same denims, same dirty T-shirt. Same backward ball cap.

  “Come here,” he called.

  Reacher paused a beat. Then he walked back past the kitchen and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “I want a horse,” Bobby said. “The big mare. Saddle her up and bring her out.”

  Reacher paused again. “You want that now?”

  “When do you think? I want an evening ride.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  “And we need a demonstration,” Bobby said.

  “Of what?”

  “You want to hire on, you need to show us you know what you’re doing.”

  Reacher paused again, longer.

  “O.K.,” he said.

  “Five minutes,” Bobby said.

  He stood up and headed back inside the house. Closed the door. Reacher stood for a moment with the heat on his back and then headed down to the barn. Headed for the big door. The one with the bad smell coming out of it. A demonstration? You’re in deep shit now, he thought. More ways than one.

  There was a light switch inside the door, in a metal box screwed to the siding. He flicked it on and weak yellow bulbs lit the enormous space. The floor was beaten earth, and there was dirty straw everywhere. The center of the barn was divided into horse stalls, back to back, with a perimeter track lined with floor-to-ceiling hay bales inside the outer walls. He circled around the stalls. A total of five were occupied. Five horses. They were all tethered to the walls of their stalls with complicated rope constructions that fitted neatly over their heads.

  He took a closer look at each of them. One of them was very small. A pony. Ellie’s, presumably. O.K., strike that. Four to go. Two were slightly bigger than the other two. He bent down low and peered upward at them, one at a time. In principle he knew what a mare should look like, underneath. It should be easy enough to spot one. But in practice, it wasn’t easy. The stalls were dark and the tails obscured the details. In the end he decided the first one he looked at wasn’t a mare. Wasn’t a stallion, either. Some parts were missing. A gelding. Try the next. He shuffled along and looked at the next. O.K., that’s a mare. Good. The next one was a mare, too. The last one, another gelding.

  He stepped back to where he could see both of the mares at once. They were huge shiny brown animals, huffing through their noses, moving slightly, making dull clop sounds with their feet on the straw. No, their hoofs. Hooves? Their necks were turned so they could watch him with one eye each. Which one was bigger? The one on the left, he decided. A little taller, a little heavier, a little wider in the shoulders. O.K., that’s the big mare. So far, so good.

  Now, the saddle. Each stall had a kind of a thick post coming horizontally out of the outside wall, right next to the gate, with a whole bunch of equipment piled on it. A saddle for sure, but also a lot of complicated straps and blankets and metal items. The straps are the reins, he guessed. The metal thing must be the bit. It goes in the horse’s mouth. The bit between her teeth, right? He lifted the saddle off the post. It was very heavy. He carried it balanced on his left forearm. Felt good. Just like a regular cowboy. Roy Rogers, eat your heart out.

  He stood in front of the stall gate. The big mare watched him with one eye. Her lips folded back like thick rolls of rubber, showing big square teeth underneath. They were yellow. O.K., think. First principles. Teeth like that, this thing is not a carnivore. It’s not a biting animal. Well, it might try to nick you a little, but it’s not a lion or a tiger. It eats grass. It’s an herbivore. Herbivores are generally timid. Like antelope or wildebeests out there on the sweeping plains of Africa. So this thing’s defense mechanism is to run away, not to attack. It gets scared, and it runs. But it’s a herd animal, too. So it’s looking for a leader. It will submit to a show of authority. So be firm, but don’t scare it.

  He opened the gate. The horse moved. Its ears went back and its head went up. Then down. Up and down, against the rope. It moved its back feet and swung its huge rear end toward him.

  “Hey,” he said, loud and clear and firm.

  It kept on coming. He touched it on the side. It kept on coming. Don’t get behind it. Don’t let it kick you. That much, he knew. What was the phrase? Like being kicked by a horse? Had to mean something.

  “Stand still,” he said.

  It was swinging sideways toward him. He met its flank with his right shoulder. Gave it a good solid shove, like he was aiming to bust down a door. The horse quieted. Stood still, huffing gently. He smiled. I’m the boss, O.K.? He put the back of his right hand up near its nose. It was something he had seen at the movies. You rub the back of your hand on its nose, and it gets to know you. Some smell thing. The skin on its nose felt soft and dry. Its breath was strong and hot. Its lips peeled back again and its tongue came out. It was huge and wet.

  “O.K., good girl,” he whispered.

  He lifted the saddle two-handed and dumped it down on her back. Pushed and pulled at it until it felt solid. It wasn’t easy. Was it the right way around? Had to be. It was shaped a little like a chair. There was a definite front and a back. There were broad straps hanging down on either side. Two long, two short. Two had buckles, two had holes. What were they for? To hold the saddle on, presumably. You bring the far ones around and buckle them at the side, up underneath where the rider’s thigh would be. He ducked down and tried to grab the far straps, underneath the horse’s belly. He could barely reach them. This was one wide animal, that was for damn sure. He stretched and caught the end of one strap in his fingertips and the saddle slipped sideways.

  “Shit,” he breathed.

  He straightened up and leveled the saddle again. Ducked down and grabbed for the far straps. The horse moved and put them way out of his reach.

  “Shit,” he said again.

  He stepped closer, crowding the horse against the wall. It didn’t like that, and it leaned on him. He weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. The horse weighed half a ton. He staggered backward. The saddle slipped. The horse stopped moving. He straightened the saddle again and kept his right hand on it while he groped for the straps with his left.

  “Not like that,” a voice called from way above him.

  He spun around and looked up. Ellie was lying on top of the stack of hay bales, up near the roof, her chin on her hands, looking down at him.

  “You need the blanket first,” she said.

  “What blanket?”

  “The saddle cloth,” she said.

  The horse moved again, crowding hard against him. He shoved it back. Its head came around and it looked at him. He looked back at it. It had huge dark eyes. Long eyelashes. He glared at it. I’m not afraid of you, pal. Stand still or I’ll shove you again.

  “Ellie, does anybody know you’re in here?” he called.

  She shook her head, solemnly.

  “I’m hiding,” she said. “I’m good at hiding.”

  “But does anybody know you hide in here?”

  “I think my mommy knows I do sometimes, but the Greers don’t.”

  “You know how to do this horse stuff?”

  “Of course I do. I can do my pony all by myself.”

  “So help me out here, will you? Come and do this one for me.”

  “It’s easy,” she said.

  “Just show me, O.K.?”

  She stayed still for a second, making her usual lengthy decision, and then she scrambled down the pile of bales and jumped to the ground and joined him in the stall.

  “Take the saddle off again,” she said.

  She took a cloth off of the equipment post and shook it out and threw it up over the mare’s back. She was too short and Reacher had to straight
en it one-handed.

  “Now put the saddle on it,” she said.

  He dropped the saddle on top of it. Ellie ducked underneath the horse’s belly and caught the straps. She barely needed to stoop. She threaded the ends together and pulled.

  “You do it,” she said. “They’re stiff.”

  He lined the buckles up and pulled hard.

  “Not too tight,” Ellie said. “Not yet. Wait for her to swell up.”

  “She’s going to swell up?”

  Ellie nodded, gravely. “They don’t like it. They swell their stomachs up to try to stop you. But they can’t hold it, so they come down again.”

  He watched the horse’s stomach. It was already the size of an oil drum. Then it blew out, bigger and bigger, fighting the straps. Then it subsided again. There was a long sigh of air through its nose. It shuffled around and gave up.

  “Now do them tight,” Ellie said.

  He pulled them as tight as he could. The mare shuffled in place. Ellie had the reins in her hands, shaking them into some kind of coherent shape.

  “Take the rope off of her,” she said. “Just pull it down.”

  He pulled the rope down. The mare’s ears folded forward and it slid down over them, over her nose, and off.

  “Now hold this up.” She handed him a tangle of straps. “It’s called the bridle.”

  He turned it in his hands, until the shape made sense. He held it against the horse’s head until it was in the right position. He tapped the metal part against the mare’s lips. The bit. She kept her mouth firmly closed. He tried again. No result.

  “How, Ellie?” he asked.

  “Put your thumb in.”

  “My thumb? Where?”

  “Where her teeth stop. At the side. There’s a hole.”

  He traced the ball of his thumb sideways along the length of the mare’s lips. He could feel the teeth passing underneath, one by one, like he was counting them. Then they stopped, and there was just gum.

  “Poke it in,” Ellie said.

  “My thumb?”

  She nodded. He pushed, and the lips parted, and his thumb slipped into a warm, gluey, greasy socket. And sure enough, the mare opened her mouth.

  “Quick, put the bit in,” Ellie said.

  He pushed the metal into the mouth. The mare used her massive tongue to get it comfortable, like she was helping him, too.

  “Now pull the bridle up and buckle it.”

  He eased the leather straps up over the ears and found the buckles. There were three of them. One fastened flat against the slab of cheekbone. One went over her nose. The third was hanging down under her neck.

  “Not too tight,” Ellie said. “She’s got to breathe.”

  He saw a worn mark on the strap, which he guessed indicated the usual length.

  “Now loop the reins up over the horn.”

  There was a long strap coming off of the ends of the bit in a loop. He guessed that was the rein. And he guessed the horn was the upright thing at the front end of the saddle. Like a handle, for holding on with. Ellie was busy pulling the stirrups down into place, walking right under the mare’s belly from one side to the other.

  “Now lift me up,” she said. “I need to check everything.”

  He held her under the arms and lifted her into the saddle. She felt tiny and weighed nothing at all. The horse was way too wide for her, and her legs came out more or less straight on each side. She lay down forward and stretched her arms out and checked all the buckles. Redid some of them. Tucked the loose ends away. Pulled the mane hair out neatly from under the straps. Gripped the saddle between her legs and jerked herself from side to side, checking for loose movement.

  “It’s O.K.,” she said. “You did very good.”

  She put her arms out to him and he lifted her down. She was hot and damp.

  “Now just lead her out,” she said. “Hold her at the side of her mouth. If she won’t come, give her a yank.”

  “Thanks a million, kid,” he said. “Now go hide again, O.K.?”

  She scrambled back up the stack of hay bales and he tugged at a strap coming off a metal ring at the side of the mouth. The mare didn’t move. He clicked his tongue and pulled again. The mare lurched forward. He jumped ahead and she got herself into some kind of a rhythm behind him. Clop, clop, clop. He led her out of the stall and pulled her around the corner and headed for the door. Let her come ahead to his shoulder and stepped with her into the yard. She walked easily. He adjusted to her pace. His arm was neatly bent at the elbow and her head was rocking up and down a little and her shoulder was brushing gently against his. He walked her across the yard like he’d done it every day of his life. Roy Rogers, eat your damn heart out.

  Bobby Greer was back on the porch steps, waiting. The mare walked right up to him and stopped. Reacher held the little leather strap while Bobby checked all of the same things Ellie had. He nodded.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  Reacher said nothing.

  “But you took longer than I expected.”

  Reacher shrugged. “I’m new to them. I always find it’s better to go slow, the first time. Until they’re familiar with me.”

  Bobby nodded again. “You surprise me. I would have bet the farm the nearest you’d ever gotten to a horse was watching the Preakness on cable.”

  “The what?”

  “The Preakness. It’s a horse race.”

  “I know it is. I was kidding.”

  “So maybe it’s a double surprise,” Bobby said. “Maybe my sister-in-law was actually telling the truth for once.”

  Reacher glanced at him. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “I don’t know why. But she hardly ever does. You need to bear that in mind.”

  Reacher said nothing. Just waited.

  “You can go now,” Bobby said. “I’ll put her away when I’m through.”

  Reacher nodded and walked away. He heard a crunch of leather behind him, which he assumed was Bobby getting up into the saddle. But he didn’t look back. He just walked through the yard, down past the barn, past the corrals, and around the corner of the bunkhouse to the foot of the stairway. He intended to go straight up and take a long shower to get rid of the terrible animal smell that was clinging to him. But when he got up to the second story, he found Carmen sitting on his bed with a set of folded sheets on her knees. She was still in her cotton dress, and the sheets glowed white against the skin of her bare legs.

  “I got you these,” she said. “From the linen closet in the bathroom. You’re going to need them. I didn’t know if you would realize where they were.”

  He stopped at the head of the stairs, one foot inside the room, the other foot still on the last tread.

  “Carmen, this is crazy,” he said. “You should get out, right now. They’re going to realize I’m a phony. I’m not going to last a day. I might not even be here on Monday.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “All the way through supper.”

  “About what?”

  “About Al Eugene. Suppose it’s about whoever Sloop is going to rat out? Suppose they woke up and took some action? Suppose they grabbed Al to stop the deal?”

  “Can’t be. Why would they wait? They’d have done it a month ago.”

  “Yes, but suppose everybody thought it was.”

  He stepped all the way into the room.

  “I don’t follow,” he said, although he did.

  “Suppose you made Sloop disappear,” she said. “The exact same way somebody made Al disappear. They’d think it was all connected somehow. They wouldn’t suspect you. You’d be totally in the clear.”

  He shook his head. “We’ve been through this. I’m not an assassin.”

  She went quiet. Looked down at the sheets in her lap and began picking at a seam. The sheets were frayed and old. Cast-offs from the big house, Reacher thought. Maybe Rusty and her dead husband had slept under those same sheets. Maybe Bobby had. Maybe Sloop had. Maybe Sloop and Carmen, together.

&
nbsp; “You should just get out, right now,” he said again.

  “I can’t.”

  “You should stay somewhere inside of Texas, just temporarily. Fight it, legally. You’d get custody, in the circumstances.”

  “I don’t have any money. It could cost a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Carmen, you have to do something.”

  She nodded.

  “I know what I’m going to do,” she said. “I’m going to take a beating, Monday night. Then Tuesday morning, I’m going to come find you, wherever you are. Then you’ll see, and maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  He said nothing. She angled her face up into the fading light from the high windows. Her hair tumbled back on her shoulders.

  “Take a good look,” she said. “Come close.”

  He stepped nearer.

  “I’ll be all bruised,” she said. “Maybe my nose will be broken. Maybe my lips will be split. Maybe I’ll have teeth missing.”

  He said nothing.

  “Touch my skin,” she said. “Feel it.”

  He put the back of his forefinger on her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth, like warm silk. He traced the wide arch of her cheekbone.

  “Remember this,” she said. “Compare it to what you feel Tuesday morning. Maybe it’ll change your mind.”

  He took his finger away. Maybe it would change his mind. That was what she was counting on, and that was what he was afraid of. The difference between cold blood and hot blood. It was a big difference. For him, a crucial difference.

  “Hold me,” she said. “I can’t remember how it feels to be held.”

  He sat down next to her and took her in his arms. She slid hers around his waist and buried her head in his chest.