Half awake and half asleep. Half effective and half useless. He heard the car and he saw its lights, but it was a whole stubborn second before he understood he wasn’t dreaming.
FIFTY
THE CAR CAME IN FROM THE RIGHT, FROM THE EAST, PRECEDED BY headlight beams and road noise. It slowed to a walk and passed behind the parked Cornhusker pick-up, and then it rolled on and passed behind the parked SUV. Then it turned and nosed into the driveway, with a crunch and a squelch from its wheels on the gravel, and then it stopped.
And then Reacher saw it.
There was enough light scatter and enough reflection to identify it. It was the dark blue Chevrolet. The Italians. Reacher picked up the Remington. The car stayed where it was. No one got out. It was sixty yards away, half in and half out of the driveway mouth. Just sitting there, lights on, idling. A tactical problem. Reacher had three innocent non-combatants in a wood-frame house. There were two parked cars on the driveway and two on the road, for cover. There were two opponents and the house had windows and a door both front and back.
Not ideal conditions for a gun battle.
Best hope would be for the Italians to approach the front door on foot. Game over, right there. Reacher could swing the door open and fire point blank. But the Italians weren’t approaching on foot. They were just sitting in the car. Doing nothing. Talking, maybe. And scouting around. Reacher could see dim flashes of white as necks craned and heads turned. They were discussing something.
Angelo Mancini was saying, ‘This is a waste of time. He ain’t in there. He can’t be. Not unless he’s hanging out with three of their football players.’
Roberto Cassano nodded. He glanced over his shoulder at the pick-up truck and the SUV on the shoulder, and then he glanced ahead at the gold GMC Yukon on the driveway. It was parked in front of an older truck. He said, ‘That’s the old woman’s ride, from the farm.’
Mancini said, ‘Sleepover time.’
‘I guess Mahmeini’s boy was right about something. They know the doctor is the weak link. They’ve got him staked out.’
‘Not much of a trap, all things considered. Not with their cars parked out front. No one is going to walk into that.’
‘Which is good for us, in a way. They’re wasting their resources. Which gives us a better chance somewhere else.’
‘Do you want to check here? Just in case?’
‘What’s the point? If he’s in there, he’s already their prisoner.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. But then I thought, not necessarily. They could be his prisoner.’
‘One against three?’
‘You saw what he did to the guy in the Cadillac’s trunk.’
‘I don’t know. I kind of want to check, I guess. And maybe we should. But you heard the man. This is a competition now. We can’t waste time.’
‘Wouldn’t take much time.’
‘I know. But we’ll look like idiots if he’s not in there. The football players will be straight on the phone to the Duncans, all yukking it up about how we came looking in a place he couldn’t possibly be.’
‘No one said there are style points involved.’
‘But there are. There are always style points involved. This is a long game. There’s a lot of money involved. If we lose face we’ll never get it back.’
‘So where?’
Cassano looked again at the old woman’s truck. ‘If she’s here, then her house is empty tonight. And people looking for places to hide love empty houses.’
Reacher saw them back out and drive away again. At first he didn’t understand why. Then he concluded they were looking for Seth Duncan. They had pulled up, they had eyeballed the parked cars, they had seen that the Mazda wasn’t among them, and they had gone away again. Logical. He put the Remington back on the floor, and planted his feet, and straightened his back, and stared out into the darkness.
Nothing else happened for ninety long minutes. No one came, no one stirred. Then pale streaks of dawn started showing in the sky to Reacher’s right. They came in low and silver and purple, and the land slowly lightened from black to grey, and the world once again took solid shape, all the way to the far horizon. Rags of tattered cloud lit up bright overhead, and a knee-high mist rose up off the dirt. A new day. But not a good one, Reacher thought. It was going to be a day full of pain, both for those who deserved it, and for those who didn’t.
He waited.
He couldn’t get his Yukon out, because he had no key for Dorothy Coe’s pick-up truck. It was possibly in her coat, but he wasn’t inclined to go look for it. He was in no hurry. It was wintertime. Full daylight was still an hour away.
Five hundred miles due north, up in Canada, just above the 49th Parallel, because of the latitude, dawn came a little later. The first of the morning light filtered down through the needles of the towering pine and touched the white van in its summer picnic spot at the end of the rough grassy track. The driver woke in his seat, and blinked, and stretched. He had heard nothing all night long. He had seen nothing. No bears, no coyotes, no red foxes, no moose, no elk, no wolves. No people. He had been warm, because he had a sleeping bag filled with down, but he had been very uncomfortable, because panel vans had small cabs, and he had spent the night folded into a seat that didn’t recline very far. It was always on his mind that the cargo in the back was treated better than he was. It rode more comfortably. But then, it was expensive and hard to get, and he wasn’t. He was a realistic man. He knew how things worked.
He climbed out and took a leak against the pine’s ancient trunk. Then he ate and drank from his meagre supplies, and he pushed his palms against his aching back, and he stretched again to work out the kinks. The sky was brightening. It was his favourite time for a run to the border. Light enough to see, too early for company. Ideal. He had just twenty miles to go, most of them on an unmapped forest track, to a point a little less than four thousand yards north of the line. The transfer zone, he called it. The end of the road for him, but not for his cargo.
He climbed back in the cab and started the engine. He let it warm and settle for a minute while he checked the dials and the gauges. Then he selected first gear, and released the parking brake, and turned the wheel, and moved away slowly, at walking speed, lurching and bouncing down the rough grassy track.
Reacher heard sounds at the end of the hallway. A toilet flushing, a faucet running, a door opening, a door closing. Then the doctor came limping past the dining room, stiff with sleep, mute with morning. He nodded as he passed, and he skirted the football players, and he headed for the kitchen. A minute later Reacher heard the gulp and hiss of the coffee machine. The sun was up enough to show a reflection in the window of the SUV parked beyond the fence. Webs of frost were glinting and glittering in the fields.
The doctor came in with two mugs of coffee. He was dressed in a sweater over pyjamas. His hair was uncombed. The damage on his face was lost in general redness. He put one mug in front of Reacher and threaded his way around and sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table.
He said, ‘Good morning.’
Reacher said nothing.
The doctor asked, ‘How’s your nose?’
Reacher said, ‘Terrific.’
The doctor said, ‘There’s something you never told me.’
Reacher said, ‘There are many things I never told you.’
‘You said twenty-five years ago the detective neglected to search somewhere. You said because of ignorance or confusion.’
Reacher nodded, and took a sip of his coffee.
The doctor asked, ‘Is that where you’re going this morning?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Will you find anything there after twenty-five years?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then why are you going?’
‘Because I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I hope you never have to. I hope I’m wrong.’
‘Where is this place
we’re talking about?’
‘Mrs Coe told me that fifty years ago two farms were sold for a development that never happened. The outbuildings from one of them are still there. Way out in a field. A barn, and a smaller shed.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I know where they are.’
‘People plough right up to them.’
‘I know,’ the doctor said. ‘I guess they shouldn’t, but why let good land go to waste? The subdivisions were never built, and they’re never going to be. So it’s something for nothing, and God knows these people need it. It’s yield that doesn’t show up on their mortgages.’
‘So when Detective Carson came up here twenty-five years ago, what did he see? In the early summer? He saw about a million acres of waist-high corn, and he saw some houses dotted around here and there, and he saw some outbuildings dotted around here and there. He stopped in at every house, and every occupant said they’d searched their outbuildings. So Carson went away again, and that old barn and that old shed fell right between the cracks. Because Carson’s question was, did you search your outbuildings? Everyone said yes, probably quite truthfully. And Carson saw the old barn and the old shed and quite naturally assumed they must belong to someone, and that therefore they had indeed been looked at, as promised. But they didn’t belong to anyone, and they hadn’t been looked at.’
‘You think that was the scene of the crime?’
‘I think Carson should have asked that question twenty-five years ago.’
‘There won’t be anything there. There can’t be. Those buildings are ruins now, and they must have been ruins then. They’ve been sitting there empty for fifty years, in the middle of nowhere, just mouldering away.’
‘Have they?’
‘Of course. You said it yourself, they don’t belong to anyone.’
‘Then why have they got wheel ruts all the way to the door?’
‘Have they?’
Reacher nodded. ‘I hid a truck in the smaller shed my first night. No problem getting there. I’ve seen worse roads in New York City.’
‘Old ruts? Or new ruts?’
‘Hard to tell. Both, probably. Many years’ worth, I would say. Quite deep, quite well established. No weeds. Not much traffic, probably, but some. Some kind of regularity. Enough to keep the ruts in shape, anyway.’
‘I don’t understand. Who would use those places now? And for what?’
Reacher said nothing. He was looking out the window. The light was getting stronger. The fields were turning from grey to brown. The parked pick-up beyond the fence was all lit up by a low ray.
The doctor asked, ‘So you think someone scooped the kid up and drove her to that barn?’
‘I’m not sure any more,’ Reacher said. ‘They were harvesting alfalfa at the time, and there will have been plenty of trucks on the road. And I’m guessing this whole place felt a bit happier back then. More energetic. People doing this and that, going here and there. The roads were probably a little busier than they are now. Probably a lot busier. Maybe even too busy to risk scooping a kid up against her will in broad daylight.’
‘So what do you think happened to her?’
Reacher didn’t answer. He was still looking out the window. He could see the knots in the fence timbers. He could see clumps of frozen weeds at the base of the posts. The front lawn was dry and brittle with cold.
Reacher said, ‘You’re not much of a gardener.’
‘No talent,’ the doctor said. ‘No time.’
‘Does anyone garden?’
‘Not really. People are too tired. And working farmers hardly ever garden. They grow stuff to sell, not to look at.’
‘OK.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m asking myself, if I was a little girl with a bicycle, and I loved flowers, where would I go to see some? No point coming to a house like this, for instance. Or any house, probably. Or anywhere at all, really, because every last inch of ground is ploughed for cash crops. I can think of just three possibilities. I saw two big rocks in the fields, with brambles around them. Nice wild flowers in the early summer, probably. There may be more just like them, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because in the early summer they would be completely inaccessible, because you’d have to wade a mile through growing corn just to get to them. But there was one other place I saw the same kind of brambles.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Around the base of that old barn. Windblown seeds, I guess. People plough close, but they leave some space.’
‘You think she rode there on her own?’
‘I think it’s possible. Maybe she knew the one place she was sure to see flowers. And maybe someone knew she knew.’
FIFTY-ONE
THE DUNCANS HAD MOVED ON TO JONAS’S KITCHEN, BECAUSE the taped window in Jasper’s was leaking cold air, and the burning fabric in the stove was making smoke and smells. They had stopped drinking bourbon and had started drinking coffee. The sun was up and the day was already forty minutes old. Jacob Duncan checked the clock on the wall and said, ‘The sun is up in Canada too. Dawn was about ten minutes ago. I bet the shipment is already rolling. I know that boy. He likes an early start. He’s a good man. He doesn’t waste time. The transfer will be happening soon.’
The road that led south from Medicine Hat petered out after Pakowki Lake. The blacktop surface finished with a ragged edge, and then there was a quarter-mile of exposed roadbed, just crushed stone bound with tar, and then that finished too, in a forest clearing with no apparent exit. But the white van lined up between two pines and drove over stunted underbrush and found itself on a rutted track, once wide, now neglected, a firebreak running due south, designed with flames and westerly winds in mind. The van rolled slowly, tipping left and right, its wheels moving up and down independently, like walking. Ahead of it was nothing but trees, and then the Montana town of Hogg Parish. But the van would stop halfway there, a little more than two miles short of the border, at the northern limit of the safe zone, exactly symmetrical with its opposite number in America, which was no doubt already in place and waiting, all fresh and energetic and ready for the last leg of the journey.
The doctor went back to the kitchen and returned with more coffee. He said, ‘It could have been an accident. Maybe she went inside the barn.’
Reacher said, ‘With her bicycle?’
‘It’s possible. We don’t know enough about her. Some kids would dump a bike on the track, and others would wheel it inside. It’s a matter of personality. Then she might have injured herself on something in there. Or gotten stuck. The door is jammed now. Maybe it was baulky then. She could have gotten trapped. No one would have heard her shouting.’
‘And then what?’
‘An eight-year-old without food or water, she wouldn’t have lasted long.’
‘Not a pleasant thought,’ Reacher said.
‘But preferable to some of the alternatives.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or she might have gotten hit by a truck. Or a car. On the way over there. You said it yourself, the roads could have been busy. Maybe the driver panicked and hid the body. And the bike with it.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. In that barn, or miles away. In another county. Another state, even. Maybe that’s why nothing was ever found.’
‘Maybe,’ Reacher said again.
The doctor went quiet.
Reacher said, ‘Now there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘There’s time.’
‘How much?’
‘Probably half an hour.’
‘Before what?’
‘The other three Cornhuskers will come here for breakfast. Their buddies are here, so this is their temporary base. They’ll make my wife cook for them. They enjoy feudal stuff like that.’
‘I figured,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll be ready.’
‘One of them is the guy who broke your nose.’
‘I know.’
The doctor said nothing.<
br />
Reacher said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘What?’
‘Is your garage like your garden or like your television set?’
‘More like my television set.’
‘That’s good. So turn around and watch the road. I’ll be back in ten.’ Reacher picked up the Remington and found his way through the kitchen to the mud room lobby. He found the door that led to the garage. It was a big space, empty because the Subaru was still at the motel, and neat and clean, with a swept floor and no visible chaos. There were shelving racks all along one wall, loaded with the stuff that hadn’t been in the basement. There was a workbench along a second wall, well organized, again neat and clean, with a vice, and a full-width pegboard above, loaded with tools logically arrayed.
Reacher unloaded the Remington, five remaining shells from the magazine and one from the breech. He turned the gun upside down and clamped it in the vice. He found an electric jigsaw and fitted a woodcutting blade. He plugged it in and fired it up and put the dancing blade on the walnut and sawed off the shoulder stock, first with a straight cut across the narrowest point, and then again along a curving line that mirrored the front contour of the pistol grip. Two more passes put a rough chamfer on each raw edge, and then he found a rasp and cleaned the whole thing up, with twists of walnut falling away like grated chocolate, and then he finished the job with a foam pad covered with coarse abrasive. He blew off the dust and rubbed his palm along the result, and he figured it was satisfactory.
He swapped the jigsaw blade for a metal cutter, a fine blued thing with tiny teeth, and he laid it against the barrel an inch in front of the forestock. The saw screeched and screamed and howled and the last foot of the barrel fell off and rang like a bell against the floor. He found a metal file and cleaned the burrs of steel off the new muzzle, inside and out. He released the vice and lifted the gun out and pumped it twice, crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, and then he reloaded it, five in the magazine and one in the breech. A sawn-off with a pistol grip, not much longer than his forearm.
Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16] Page 588
