Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  The gravel pile itself had spread and settled during the idle months. Weeds were showing through the edges where it was thin. It was knee-high over most of its area, and up close it was about the size of a queen bed. The divots and the pockmarks in its top surface were like a Rorschach test. It was entirely possible to see them as the result of innocent children running and jumping and stomping. It was equally possible to see them as the result of a grown woman being thrown down and raped, in a violent flurry of knees and elbows and backs.

  I squatted down and ran a fingertip through the tiny stones. They were surprisingly hard to move. They were packed down tight, and some kind of a dusty residue on them seemed to have mixed with rain or dew to form a weak adhesive. I made a furrow about an inch wide and an inch deep, and then I turned my hand over.

  I pressed the back of my hand into the pile and held it there for a minute. Then I looked at the result. Small white marks, but no indentations, because there was no real flesh on the back of my hand. So I pulled up my sleeve and pressed the inside of my forearm against the pile. I put the flat of my other hand on it and leaned on it hard. I bounced it up and down a couple of times, and scrabbled it around. Then I looked at it.

  The result was some small red marks, some small white marks, and a whole lot of dust, dirt, and mud. I spat on my arm and wiped it on my pants and the resulting clean stripe looked both very like and very unlike the small of Janice May Chapman’s back. Another Rorschach test. Inconclusive.

  But I did come to one minor conclusion. I cleaned up my arm as well as I could, which was not perfectly, and I decided that whatever gravel patch Chapman had been raped on, she had not only dressed afterward, but showered too.

  I walked on and found the wider street where Shawna Lindsay had lived. The second victim. The middle class girl, comparatively. Her baby brother was still in his yard. Sixteen years old. The ugly boy. He was just standing there. Doing nothing. Watching the street. Watching me approach. His eyes tracked me all the way. I stepped up on the shoulder and came to a stop face to face with him, with only his low picket fence between us.

  I said, “How’s life, kid?”

  He said, “My mom’s out.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “But that wasn’t what I asked.”

  “Life’s a bitch,” he said.

  “And then you die,” I said. Which I regretted, instantly. Insensitive, given his family’s recent history. But he took no notice. Which I was glad about. I said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Why? You earning a whitey merit badge? You need to find a black person to talk with today?”

  “I’m in the army,” I said. “Which means half my friends are black, and more importantly it means half my bosses are black. I talk to black people all the time, and they talk to me. So don’t give me that ghetto shit.”

  The boy was quiet for a second. Then he asked, “What part of the army are you in?”

  “Military Police.”

  “Is that a tough job?”

  “Tougher than tough,” I said. “Think about it logically. Any soldier could kick your ass, and I could kick any soldier’s ass.”

  “For real?”

  “More than real,” I said. “Real is for other people. Not for us.”

  He asked, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “A hunch.”

  “What kind?”

  I said, “My guess is no one ever talked to you about your sister’s death.”

  He looked down.

  I said, “Normally with a homicide victim, they talk to everyone who knew her. They ask for insights and opinions. They want to know what kinds of things she did, where she went, who she hung with. Did they ever talk to you about that kind of stuff?”

  “No,” he said. “Nobody ever talked to me.”

  “They should have,” I said. “I would have. Because brothers know things about sisters. Especially at the ages you two were. I bet you knew things about Shawna that no one else did. I bet she told you things she couldn’t tell your mom. And I bet you figured out some stuff on your own.”

  The kid shuffled in place a little. Bashful, and a little proud. Like saying: Yeah, maybe I did figure some things out. Out loud he said, “No one ever talks to me about anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m deformed. They think I’m slow, too.”

  “Who says you’re deformed?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Even your mom?”

  “She doesn’t say it, but she thinks it.”

  “Even your friends?”

  “I don’t have any friends. Who would want to be friends with me?”

  “They’re all wrong,” I said. “You’re not deformed. You’re ugly, but you’re not deformed. There’s a difference.”

  He smiled. “That’s what Shawna used to tell me.”

  I pictured the two of them together. Beauty and the beast. A tough life, for both of them. Tough for him, with the endless implied comparisons. Tough for her, with the endless need for tact and patience. I said, “You should join the army. You’d look like a movie star compared to half the people I know. You should see the guy that sent me here.”

  “I’m going to join the army,” he said. “I talked to someone about it.”

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “Shawna’s last boyfriend,” he said. “He was a soldier.”

  Chapter

  32

  The kid invited me inside. His mom was out, and there was a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. The house was dim and shuttered. It smelled stale. It was mean and narrow inside, but it had plenty of rooms. An eat-in kitchen, a living room, and what I guessed were three bedrooms in back. Space for two parents and two kids, except I saw no sign of a father, and Shawna was never coming home again.

  The kid told me his name was Bruce. We took glasses of tea and sat at the kitchen table. There was an old wall phone next to the refrigerator. Pale yellow plastic. Its cord had been stretched about twelve feet long. There was an old television set on the countertop. Small, but color, with chrome accents on the cabinet. Practically an antique, probably rescued from a trash pile somewhere and polished up like an old Cadillac.

  Up close and personal the kid was no better looking than he had been outside. But if you ignored his head, then the rest of him was in pretty good shape. He was all bone and muscle, broad through the chest and the shoulders, thick in the arms. Deep down he seemed patient and cheerful. I liked him, basically.

  He asked me, “Would they really let me join the army?”

  “Who is they?”

  “The army, I mean. The army itself. Would they let me in?”

  “Do you have felony convictions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “An arrest record of any kind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then of course they’ll let you in. They’d take you today if you were old enough.”

  “The others would laugh at me.”

  “Probably,” I said. “But not for the reason you think. Soldiers aren’t like that. They’d find something else. Something you never even thought of yet.”

  “I could wear my helmet all the time.”

  “Only if they find one big enough.”

  “And night vision goggles.”

  “Maybe a bomb disposal hood,” I said. I figured bomb disposal was the coming thing. Small wars and booby traps. But I didn’t say so. Not the kind of message a potential recruit wants to hear.

  I sipped my tea.

  The boy asked me, “Do you watch television?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Why?”

  “They have commercials,” he said. “Which means they have to fit an hour’s story into forty-some minutes. So they get right to it.”

  “You think that’s what I should do now?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “So who do you think killed your sister?”

  The boy took a sip of tea and a serious breath and then he
started in on everything he had been thinking about, and everything he had never been asked about. It all came tumbling out, fast, coherent, responsive, and thoughtful. He said, “Well, her throat was cut, so we need to think about who is trained to do that kind of thing, or experienced with that kind of thing, or both.”

  That kind of thing. His sister’s throat.

  I asked, “So who fits the bill?”

  “Soldiers,” he said. “Especially here. And ex-soldiers, especially here. Fort Kelham is field training for special ops guys. They know those skills. And hunters. And most people in town, to be honest. Including me.”

  “You? Are you a hunter?”

  “No, but I have to eat. People keep pigs.”

  “And?”

  “You think pigs commit suicide? We cut their throats.”

  “You’ve done that?”

  “Dozens of times. Sometimes I get a dollar.”

  I asked, “When and where did you last see Shawna alive?”

  “It was the day she was killed. It was a Friday in November. She left here about seven o’clock. After dark, anyway. She was all dressed up.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “Across the tracks. To Brannan’s bar, probably. That’s where she usually went.”

  “Is Brannan’s the most popular bar?”

  “They’re all popular. But Brannan’s is where most folk start out and finish up.”

  “Who did Shawna go with that night?”

  “She left on her own. Probably she was going to meet her boyfriend at the bar.”

  “Did she ever get there?”

  “No. She was found two streets from here. Where someone started to build a house.”

  “The place with the gravel pile?”

  The boy nodded. “She was dumped right on it. Like a human sacrifice in a history book.”

  We got up from the table and poked around the kitchen for a minute. Then we took more tea and sat down again. I said, “Tell me about Shawna’s last boyfriend.”

  “First white boyfriend she ever had.”

  “Did she like him?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Did they get along?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “No problems?”

  “Didn’t see any.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “He might have.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Can’t rule him out.”

  “Gut feeling?”

  “I want to say no, but someone killed her. It could have been him.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Reed. That was all Shawna ever said. Reed this, Reed that. Reed, Reed, Reed.”

  “Last name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We wear name tapes,” I said. “Battledress uniform, above the right breast pocket.”

  “I never saw him in uniform. They all wear jeans and T-shirts to town. Jackets, sometimes.”

  “Officer or enlisted man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You talked to him. Didn’t he say?”

  The kid shook his head. “He said his name was Reed. That’s all.”

  “Was he an asshole?”

  “A bit.”

  “Did he look like he worked hard for a living?”

  “Not really. He didn’t take things very seriously.”

  “Probably an officer, then,” I said. “What did he tell you about joining the army?”

  “He said serving your country was a noble thing to do.”

  “Definitely an officer.”

  “He said I could learn a skill. He said I might make specialist.”

  “You could do better than that.”

  “He said they would explain it all at the recruiting office. He said there’s a good one in Memphis.”

  “Don’t go there,” I said. “Way too dangerous. Recruiting offices are shared between all four branches of the service. The Marines might grab you first. Fate worse than death.”

  “So where should I go?”

  “Go straight to Kelham. There are recruiters on every post.”

  “Will that work?”

  “Sure it will. As soon as you’ve got something in your hand that proves you’re eighteen years old, they’ll let you in and never let you out again.”

  “But they say the army is getting smaller.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out, kid.”

  “So why would they want me?”

  “They’re still going to have hundreds of thousands of people. Tens of thousands will still leave every year. They’ll always need to be replaced.”

  “What’s wrong with the Marines?”

  “Nothing really. It’s a traditional rivalry. They say stuff, we say stuff.”

  “They do amphibious landings.”

  “History shows the army has done many more all on its own.”

  “Sheriff Deveraux was a Marine.”

  “Is a Marine,” I said. “They never stop being Marines, even after they leave. It’s one of their things.”

  “You like her,” the kid said. “I could tell. I saw you riding in her car.”

  “She’s OK,” I said. “Did Reed have a car? Shawna’s boyfriend?”

  The kid nodded. “They all have cars. I’m going to have a car too, after I join.”

  “What kind of car did Reed have?”

  “He had a 1957 Chevy Bel Air two-door hardtop. Not really a classic. It was kind of beat up.”

  “What color was it?”

  The kid said, “It was blue.”

  Chapter

  33

  The kid showed me his sister’s room. It was clean and tidy. Not preserved as a shrine, but not yet cleared out, either. It spoke of loss, and bewilderment, and lack of energy. The bed was made and small piles of clothes were neatly folded. No decision had been taken about its future fate.

  There was none of Shawna Lindsay’s personality on display. She had been a grown woman, not a teenager. There were no posters on the walls, no souvenirs of anything, no breathless diary. No keepsakes. She had owned some clothes, some shoes, and two books. That was all. One book was a thin thing explaining how to become a notary public. The other was an out-of-date tourist guide to Los Angeles.

  “Did she want to be in the movies?” I asked.

  “No,” the kid said. “She wanted to travel, that’s all.”

  “To LA specifically?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Did she have a job?”

  “She worked part time at the loan office. Next to Brannan’s bar. She could do her numbers pretty good.”

  “What did she tell you that she couldn’t tell your mom?”

  “That she hated it here. That she wanted to get out.”

  “Your mom didn’t want to hear that stuff?”

  “She wanted to keep Shawna safe. My mom is afraid of the world.”

  “Where does your mom work?”

  “She’s a cleaner. At the bars in town. She gets them ready for happy hour.”

  “What else do you know about Shawna?”

  The kid started to say something, and then he stopped. In the end he just shrugged and said nothing. He moved toward the center of the plain square space and stood there, as if he was soaking something up. Something in the still air. I got the feeling he had rarely been in that room. Not often before Shawna’s death, and not often since.

  He said, “I know I really miss her.”

  We went back to the kitchen and I asked, “If I left money, do you think your mom would mind if I used her phone?”

  “You need to make a call?” the kid asked back, as if that was an extraordinary thing.

  “Two calls,” I said. “One I need to make, and one I want to make.”

  “I don’t know how much it costs.”

  “Pay phones cost a quarter,” I said. “Suppose I left a dollar a call?”

  “That would be too much.”

  “Long distance,” I said.

&nb
sp; “Whatever you think is right. I’m going outside again.”

  I waited until I saw him emerge in the front yard. He took up a position near the fence, just standing there, watching the street, infinitely patient. Some kind of a perpetual vigil. I tucked a dollar bill between the phone’s plastic casing and the wall and took the receiver off the hook. I dialed the call I needed to make. Stan Lowrey, back on our shared home base. I went through his sergeant and a minute later he came on the line.

  I said, “Well, there’s a surprise. You’re still there. You’ve still got a job.”

  He said, “I think I’m safer than you are right now. Frances Neagley just reported back.”

  “She worries too much.”

  “You don’t worry enough.”

  “Is Karla Dixon still working financial stuff?”

  “I could find out.”

  “Ask her a question for me. I want to know if I should be concerned about money coming in from a place called Kosovo. Like gangsters laundering bales of cash. That kind of a thing.”

  “Doesn’t sound very likely. That’s the Balkans, right? They’re middle class if they own a goat. Rich, if they own two. Not like America.”

  I looked out the window and said, “Not so very different from parts of it.”

  Lowrey said, “I wish I was working financial stuff. I might have picked up some necessary skills. Like how to have savings.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get unemployment. For a spell, at least.”

  “You sound cheerful.”

  “I’ve got a lot to be cheerful about.”

  “Why? What’s going on down there?”

  “All kinds of wonderful things,” I said, and hung up. Then I trapped a second dollar bill between the phone and the wall and dialed the call I wanted to make. I used the Treasury Department’s main switchboard and got a woman who sounded middle-aged and elegant. She asked, “How may I direct your inquiry?”

  I said, “Joe Reacher, please.”

  There was some scratching and clicking and a minute of dead air. No hold music at Treasury, either, back in 1997. Then a woman picked up and said, “Mr. Reacher’s office.” She sounded young and bright. Probably a magna cum laude graduate from a prestigious college, full of shining eyes and idealism. Probably good looking, too. Probably wearing a short plaid skirt and a white turtleneck sweater. My brother knew how to pick them.