Reacher stood still and considered his options. Didn’t take him long. He didn’t have any options. He was handcuffed. He had a guy about three feet behind him. He had a cop about eight feet in front of him. Two more guys three feet behind the cop. The riot gun was some kind of a Mossberg. He didn’t recognize the model, but he respected the brand.
“In the car,” the cop said.
Reacher moved forward and looped around the open door and jacked himself inside butt-first. The seat was covered in heavy vinyl and he slid across it easily. The floor was covered in pimpled rubber. The security screen was clear bulletproof plastic. He braced his feet, one in the left foot well and one in the right. Uncomfortable, with his hands cuffed behind him. He figured he was going to get bounced around.
The cop got back in the front. The suspension yielded to his weight. He reholstered the Mossberg. Slammed his door and put the transmission in drive and stamped on the gas. Reacher was thrown back against the cushion. Then the guy braked hard for a stop sign and Reacher was tossed forward. He twisted as he went and took the blow against the plastic screen with his shoulder. The cop repeated the procedure at the next four-way. And the next. But Reacher was OK with it. It was to be expected. He had driven the same way in the past, in the days when he was the guy in the front and someone else was the guy in the back. And it was a small town. Wherever the police station was, it couldn’t be far.
The police station was four blocks west and two blocks south of the restaurant. It was housed in another undistinguished brick building on a street wide enough to let the cop park nose-in to the curb on a diagonal. There was one other car there. That was all. Small town, small police department. The building had two stories. The cops had the ground floor. The town court was upstairs. Reacher guessed there were cells in the basement. His trip to the booking desk was uneventful. He didn’t make trouble. No point. No percentage in being a fugitive on foot in a town where the line was twelve miles away in one direction and maybe more in the other. The desk was manned by a patrolman who could have been the arresting officer’s kid brother. Same size and shape, same face, same hair, a little younger. Reacher was uncuffed and gave up the stuff from his pockets and his shoelaces. He had no belt. He was escorted down a winding stair and put in a six-by-eight cell fronted by ancient ironwork that had been painted maybe fifty times.
“Lawyer?” he asked.
“You know any?” the desk guy asked back.
“The public defender will do.”
The desk guy nodded and locked the gate and walked away. Reacher was left on his own. The cell block was otherwise empty. Three cells in a line, a narrow corridor, no windows. Each cell had a wall-mounted iron tray for a bed and a steel toilet with a sink built into the top of the tank. Bulkhead lights burned behind wire grilles on the ceilings. Reacher ran his right hand under cold water at the sink and massaged his knuckles. They were sore, but not damaged. He lay down on the cot and closed his eyes.
Welcome to Despair,he thought.
6
The public defender never showed. Reacher dozed for two hours and then the cop who had arrested him clattered down the stairs and unlocked the cell and gestured for him to get up.
“The judge is ready for you,” he said.
Reacher yawned. “I haven’t seen my lawyer.”
“Take it up with the court,” the cop said. “Not with me.”
“What kind of a half-assed system have you got here?”
“The same kind we’ve always had.”
“I think I’ll stay down here.”
“I could send your three remaining buddies in for a visit.”
“Save gas and send them straight to the hospital.”
“I could put you in handcuffs first. Strap you to the bed.”
“All by yourself?”
“I could bring a stun gun.”
“You live here in town?”
“Why?”
“Maybe I’ll come visit you one day.”
“I don’t think you will.”
The cop stood there waiting. Reacher shrugged to himself and swung his feet to the floor. Pushed himself upright and stepped out of the cell. Walking was awkward without his shoelaces. On the stairs he had to hook his toes to stop his shoes falling off altogether. He shuffled past the booking desk and followed the cop up another flight. A grander staircase. At the top was a wooden double door, closed. Alongside it was a sign on a short post with a heavy base. Same kind of thing as the restaurant sign, except this one said:Town Court. The cop opened the left-hand panel and stood aside. Reacher stepped into a courtroom. There was a center aisle and four rows of spectator seating. Then a bullpen rail and a prosecution table and a defense table, each with three wheelback chairs. There was a witness stand and a jury box and a judge’s dais. All the furniture and all the structures were made out of pine, lacquered dark and then darkened more by age and polish. The walls were paneled with the same stuff. There were flags behind the dais, Old Glory and something Reacher guessed was the state flag of Colorado.
The room was empty. It echoed and smelled of dust. The cop walked ahead and opened the bullpen gate. Pointed Reacher toward the defense table. The cop sat down at the prosecution table. They waited. Then an inconspicuous door in the back wall opened and a man in a suit walked in. The cop jumped up and said, “All rise.” Reacher stayed in his seat.
The man in the suit clumped up three steps and slid in behind the dais. He was bulky and somewhere over sixty and had a full head of white hair. His suit was cheap and badly cut. He picked up a pen and straightened a legal pad in front of him. He looked at Reacher and said, “Name?”
“I haven’t been Mirandized,” Reacher said.
“You haven’t been charged with a crime,” the old guy said. “This isn’t a trial.”
“So what is it?”
“A hearing.”
“About what?”
“It’s an administrative matter, that’s all. Possibly just a technicality. But I do need to ask you some questions.”
Reacher said nothing.
The guy asked, “Name?”
“I’m sure the police department copied my passport and showed it to you.”
“For the record, please.”
The guy’s tone was neutral and his manner was reasonably courteous. So Reacher shrugged and said, “Jack Reacher. No middle initial.”
The guy wrote it down. Followed up with his date of birth, and his Social Security number, and his nationality. Then he asked, “Address?”
Reacher said, “No fixed address.”
The guy wrote it down. Asked, “Occupation?”
“None.”
“Purpose of your visit to Despair?”
“Tourism.”
“How do you propose to support yourself during your visit?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. I didn’t anticipate a major problem. This isn’t exactly London or Paris or New York City.”
“Please answer the question.”
“I have a bank balance,” Reacher said.
The guy wrote it all down. Then he sniffed and skipped his pen back over the lines he had already completed and paused. Asked, “What was your last address?”
“An APO box.”
“APO?”
“Army Post Office.”
“You’re a veteran?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How long did you serve?”
“Thirteen years.”
“Until?”
“I mustered out ten years ago.”
“Unit?”
“Military Police.”
“Final rank?”
“Major.”
“And you haven’t had a permanent address since you left the army?”
“No, I haven’t.”
The guy made a pronounced check mark against one of his lines. Reacher saw his pen move four times, twice in one direction and twice in the other. Then the guy asked, “How long have you been out of work?”
“Ten years,” Reacher said.
“You haven’t worked since you left the army?”
“Not really.”
“A retired major couldn’t find a job?”
“This retired major didn’t want to find a job.”
“Yet you have a bank balance?”
“Savings,” Reacher said. “Plus occasional casual labor.”
The guy made another big check mark. Two vertical scratches, two horizontal. Then he asked, “Where did you stay last night?”
“In Hope,” Reacher said. “In a motel.”
“And your bags are still there?”
“I don’t have any bags.”
The guy made another check mark.
“You walked here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Reacher said.
“Why?”
“No buses, and I didn’t find a ride.”
“No. Why here?”
“Tourism,” Reacher said again.
“What had you heard about our little town?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Yet you decided to visit?”
“Evidently.”
“Why?”
“I found the name intriguing.”
“That’s not a very compelling reason.”
“I have to be somewhere. And thanks for the big welcome.”
The guy made a fourth big check mark. Two vertical lines, two horizontal. Then he skipped his pen down his list, slowly and methodically, fourteen answers, plus four diversions to the margin for the check marks. He said, “I’m sorry, but I find you to be in contravention of one of Despair’s town ordinances. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“Leave?”
“Leave town.”
“What ordinance?”
“Vagrancy,” the guy said.
7
Reacher said, “There’s a vagrancy ordinance here?”
The judge nodded and said, “As there is in most Western towns.”
“I never came across one before.”
“Then you’ve been very lucky.”
“I’m not a vagrant.”
“Homeless for ten years, jobless for ten years, you ride buses or beg rides or walk from place to place performing occasional casual labor, what else would you call yourself?”
“Free,” Reacher said. “And lucky.”
The judge nodded again, and said, “I’m glad you see a silver lining.”
“What about my First Amendment right of free assembly?”
“The Supreme Court ruled long ago. Municipalities have the right to exclude undesirables.”
“Tourists are undesirable? What does the Chamber of Commerce think about that?”
“This is a quiet, old-fashioned town. People don’t lock their doors. We don’t feel the need. Most of the keys were lost years ago, in our grandparents’ time.”
“I’m not a thief.”
“But we err on the side of caution. Experience elsewhere shows that the itinerant jobless have always been a problem.”
“Suppose I don’t go? What’s the penalty?”
“Thirty days’ imprisonment.”
Reacher said nothing. The judge said, “The officer will drive you to the town line. Get a job and a home, and we’ll welcome you back with open arms. But don’t come back until you do.”
The cop took him downstairs again and gave him back his cash and his passport and his ATM card and his toothbrush. Nothing was missing. Everything was there. Then the cop handed over his shoelaces and waited at the booking desk while he threaded them through the eyelets in his shoes and pulled them tight and tied them off. Then the cop put his hand on the butt of his gun and said, “Car.” Reacher walked ahead of him through the lobby and stepped out the street door. It was late in the day, late in the year, and it was getting dark. The cop had moved his cruiser. Now it was parked nose-out.
“In the back,” the cop said.
Reacher heard a plane in the sky, far to the west. A single engine, climbing hard. A Cessna or a Beech or a Piper, small and lonely in the vastness. He pulled the car door and slid inside. Without handcuffs he was a lot more comfortable. He sprawled sideways, like he would in a taxi or a Town Car. The cop leaned in after him, one hand on the roof and one on the door, and said, “We’re serious. You come back, we’ll arrest you, and you’ll spend thirty days in that same cell. Always assuming you don’t look at us cross-eyed and we shoot you for resisting.”
“You married?” Reacher asked.
“Why?”
“I thought not. You seem to prefer jerking off.”
The cop stood still for a long moment and then slammed the door and got in the front. He took off down the street and headed north.Six blocks to Main Street, Reacher figured.If he turns left, takes me onward, to the west, maybe I’ll let it go. But if he turns right, takes me back east to Hope, maybe I won’t.
Reacher hated turning back.
Forward motion was his organizing principle.
Six blocks, six stop signs. At each one the cop braked gently and slowed and looked left and looked right and then rolled forward. At Main Street he came to a complete halt. He paused. Then he hit the gas and nosed forward and swung the wheel.
And turned right.
East.
Back toward Hope.
8
Reacher saw the dry goods emporium and the gas station and the abandoned motor court and the vacant unbuilt lot slide by and then the cop accelerated to a steady sixty miles an hour. The tires rumbled over the rough road and stray pebbles spattered the underside and bounced and skittered away to the shoulders. Twelve minutes later the car slowed and coasted and braked and came to a stop. The cop climbed out and put his hand on the butt of his gun and opened Reacher’s door.
“Out,” he said.
Reacher slid out and felt Despair’s grit under his shoes.
The cop jerked his thumb, to the east, where it was darker.
“That way,” he said.
Reacher stood still.
The cop took the gun off his belt. It was a Glock nine millimeter, boxy and dull in the gloom. No safety catch. Just a latch on the trigger, already compressed by the cop’s meaty forefinger.
“Please,” the cop said. “Just give me a reason.”
Reacher stepped forward, three paces. Saw the moon rising on the far horizon. Saw the end of Despair’s rough gravel and the start of Hope’s smooth blacktop. Saw the inch-wide trench between, filled with black compound. The car was stopped with its push bars directly above it. The expansion joint. The boundary. The line. Reacher shrugged and stepped over it. One long pace, back to Hope.
The cop called, “Don’t bother us again.”
Reacher didn’t reply. Didn’t turn around. Just stood and faced east and listened as the car backed up and turned and crunched away across the stones. When the sound was all gone in the distance he shrugged again and started walking.
He walked less than twenty yards and saw headlights a mile away, coming straight at him out of Hope. The beams were widely spaced, bouncing high, dipping low. A big car, moving fast. It came at him out of the gathering darkness and when it was a hundred yards away he saw it was another cop car. Another Crown Vic, painted black and white, police spec, with push bars, lights, and antennas. It stopped short of him and a spotlight mounted on the windshield pillar lit up and swiveled jerkily and played its beam all the way up and down him twice, coming to rest on his face, blinding him. Then it clicked off again and the car crept forward, tires hissing on the smooth asphalt surface, and stopped again with the driver’s door exactly alongside him. The door had a gold shield painted on it, withHPD scrolled across the middle.Hope Police Department. The window buzzed down and a hand went up and a dome light came on inside. Reacher saw a woman cop at the wheel, short blonde hair backlit by the weak yellow bulb above and behind her.
“Want a ride?” she asked.
“I’ll walk,” Reacher said.
“It’s five miles to town.”
“I walked out here, I can walk back.”
“Riding is easier.”
“I’m OK.”
The woman was quiet for a moment. Reacher listened to the Crown Vic’s engine. It was idling patiently. Belts were turning, a muffler was ticking as it cooled. Then Reacher moved on. He took three steps and heard the car’s transmission go into reverse and then the car came alongside him again, driving backward, keeping pace as he walked. The window was still down. The woman said, “Give yourself a break, Zeno.”
Reacher stopped. Said, “You know who Zeno was?”
The car stopped.
“Zeno of Cittium,” the woman said. “The founder of Stoicism. I’m telling you to stop being so long-suffering.”
“Stoics have to be long-suffering. Stoicism is about the unquestioning acceptance of destinies. Zeno said so.”
“Your destiny is to return to Hope. Doesn’t matter to Zeno whether you walk or ride.”
“What are you anyway—a philosopher or a cop or a cab driver?”
“The Despair PD calls us when they’re dumping someone at the line. As a courtesy.”
“This happens a lot?”
“More than you’d think.”
“And you come on out and pick us up?”
“We’re here to serve. Says so on the badge.”
Reacher looked down at the shield on her door.HPD was written across the scroll in the center, butTo Protect was written at the top of the escutcheon, withAnd Serve added at the bottom.
“I see,” he said.
“So get in.”
“Why do they do it?”
“Get in and I’ll tell you.”
“You going to refuse to let me walk?”
“It’s five miles. You’re grumpy now, you’ll be real cranky when you arrive in town. Believe me. We’ve seen it before. Better for all of us if you ride.”
“I’m different. Walking calms me down.”
The woman said, “I’m not going to beg, Reacher.”
“You know my name?”
“Despair PD passed it on. As a courtesy.”
“And a warning?”
“Maybe. Right now I’m trying to decide whether to take them seriously.”
Reacher shrugged again and put his hand on the rear door handle.
Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16] Page 451
