Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  “We’ve got no view east or west,” Reacher said.

  Neagley shrugged.

  “North and south is all we need,” she said. “That’s where the road runs.”

  “I guess,” he said. “You take the south.”

  He ducked under the girders and the iron shafts and crawled over to the louver facing north. Knelt up and looked out. Got a perfect view. He could see the bridge and the river. He could see the whole town. He could see the dirt road leading north. Maybe ten straight miles of it. It was completely empty.

  “You OK?” he called.

  “Excellent,” Neagley called back. “I can almost see Colorado.”

  “Shout when you spot something.”

  “You too.”

  The clock ticked thunk, thunk, thunk, once a second. The sound was loud and precise and tireless. He glanced back at the mechanism and wondered whether it would drive him crazy before it sent him to sleep. He heard expensive alloy touching wood ten feet behind him as Neagley put her submachine gun down. He laid his M16 on the boards next to his knees. Squirmed around until he was as comfortable as he was going to get. Then he settled in to watch and wait.

  18

  The air was cold and seventy feet above ground the breeze was a wind. It came in through the louvers and scoured his eyes and made them water. They had been there two hours, and nothing had happened. They had seen nothing and heard nothing except the clock. They had learned its sound. Each thunk was made up of a bundle of separate metallic frequencies, starting low down with the muted bass ring of the bigger gears, ranging upward to the tiny treble click of the escapement lever, and finishing with a faint time-delayed ding resonating off the smallest bell. It was the sound of madness.

  “I got something,” Neagley called. “SUV, I think, coming in from the south.”

  He took a quick look north and got up off his knees. He was stiff and cold and very uncomfortable. He picked up the bird-watcher’s scope.

  “Catch,” he called.

  He tossed it in an upward loop over the clock shaft. Neagley twisted and caught it one-handed and turned back to the louver panel. Put the scope to her eye.

  “Might be a new model Chevy Tahoe,” she called. “Light gold metallic. Sun is on the windshield. No ID on the occupants.”

  Reacher looked north again. The road was still empty. He could see ten miles. It would take ten minutes to cover ten miles even at a fast cruise. He stood up straight and stretched. Ducked under the clock shafts and crawled over next to Neagley. She moved to her right and he wiped his eyes and stared out south. There was a tiny gold speck on the road, all alone, maybe five miles away.

  “Not exactly busy,” she said. “Is it?”

  She passed him the scope. He refocused it and propped its weight on a louver and squinted through it. The telephoto compression held the truck motionless. It looked like it was bouncing and swaying on the road but making absolutely no forward progress at all. It looked dirty and travel-stained. It had a big chrome front fender all smeared with mud and salt. The windshield was streaked. The sun’s reflection made it impossible to see who was riding in it.

  “Why is it still sunny?” he said. “I thought it was going to snow.”

  “Look to the west,” Neagley said.

  He put the scope down and turned and put the left side of his face tight against the louvers. Closed his right eye and looked out sideways with his left. The sky was split in two. In the west it was almost black with clouds. In the east it was pale blue and hazy. Giant multiple shafts of sunlight blazed down through mist where the two weather systems met.

  “Unbelievable,” he said.

  “Some kind of inversion,” Neagley said. “I hope it stays where it is or we’ll freeze our asses off up here.”

  “It’s about fifty miles away.”

  “And the wind generally blows in from the west.”

  “Great.”

  He picked up the scope again and checked on the golden truck. It was maybe a mile closer, bucking and swaying on the dirt. It must have been doing about sixty.

  “What do you think?” Neagley said.

  “Nice vehicle,” he said. “Awful color.”

  He watched it come on another mile and then handed back the scope.

  “I should check north,” he said.

  He crawled under the clock shaft and made it back to his own louver. There was nothing happening in the north. The road was still empty. He reversed his previous maneuver and put his right cheek against the wood and closed his left eye with his hand and checked west again. The snow clouds were clamped down on the mountains. It was like night and day, with an abrupt transition where the foothills started.

  “It’s a Chevy Tahoe for sure,” Neagley called. “It’s slowing down.”

  “See the plate?”

  “Not yet. It’s about a mile out now, slowing.”

  “See who’s in it?”

  “I’ve got sun and tinted glass. No ID. Half a mile out now.”

  Reacher glanced north. No traffic.

  “Nevada plates, I think,” Neagley called. “Can’t read them. They’re all covered in mud. It’s right on the edge of town. It’s going real slow now. Looks like a reconnaissance cruise. It’s not stopping. Still no ID on the occupants. It’s getting real close now. I’m looking right down at the roof. Dark tint on the rear side glass. I’m going to lose them any second. It’s right underneath us now.”

  Reacher stood up tight against the wall and peered down at the best angle he could get. The way the louvers were set in the frame gave him a blind spot maybe forty feet deep.

  “Where is it now?” he called.

  “Don’t know.”

  He heard the sound of an engine over the moan of the wind. A big V-8, turning slowly. He stared down and a metallic gold hood slid into view. Then a roof. Then a rear window. The truck passed all the way underneath him and rolled through the town and crossed the bridge at maybe twenty miles an hour. It stayed slow for a hundred more yards. Then it accelerated. It picked up speed fast.

  “Scope,” he called.

  Neagley tossed it back to him and he rested it on a louver and watched the truck drive away to the north. The rear window was tinted black and there was an arc where the wiper had cleared the salt spray. The rear bumper was chrome. He could see raised lettering that read Chevrolet Tahoe. The rear plate was indecipherable. It was caked with road salt. He could see hand marks where the tailgate had been raised and lowered. It looked like a truck that had done some serious mileage in the last day or two.

  “It’s heading out,” he called.

  He watched it in the scope all the way. It bounced and swayed and grew smaller and smaller. It took ten whole minutes to drive all the way out of his field of vision. It rose up over the last hump in the road and then disappeared with a last flash of sun on gold paint.

  “Anything more?” he called.

  “Clear to the south,” Neagley called back.

  “I’m going down for the map. You can watch both directions while I’m gone. Do some limbo dancing under this damn clock thing.”

  He crawled to the trapdoor and got his feet on the ladder. Went down, stiff and sore and cold. He made it to the ledge and down the winding staircase. Out of the tower and out of the church into the weak midday sun. He limped across the graveyard toward the car. Saw Froelich’s father standing right next to it, looking at it like it might answer a question. The old guy saw his approach reflected in the window glass and spun around to face him.

  “Mr. Stuyvesant is on the phone for you,” he said. “From the Secret Service office in Washington D.C.”

  “Now?”

  “He’s been holding twenty minutes. I’ve been trying to find you.”

  “Where’s the phone?”

  “At the house.”

  The Froelich house was one of the white buildings on the short southeastern leg of the K. The old guy led the way with his long loping stride. Reacher had to hurry to keep up with him. The
house had a front garden with a white picket fence. It was full of herbs and cottage plants that had died back from the cold. Inside it was dim and fragrant. There were wide dark boards on the floors. Rag rugs here and there. The old guy led the way into a front parlor. There was an antique table under the window with a telephone and a photograph on it. The telephone was an old model with a heavy receiver and a plaited cord insulated with brown fabric. The photograph was of Froelich herself, aged about eighteen. Her hair was a little longer than she had kept it, and a little lighter. Her face was open and innocent, and her smile was sweet. Her eyes were dark blue, alive with hopes for the future.

  There was no chair next to the table. Clearly the Froelichs came from a generation that preferred to stand up while talking on the telephone. Reacher unraveled the cord and held the phone to his ear.

  “Stuyvesant?” he said.

  “Reacher? You got any good news for me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “The service is scheduled for eight o’clock,” Reacher said. “But I guess you know that already.”

  “What else do I need to know?”

  “You coming in by chopper?”

  “That’s the plan. He’s still in Oregon right now. We’re going to fly him to an air base in South Dakota and then take a short hop in an Air Force helicopter. We’ll have eight people altogether, including me.”

  “He only wanted three.”

  “He can’t object. We’re all her friends.”

  “Can’t you have a mechanical problem? Just stay in South Dakota?”

  “He’d know. And the Air Force wouldn’t play anyway. They wouldn’t want to go down in history as the reason why he couldn’t make it.”

  Reacher stood and looked out the window. “OK, so you’ll see the church easy enough. You’ll land across the street to the east. There’s a good place right there. Then he’s got about fifty yards to the church door. I can absolutely guarantee the immediate surroundings. We’re going to be in the church all night. But you’re going to hate what you see farther out. There’s about a hundred-fifty-degree field of fire to the south and west. It’s completely open. And there’s plenty of concealment.”

  Silence in D.C.

  “I can’t do it,” Stuyvesant said. “I can’t bring him into that. Or any of my people. I’m not going to lose anybody else.”

  “So just hope for the best,” Reacher said.

  “Not my way. You’re going to have to deliver.”

  “We will if we can.”

  “How will I know? You don’t have radios. Cell phones won’t work out there. And it’s too cumbersome to keep on using this land line.”

  Reacher paused for a second.

  “We’ve got a black Yukon,” he said. “Right now it’s parked on the road, right next to the church, to the east. If it’s still there when you show up, then pull out and go home. Armstrong will just have to swallow it. But if it’s gone, then we’re gone, and we won’t be gone unless we’ve delivered, you follow?”

  “OK, understood,” Stuyvesant said. “A black Yukon east of the church, we abort. No Yukon, we land. Have you searched the town?”

  “We can’t do a house-to-house. But it’s a very small place. Strangers are going to stand out, believe me.”

  “Nendick came around. He’s talking a little. He says the same as Andretti. He was approached by the two of them and took them to be cops.”

  “They are cops. We’re definite about that. Did you get descriptions?”

  “No. He’s still thinking about his wife. Didn’t seem right to tell him he probably didn’t need to.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “I’d like to get some closure for him. At least find her body, maybe.”

  “I’m not planning an arrest here.”

  Silence in D.C.

  “OK,” Stuyvesant said. “I guess we won’t be seeing you either way. So, good luck.”

  “You too,” Reacher said.

  He put the receiver back in the cradle and tidied the cord into a neat curl on the table. Looked out at the view. The window faced north and east across an empty ocean of waist-high grass. Then he turned away from it and saw Mr. Froelich watching him from the parlor doorway.

  “They’re coming here, aren’t they?” the old man said. “The people who killed my daughter? Because Armstrong is coming here.”

  “They might be here already,” Reacher said.

  Mr. Froelich shook his head. “Everybody would be talking about it.”

  “Did you see that gold truck come through?”

  The old man nodded. “It passed me, going real slow.”

  “Who was in it?”

  “I didn’t see. The windows were dark. I didn’t like to stare.”

  “OK,” Reacher said. “If you hear about anybody new in town, come and tell me.”

  The old man nodded again. “You’ll know as soon as I do. And I’ll know as soon as anybody new arrives. Word travels fast here.”

  “We’ll be in the church tower,” Reacher said.

  “Are you here on behalf of Armstrong?”

  Reacher said nothing.

  “No,” Mr. Froelich said. “You’re here to take an eye for an eye, aren’t you?”

  Reacher nodded. “And a tooth for a tooth.”

  “A life for a life.”

  “Two for five, to be accurate,” Reacher said. “They get the fat end of the deal.”

  “Are you comfortable with that?”

  “Are you?”

  The old guy’s watery eyes flicked all around the sunless room and came to rest on his daughter’s eighteen-year-old face.

  “Do you have a child?” he asked.

  “No,” Reacher said. “I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” the old man said. “Not anymore. So I’m comfortable with it.”

  Reacher walked back to the Yukon and took the hiker’s map off the backseat. Then he climbed the church tower and found Neagley shuttling back and forth between the north and south side.

  “All clear,” she said, over the tick of the clock.

  “Stuyvesant called,” he said. “To the Froelichs’ house. He’s panicking. And Nendick woke up. Same approach as Andretti.”

  He unfolded the map and spread it out flat on the bell chamber floor. Put his finger on Grace. It was in the center of a rough square made by four roads. The square was maybe eighty miles high and eighty wide. The right-hand perimeter was made by Route 59, which ran up from Douglas in the south through a town called Bill to a town called Wright in the north. The top edge of the square was Route 387, which ran west from Wright to Edgerton. Both roads were shown on the map as secondaries. They had driven part of 387 already and knew it to be a pretty decent strip of blacktop. The left-hand edge of the square was I-25, which came down from Montana in the north and ran straight past Edgerton and all the way down to Casper. The bottom of the square was also I-25, where it came out of Casper and doglegged east to Douglas before turning south again and heading for Cheyenne. The whole eighty-mile square was split into two more or less equal vertical rectangles by the dirt road that ran north to south through Grace. That road showed up on the map as a thin dotted gray line. The key in the margin called it an unpaved minor track.

  “What do you think?” Neagley asked.

  Reacher traced the square with his finger. Widened his radius and traced a hundred miles east, and north, and west, and south. “I think that in the whole history of the western United States no person has ever just passed through Grace, Wyoming. It’s inconceivable. Why would anybody? Any coherent journey south to north or east to west would miss it altogether. Casper to Wright, say. Bottom left to top right. You’d use I-25 east to Douglas and Route 59 north out of Douglas to Wright. Coming through Grace makes no sense at all. It saves no miles. It just slows you down, because it’s a dirt track. And would you even notice the track? Remember what it looked like at the north end? I thought it was going nowhere.”


  “And we’ve got a hiker’s map,” Neagley said. “Maybe it’s not even on a regular road map.”

  “So that truck passed through for a reason,” Reacher said. “Not by accident, not for the fun of it.”

  “Those were the guys,” Neagley said.

  Reacher nodded. “They were on their reconnaissance run.”

  “I agree,” Neagley said. “But did they like what they saw?”

  Reacher closed his eyes. What did they see? They saw a tiny town with no safe hiding places. A helicopter landing site just fifty yards from the church. And a black SUV that looked a little like an official Secret Service vehicle already parked on the road, big and obvious. With Colorado plates, and Denver was probably the nearest Secret Service Field Office.

  “I don’t think they were turning cartwheels,” he said.

  “So will they abort? Or will they come back?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Reacher said. “We wait and see.”

  They waited. The sun fell away into afternoon and the temperature dropped like a stone. The clock ticked 3,600 times every hour. Neagley went out for a walk and came back with a bag from the grocery store. They ate an improvised lunch. Then they developed a new lookout pattern based on the fact that no vehicle could get all the way through either field of view in less than about eight minutes. So they sat comfortably and every five minutes by Neagley’s watch they knelt up and shuffled over to their louvers and scanned the length of the road. Each time there was a small thrill of anticipation, and each time it was disappointed. But the regular physical movement helped against the cold. They started stretching in place, to keep loose. They did push-ups, to keep warm. The spare rounds in their pockets jingled loudly. Battle rattle, Neagley called it. From time to time Reacher pressed his face against the louvers and stared out at the snowfall in the west. The clouds were still low and black, held back by an invisible wall about fifty miles away.