Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  I said nothing.

  “Your room was locked,” she said.

  “I climbed out the window,” I said. “I don’t like to be locked in.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I took a stroll. Like I thought you were doing.”

  “Then you climbed back in?”

  I nodded. Said nothing.

  “The wall is your big problem,” she said. “There are the lights and the razor wire, obviously, but there are sensors too, in the ground. Paulie would hear you from thirty yards away.”

  “I was just getting some air,” I said.

  “No sensors under the driveway,” she said. “They couldn’t make them work under the blacktop. But there’s a camera on the lodge. And there’s a motion alarm on the gate itself. Do you know what an NSV is?”

  “Soviet tank-turret machine gun,” I said.

  “Paulie’s got one,” she said. “He keeps it by the side door. He’s been told to use it if he hears the motion alarm.”

  I breathed in, and then I breathed out. An NSV is more than five feet long and weighs more than fifty-five pounds. It uses cartridges four and a half inches long and a half-inch wide. It can fire twelve of them in a second. It has no safety mechanism. The combination of Paulie and an NSV would be nobody’s idea of fun.

  “But I think you swam,” she said. “I can smell the sea on your shirt. Very faintly. You didn’t dry yourself properly when you got back.”

  We passed a sign for a town called Saco. I coasted to the shoulder and stopped again. Cars and trucks whined past us.

  “You were incredibly lucky,” she said. “There are some bad riptides off the point. Strong undertow. But I expect you went in behind the garages. In which case you missed them by about ten feet.”

  “I don’t work for the government,” I said.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t you think you’re taking a hell of a chance?” I said. “Let’s say I wasn’t exactly what I appeared to be. Just for the sake of argument. Let’s say I was from a rival organization, for instance. Don’t you see the risk? You think you would make it back to the house alive? Saying what you’re saying?”

  She looked away.

  “Then I guess that will be the test,” she said. “If you’re a government man, you won’t kill me. If you’re not, you will.”

  “I’m just a guy,” I said. “You could get me in trouble.”

  “Let’s find coffee,” she said. “Saco is a nice town. All the big mill owners lived there, way back.”

  We ended up on an island in the middle of the Saco River. There was an enormous brick building on it that had been a gigantic mill, way back in history. Now it was being gentrified into hundreds of offices and stores. We found a glass-and-chrome coffee shop called Café Café. A pun in French, I guessed. But the smell alone was worth the trip. I ignored the lattes and the flavored foamy stuff and ordered regular coffee, hot, black, large. Then I turned to Elizabeth Beck. She shook her head.

  “You stay,” she said. “I’ve decided to go shopping. Alone. I’ll meet you back here in four hours.”

  I said nothing.

  “I don’t need your permission,” she said. “You’re just my driver.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I said.

  She gave me twenty bucks from her purse. I paid for the coffee and carried it to a table. She came with me and watched me sit down.

  “Four hours,” she said. “Maybe a little more, but no less. In case there’s something you need to do.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do,” I said. “I’m just your driver.”

  She looked at me. Zipped her purse. The space around my table was tight. She twisted a little to get the strap of her purse square on her shoulder. Jackknifed slightly to avoid touching the table and spilling my coffee. There was a clunk, like plastic hitting the floor. I looked down. Something had fallen out from under her skirt. She stared at it and her face slowly turned a deep shade of red. She bent and picked the thing up and clutched it in her hand. Fumbled her way onto the chair opposite me like all the strength had gone out of her. Like she was utterly humiliated. She was holding a pager. It was a black plastic rectangle a little smaller than my own e-mail device. She stared at it. Her neck was bright red all the way down under her sweater. She spoke in a low rueful whisper.

  “He makes me carry it there,” she said. “Inside my underpants. He likes it to have what he calls the appropriate effect when it buzzes. He checks that it’s there every time I go through the gate. Normally I take it out and put it in my bag afterward. But I didn’t want to do that, you know, this time, with you watching.”

  I said nothing. She stood up. Blinked twice and took a breath and swallowed.

  “Four hours,” she said. “In case there’s something you need to do.”

  Then she walked away. I watched her go. She turned left outside the door and disappeared. An elaborate con game? It was possible that they could try to set me up with her story. Possible that she could carry a pager in her pants to back it up. Possible that she could contrive to shake it loose at exactly the right moment. All possible. But what wasn’t even remotely possible was that she could manufacture a deep red blush, right on cue. Nobody can do that. Not even the world’s finest actress at the peak of her powers could do that. So Elizabeth Beck was for real.

  I didn’t abandon sensible precautions entirely. They were too deeply ingrained for that. I finished my coffee like an innocent person with all the time in the world. Then I strolled out to the mall’s internal sidewalks and turned random lefts and rights until I was sure I was alone. Then I went back to the coffee shop and bought another cup. Borrowed their restroom key and locked myself in. Sat on the lid of the john and took off my shoe. There was a message waiting from Duffy: Why interest in Teresa Daniel’s real name? I ignored it and sent: Where is your motel? Ninety seconds later she answered: What did you have for breakfast first day in Boston? I smiled. Duffy was a practical woman. She was worried my e-mail device had been compromised. She was asking a security question. I sent: Short stack with egg, coffee, three-dollar tip, I ate it. Any other answer than that and she would be running for her car. Ninety seconds later she came back with: West side of Route One 100 yards south of Kennebunk River. I figured that was about ten miles away. I sent: See you in 10 minutes.

  It took me more like fifteen minutes by the time I had gotten back to the car and fought the traffic where Route One bottlenecked through Saco. I kept one eye on the mirror the whole way and saw nothing to worry about. I crossed the river and found a motel on my right. It was a cheerful bright gray place pretending to be a string of classic New England saltboxes. It was April and not very busy. I saw the Taurus I had been a passenger in out of Boston parked next to the end room. It was the only plain sedan I could see. I put the Cadillac thirty yards away behind a wooden shed hiding a big propane tank. No sense in leaving it visible to everybody passing by on Route One.

  I walked back and knocked once and Susan Duffy opened the door fast and we hugged. We just went straight into it. It took me completely by surprise. I think it took her by surprise, too. We probably wouldn’t have done it if we had thought about it first. But I guess she was anxious and I was stressed and it just happened. And it felt real good. She was tall, but she was slight. My hand spanned almost the whole width of her back and I felt her ribs give a little. She smelled fresh and clean. No perfume. Just skin, not long out of the shower.

  “What do you know about Teresa?” she asked.

  “You alone?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The others are in Portland. Customs says Beck’s got a boat coming in today.”

  We let go of each other. Moved on into the room.

  “What are they going to do?” I asked.

  “Observation only,” she said. “Don’t worry. They’re good at it. Nobody will see them.”

  It was a very generic motel room. One queen bed, a chair, a desk, a TV, a window, a through-the-wall air conditione
r. The only things that distinguished it from a hundred thousand other motel rooms were a blue-and-gray color scheme and nautical prints on the wall. They gave it a definite New England coastal flavor.

  “What do you know about Teresa?” she asked again.

  I told her about the name carved into the basement room floor. And the date. Duffy stared at me. Then she closed her eyes.

  “She’s alive,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Well, she was alive yesterday,” I said.

  She opened her eyes. “You think she’s alive today?”

  I nodded. “I think the odds are pretty good. They want her for something. Why keep her alive nine weeks and kill her now?”

  Duffy said nothing.

  “I think they just moved her,” I said. “That’s all. That’s my best guess. The door was locked in the morning, she was gone by the evening.”

  “You think she’s been treated OK?”

  I didn’t tell her what Paulie liked to do with Elizabeth Beck. She already had enough to worry about.

  “I think she scratched her name with a fork,” I said. “And there was a spare plate of steak and potatoes lying around last night, like they took her out in such a hurry they forgot to tell the cook. So I think they were probably feeding her. I think she’s a prisoner, plain and simple.”

  “Where would they have taken her?”

  “I think Quinn’s got her,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it seems to me what we’re looking at here is one organization superimposed over another. Beck’s a bad guy for sure, but he’s been taken over by a worse guy.”

  “Like a corporate thing?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Like a hostile takeover. Quinn’s put his staff into Beck’s operation. He’s riding it like a parasite.”

  “But why would they move Teresa?”

  “A precaution,” I said.

  “Because of you? How worried are they?”

  “A little,” I said. “I think they’re moving things and hiding things.”

  “But they haven’t confronted you yet.”

  I nodded. “They’re not really sure about me.”

  “So why are they taking a risk with you?”

  “Because I saved the boy.”

  She nodded. Went quiet. She looked a little tired. I guessed maybe she hadn’t slept at all since I asked her for the car at midnight. She was wearing jeans and a man’s Oxford shirt. The shirt was pure white and neatly tucked in. The top two buttons were undone. She was wearing boat shoes over bare feet. The room heat was set on high. There was a laptop computer on the desk, next to the room phone. The phone was a console thing all covered in fast-dial buttons. I checked the number and memorized it. The laptop was plugged through a complex adapter into a data port built into the base of the phone. There was a screensaver playing on it. It showed the Justice Department shield drifting around. Every time it reached the edge of the screen it would bounce off in a new random direction like that ancient video tennis game. There was no sound with it.

  “Have you seen Quinn yet?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Know where he operates out of?”

  I shook my head again. “I haven’t really seen anything. Except their books are coded and they don’t have enough of a distribution fleet to be moving what they seem to move. Maybe their customers collect.”

  “That would be insane,” she said. “They wouldn’t show their customers their base of operations. In fact we already know they don’t. Beck met with the LA dealer in a parking garage, remember.”

  “So maybe they rendezvous somewhere neutral. For the actual sales. Somewhere close by, in the northeast.”

  She nodded. “How did you see their books?”

  “I was in their office last night. That’s why I wanted the car.”

  She moved to the desk and sat down and tapped the laptop’s touch pad. The screensaver disappeared. My last e-mail was displayed under it: See you in 10 minutes. She went into the deleted items directory and clicked on a message from Powell, the MP who had sold me out.

  “We traced those names for you,” she said. “Angel Doll did eight years in Leavenworth for sexual assault. Should have been life for rape and murder, but the prosecution screwed up. He was a communications technician. Raped a female lieutenant colonel, left her to bleed to death from the inside. He’s not a very nice guy.”

  “He’s a very dead guy,” I said.

  She just looked at me.

  “He checked the Maxima’s plates,” I said. “Confronted me. Big error. He was the first casualty.”

  “You killed him?”

  I nodded. “Broke his neck.”

  She said nothing.

  “His choice,” I said. “He was about to compromise the mission.”

  She was pale.

  “You OK?” I said.

  She looked away. “I wasn’t really expecting casualties.”

  “There might be more. Get used to it.”

  She looked back at me. Took a breath. Nodded.

  “OK,” she said. Then she paused. “Sorry about the plates. That was a mistake.”

  “Anything about Paulie?”

  She scrolled down the screen. “Doll had a buddy in Leavenworth called Paul Masserella, a bodybuilder, serving eight for assault on an officer. His defense counsel pleaded it down on account of steroid rage. Tried to blame the army for not monitoring Masserella’s intake.”

  “His intake is all over the place now.”

  “You think he’s the same Paulie?”

  “Must be. He told me he doesn’t like officers. I kicked him in the kidney. It would have killed you or Eliot. He didn’t even notice.”

  “What’s he going to do about it?”

  “I hate to think.”

  “You OK with going back?”

  “Beck’s wife knows I’m phony.”

  She stared at me. “How?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she just wants me to be. Maybe she’s trying to convince herself.”

  “Is she broadcasting it?”

  “Not yet. She saw me out of the house last night.”

  “You can’t go back.”

  “I’m not a quitter.”

  “You’re not an idiot, either. It’s out of control now.”

  I nodded. “But it’s my decision.”

  She shook her head. “It’s our decision, jointly. You’re depending on our backup.”

  “We need to get Teresa out of there. We really do, Duffy. It’s a hell of a situation for her to be in.”

  “I could send SWAT teams for her. Now you’ve confirmed she’s alive.”

  “We don’t know where she is right now.”

  “She’s my responsibility.”

  “And Quinn is mine.”

  She said nothing.

  “You can’t send SWAT teams,” I said. “You’re off the books. Asking for SWAT teams is the same thing as asking to be fired.”

  “I’m prepared to get fired, if it comes to it.”

  “It’s not just you,” I said. “Six other guys would get fired with you.”

  She said nothing.

  “And I’m going back anyway,” I said. “Because I want Quinn. With you or without you. So you might as well use me.”

  “What did Quinn do to you?”

  I said nothing. She was quiet for a long moment.

  “Would Mrs. Beck talk to us?” she said.

  “I don’t want to ask her,” I said. “Asking her is the same thing as confirming her suspicions. I can’t be sure exactly where that would lead.”

  “What would you do if you went back?”

  “Get promoted,” I said. “That’s the key. I need to move up into Duke’s job. Then I’ll be top boy on Beck’s side. Then I’ll get some kind of official liaison with Quinn’s side. That’s what I need. I’m working in the dark without it.”

  “We need progress,” she said. “We need evidence.”

 
; “I know,” I said.

  “How will you get promoted?”

  “Same way anybody gets promoted,” I said.

  She didn’t reply to that. Just switched her e-mail program back to inbox and stood up and stepped away to the window to look at the view. I looked at her. The light behind her was coming right through her shirt. Her hair was swept back and a couple of inches of it was on her collar. It looked like a five-hundred-dollar style to me, but I guessed on a DEA salary she probably did it herself. Or got a girlfriend to do it for her. I could picture her in someone’s kitchen, on a chair set out in the middle of the floor, an old towel around her neck, interested in how she looked but not interested enough to spend big bucks in a city salon.

  Her butt looked spectacular in the jeans. I could see the label on the back: Waist 24. Leg 32. That made her inseam five inches short of mine, which I was prepared to accept. But a waist a whole foot smaller than mine was ridiculous. I carry almost no body fat. All I’ve got in there are the necessary organs, tight and dense. She must have had miniature versions. I see a waist like that and all I want to do is span it with my hands and marvel at it. Maybe bury my head somewhere a little higher up. I couldn’t tell what that might feel like with her unless she turned around. But I suspected it might feel very nice indeed.

  “How dangerous is it now?” she asked. “Realistic assessment?”

  “Can’t tell,” I said. “Too many variables. Mrs. Beck is running on intuition, that’s all. Maybe a little wish-fulfillment with it. She’s got no hard evidence. In terms of hard evidence I think I’m holding up OK. So even if Mrs. Beck talks to somebody it all depends on whether they choose to take a woman’s intuition seriously or not.”

  “She saw you out of the house. That’s hard evidence.”

  “But of what? That I’m restless?”

  “This guy Doll was killed while you weren’t locked up.”

  “They’ll assume I didn’t get past the wall. And they won’t find Doll. No way. Not in time.”

  “Why did they move Teresa?”

  “Precaution.”

  “It’s out of control now,” she said again.

  I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see the gesture. “This kind of thing is always out of control. It’s to be expected. Nothing ever works like you predict it. All plans fall apart as soon as the first shot is fired.”