Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  I know what to do, Janet Salter had said.

  Reacher got up and struggled onward to the corner and the siren died. It cut off mid-wail and tiny brittle echoes of its last howl came back off the ice and then night-time silence swarmed in. Not the dull padded silence of fresh snowfall, but the weird keening, crackling, scouring, rustling hiss of a deep-frozen world. The thump of his footsteps ran ahead of him through veins and sheets of ice. The wind was still out of the west, in his face, hurling tiny frozen needles at him. He looked back. He had made it through a hundred and fifty yards. That was all. He had two miles ahead of him. There was nothing on the road. He was completely alone.

  He was very cold.

  He half walked, half ran, in the wheel ruts, his heels sliding wildly after every step until they locked into the next broken fissure, where a tyre chain had cracked the surface. He was breathing hard, freezing air burning down his windpipe and searing his lungs. He was coughing and gasping.

  Two miles to go. Maybe thirty whole minutes. Too long. He thought, surely one of them had the balls to stay with her. One of the seven. One of the women. Damn the rules. Damn the plan. Peterson was dead. Still warm. Enough justification right there. Surely one of them would gut it out and tell the feds to go to hell. At least one. Maybe more. Maybe two or three.

  Maybe all of them.

  Or maybe none of them.

  I know what to do, Janet Salter had said.

  Did she?

  Had she done it?

  Reacher pounded on. One step, and another, and another. The wind pushed back at him. Ice fragments pattered against his coat. All the feeling had gone out of his feet and his hands. The water in his eyes felt like it was freezing solid.

  Dead ahead was a bank. It stood alone in a small parking lot. The edge of town. The first building. It had a sign on a tall concrete pillar. Red numbers. Time and temperature. Twenty past one in the morning. Minus thirty degrees.

  He struggled on, faster. He felt he was getting somewhere. Left and right there was one building after another. A grocery store, a pharmacy, party favours, DVD rental. Auto parts, UPS, a package store, a dry cleaner. All with parking lots. All spread out. All for customers with cars. He hurried on. He was sweating and shivering, all at the same time. The buildings closed in. They grew second storeys. Downtown. The big four-way was a hundred yards ahead. Right to the prison, left to the highway. He cut the corner on a cross street. Turned south at the police station. The wind was howling through the forest of antennas on its roof.

  A mile to go.

  He ran alone down the centre of the main drag. A solitary figure. Ungainly. Short, choppy steps. He was bringing his feet up and dropping them down more or less vertically. It was the only way to stay upright. No fluid, loping stride. The ice didn’t allow it. His vision was blurring. His throat burned. All around him every window was dark and blank. He was the only thing moving, in a white empty world.

  Reacher passed the family restaurant. It was closed up and quiet. Dark inside. Ghostly inverted chairs were stacked on tables like a silent anxious crowd all with upraised arms. Four hundred yards to Janet Salter’s street. Forty seconds, for a decent athlete. Reacher took two minutes. The roadblock car was long gone. Just its ruts remained. Empty, like a railroad switch. Reacher picked his way over them. Headed on down the street. Past one house, past the next. The wind hissed through evergreens. The earth creaked and groaned under his feet.

  Janet Salter’s driveway.

  Lights in the house.

  No movement.

  No sound.

  Nothing out of place.

  All quiet.

  He rested for a second, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving.

  Then he hurried up towards the house.

  THIRTY-NINE

  REACHER STEPPED UP ON JANET SALTER’S PORCH. HER DOOR WAS locked. He pulled the handle for the bell. The wire spooled out of the little bronze eye. It spooled back in. The bell bonged, a second later, quiet and polite and discreet, deep inside the silent house.

  No response.

  Which was good. She wouldn’t hear it in the basement. And even if she did, she wouldn’t come out to answer it.

  He hoped.

  I know what to do, she had said. The basement, the gun, the password.

  He peered in through a stained glass panel. The hallway lights were still on. He got a blue distorted view of the room. The chair. The telephone table. The stairs, the rug, the paintings. The empty hat stand.

  No movement. No one there. No sign of disturbance.

  All quiet.

  Forty-three possible ways in, according to his earlier calculation, fifteen of them practical, eight of them easy. He backed away from the door and recrossed the porch. Stepped down and floundered through deep crusty snow alongside foundation plantings, around the side of the house, to the rear. He knew from his earlier inspection that the lock on the kitchen door was a sturdy brass item with a tongue neatly fitted into a heavy escutcheon plate. The plate was set into the jamb, which was a strip of century-old softwood. It was painted, whereas the front door’s jamb was a piece of lacquered chestnut, fine-grained and milled and exquisite. Harder to replace. All things considered, breaking in at the rear would be the considerate thing to do.

  He stepped back and took a breath and raised his boot and smashed his heel into the wood directly under the lock. No second attempt necessary. He was a big man, and he was anxious, and he was too cold for patience. The door stayed whole, but the escutcheon plate tore out of the jamb and clattered to the floor and the door swung open.

  ‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Reacher.’ She might not have heard the bell, but she might have heard the splintering wood. He didn’t want her to have a heart attack.

  ‘It’s me,’ he called again.

  He stepped into the kitchen. Pushed the door shut behind him. It hung within an inch of fully closed. All the familiar sounds and smells came back to him. The hissing of the pipes. The percolator, now cold. He stepped into the small back hallway. He clicked on the light. The door at the bottom of the stairs was closed.

  ‘Janet?’ he called. ‘It’s me, Reacher.’

  No response.

  He tried again, louder. ‘Janet?’

  No response.

  He went down the back stairs. Knocked hard on the basement door.

  He called, ‘Janet?’

  No response.

  He tried the handle.

  The door opened.

  He took off his glove and got his gun out of his pocket. He stepped into the basement. It was dark. He listened. No sound, except the roar of the furnace and the squeal of the pump. He fumbled his left hand across the wall and found the switch and clicked on the light.

  The basement was empty. Nothing but sudden shadows from the vertical baulks of timber jumping across a bare expanse of floor. He walked through to the furnace room. Empty. Nothing there, except the old green appliance loudly burning oil.

  He walked back to the door. Stared back up the stairs over the front sight of his gun. No one there. No movement, no sound.

  He called, ‘Janet?’

  No response.

  Not good.

  He climbed back up to the kitchen. Walked through it to the hallway. It was the same as he had seen it through the stained glass panel from the front. All quiet. The chair, the table, the rug, the paintings, the hat stand. No movement. No disturbance.

  He found her in the library. She was in her favourite chair. She had a book in her lap. Her eyes were open. There was a bullet hole in the centre of her forehead.

  Like a third eye.

  Nine millimetre, almost certainly.

  Reacher’s mind stayed blank for a long, long time. It was his body that hurt. From thawing. His ears burned like someone was holding a blowlamp on them. Then his nose, then his cheeks, then his lips, then his chin, then his hands. He sat in the chair in the hallway and rocked back and forth and hugged himself in agony. His feet started hurting, then his ribs, t
hen the long bones in his arms and his legs. It felt like they were all broken and crushed.

  Janet Salter had not had a thick skull. The back of it was blown all over her favourite chair, driven deep into the split the exiting bullet had made in the stuffing.

  I’ll have plenty of time to read, she had said, after all this fuss is over.

  Reacher cradled his head in his hands. Put his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor.

  I am privileged, she had said. Not everyone gets the opportunity to walk the walk.

  Reacher rubbed his eyes. His hands came away bloody. The ice spicules driven on the wind had peppered his face with a thousand tiny pinpricks. Unnoticeable, when his flesh had been frozen. Now they were raising a thousand tiny beads of blood. He rubbed both palms over every inch of his face, like he was washing. He wiped his palms on his pants. He stared down at the floor. Traced each whorl of muted colour in the rug, one by one. When he reached the centre of each meandering pattern he stopped and raised his eyes. Janet Salter stared back at him. She was diagonally opposite him. A straight line. A vector. Left of the stair post, in through the library door, across its width, to her chair. A small comma had formed below the bullet hole in her forehead. Not really blood. Just ooze. Leakage.

  Each time he looked at her for as long as he could bear, and then he dropped his gaze again, back to the rug.

  I don’t like getting beaten, he had said. Better for all concerned that it just doesn’t happen.

  Protect and serve.

  Never off duty.

  Empty words.

  He was a fraud and a fake and a failure.

  He always had been.

  He sat in the chair. No one came. The house hummed on around him. It didn’t know. It made its noises, oblivious. Water moved in the pipes, a sash rattled in a frame, the busted back door creaked back and forth as it moved in the wind. Outside the foliage hissed and the whole frozen planet shuddered and groaned.

  He picked up the phone.

  He dialled the number he remembered.

  You have reached the Bureau of Labor Statistics. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time.

  He dialled 110.

  A click. A purr. ‘Yes?’

  Reacher said, ‘Susan, please.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Amanda.’

  A click. A purr.

  Susan said, ‘Reacher?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Reacher? You OK?’

  He said nothing.

  She said, ‘Talk to me. Or hang up.’

  He asked her, ‘Have you ever been hungry?’

  ‘Hungry? Of course. Sometimes.’

  ‘I was once hungry for six straight months. In the Gulf. Desert Shield and Desert Storm. When we had to go throw Saddam out of Kuwait. We got there right at the beginning. We stayed there right to the end. We were hungry the whole time. There was nothing to eat. My unit, I mean. And some of the other rear echelon people. Which we thought was OK. We sucked it up. A big deal like that, there had to be snafus. Supply chains are always a problem. Better that whatever there was went to the guys doing the fighting. So no one made a big fuss. But it was no kind of fun. I got thin. It was miserable. Then we went home and I ate like a pig and I forgot all about it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then years later we were on that Russian train. They had American rations. I was bored at the time. We got back and I made it a little project to find out what had been going on. Like a hobby. One thing led to another and I traced it all back. Turned out a logistics guy had been selling our food for ten years. You know, a bit here, a bit there, all over the world. Africa, Russia, India, China, anyone who would pay for crap like that. He was pretty careful. No one noticed, the way the stockpiles were. But the Gulf caught him out. Suddenly there was a huge demand, and the stockpiles just weren’t there any more. He was shipping it to us on paper, but we were starving in the desert.’

  ‘The general?’

  ‘Recent promotion. He was a colonel most of the time. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was reasonably cautious. His tracks were well covered. But I wouldn’t let it go. It was him against me. It was personal. My people had been hungry because of him. I was in his bank accounts and everything. You know what he spent the money on?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not much. He saved most of it. For his retirement. But he bought a 1980 Corvette. He thought it was a classic. Like a collector’s item. But the 1980 Corvette was the worst Corvette ever made. It was a piece of shit. They junked the three-fifty and put in a three-oh-five, for emissions. It was making a hundred eighty horsepower. I could run faster than a 1980 Corvette. Something just went off in my head. I mean, starving for some kind of a criminal mastermind would be one thing. Doing it for a complete idiot was something else. A complete, tasteless, clueless, sordid, pathetic little idiot.’

  ‘So you hauled him in?’

  ‘I built that case like it was Ethel Rosenberg. I was out of my mind. I checked it forward and backward and forward again. I could have taken it to the Supreme Court. I brought him in. I told him I was upset. He was in a Class A uniform. He had all kinds of busywork medals. He laughed at me. A kind of patronizing sneer. Like he was better than me. I thought, you bought a 1980 Corvette, asshole. Not me. So who’s better? Then I hit him. I popped him in the gut to fold him over and then I banged his head on my desk.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I broke his skull. He was in a coma for six months. He was never quite all there afterwards. And you were right. I was canned, basically. No more 110th for me. Only the strength of the case saved me. They didn’t want it in the newspaper. I would have been busted big time otherwise. So I moved on.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I was too ashamed of myself. I did a bad thing. And I blew the best command I ever had.’

  Susan didn’t answer.

  Reacher said, ‘I got to thinking about it afterwards. You know, why had I done it? I couldn’t answer. Still can’t.’

  ‘You did it for your guys.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You were putting the world to rights.’

  ‘Not really. I don’t want to put the world to rights. Maybe I should, but I don’t.’

  She said nothing.

  He said, ‘I just don’t like people who put the world to wrongs. Is that a phrase?’

  ‘It should be. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing more, really. That’s the story. You should ask for a new desk. There’s no honour in that old one.’

  ‘I mean, what happened tonight?’

  Reacher didn’t answer.

  Susan said, ‘Tell me. I know something happened.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because you called me.’

  ‘I’ve called you plenty.’

  ‘When you needed something. So you need something now.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘It’s in your voice.’

  ‘I’m losing two-zip.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Two KIA.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A cop and an old woman.’

  ‘Two-zip? It isn’t a game.’

  ‘You know damn well it’s a game.’

  ‘It’s people.’

  ‘I know it’s people. I’m looking at one of them right now. And the only thing stopping me putting my gun to my head is pretending it’s a game.’

  ‘You got a gun?’

  ‘In my pocket. A nice old .38.’

  ‘Leave it in your pocket, OK?’

  Reacher said nothing.

  Susan said, ‘Don’t touch it, OK?’

  ‘Give me a good reason.’

  ‘A .38 won’t necessarily get the job done. You know that. We’ve all seen it happen. You could end up like the general.’

  ‘I’ll aim carefully. Square on. I’ll make sure.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Reacher.’

  ‘Relax. I’m no
t going to shoot myself. Not my style. I’m just going to sit here until my head explodes all on its own.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t like to think of it as a game.’

  ‘You know it’s a game. It has to be a game. That’s the only way to make it bearable.’

  ‘OK, it’s a game. What are we in? The final quarter?’

  ‘Overtime.’

  ‘So give me the play by play so far. Brief me. Bring me up to date. Like we were working together.’

  ‘I wish we were.’

  ‘We are. What have we got?’

  He didn’t answer.

  She said, ‘Reacher, what have we got?’

  So Reacher took a breath and began to tell her what they had, slowly at first, and then faster as he picked up on the old shorthand rhythms he remembered from years of talking to people who understood what he understood, and saw what he saw, and grasped what didn’t need to be spelled out. He told her about the bus, and the meth, and the trial, and the jail, and the police department, and the crisis plan, and the lawyer, and the witness protection, and the riot, and Plato, and the underground storage, and Peterson, and Janet Salter.

  Her first response was: ‘Put your hand in your pocket.’

  He asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Take out your gun.’

  ‘Now that’s OK?’

  ‘More than OK. It’s necessary. The bad guy saw you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘While you were alone with Salter in the house. He had five hours.’

  ‘He didn’t come. He was up at the prison the whole time.’

  ‘That’s an assumption. We don’t know that for sure. He could have checked in, dropped off the radio net, slipped away, gone back. And do we even know that they really called the roll at all? A thing like that, sure, it’s in the plan as written, but who’s to say it actually gets done, you know, in real life, in a situation like that, right when the shit is hitting the fan?’

  ‘Whatever, I didn’t see him.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that. If he saw you, he’s going to assume you saw him. He’s going to come after you.’

  ‘That’s a lot of ifs and assumptions.’