by Diane Capri
“What was Joe like?”
“Big. Tall. Wide. As a kid, I thought he was a giant. Studious, I guess you’d say. More than a little exacting sometimes.” He grinned and tore off a piece of bread to sop up the last of his chowder. “Joe didn’t have a middle name, but he joked that if he had, it would have been Joe Pedantic Reacher.”
We both laughed at that. “That’s quite a concept for a kid to remember.”
“I’ll never forget this.” Major Clifton nodded slowly, smiling still. “Joe was teaching me to play chess. I might have been oh, I don’t know, eight or so at the time. I played pretty well for an eight-year-old. But nowhere near as good as Joe. He wanted me to learn some complicated opening move and I just couldn’t get it. He wouldn’t give up, though. He said he taught Jack to play chess and he knew he could teach me, too. He played with me for hours that weekend. It was a lot of attention for a boy to get from one of his big brother’s buddies.”
I filed away the chess player comment to consider later. Reacher as a chess master made sense. The Boss was playing an elaborate game with Reacher and I believed Reacher knew it and was making his own countermoves.
Something in Clifton’s tone led me to ask, “Not altogether welcome attention from Joe, sounds like.”
“At the time, I think I just wanted to play baseball with my friends.” He finished his meal and pushed his plate away. “In retrospect, I see how extraordinary it was for Joe to do that. There were probably other things he would rather have been doing, too.”
“He sounds like a decent guy.”
“He really was. I thought so then and I still do. There was a girl in our neighborhood that he liked. What was her name? Linda? Lauren? Lilly?” He closed his eyes a moment as if he might recall her name if he could visualize her. He shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t remember. But she was old man Browning’s girl. We called him ‘old man,’ but he was probably not more than forty-five at the time. Anyway, he didn’t like Joe at all.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “He wouldn’t have liked any boy trying to date his daughter. And she—well, she was just—I don’t know. Crazy, my brother said. Not a mental case, but—a piece of work. You know what I mean?”
I nodded, thinking about my sister at that age. Certainly headstrong. Definitely crazy about boys. There for a while it seemed she might cause my dad to stroke out with her foolishness. “So what happened?”
“Well, there was a long weekend break. Joe came home with Matt and she was there and—I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “I was a kid. But I guess they eloped or something.”
“Eloped?” I hadn’t seen that one coming. “Joe Reacher and this girl got married?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Though they kept it to themselves for a while. She came back home and Joe went back to school. Nobody seemed to notice.” He grinned again. “Old man Browning was off the charts when he found out a few weeks later. He came over with a baseball bat, threatening to beat Joe with it. Fortunately for all of us, Joe wasn’t there.”
“What happened to the girl?”
“I guess they must have divorced or maybe they never really got married. I don’t know. She came home, but Joe never did come back to our house after Matt told him about the baseball bat.” He drained his coffee mug and placed it on the table.
I’d been so engrossed in Joe Reacher’s story that I hadn’t seen Sergeant Church approach. He startled me when he spoke. “M-M-Major Clifton? The Provost Marshall requests a 10-19 im-mm-mediately.”
A 10-19 meant the Provost wanted Clifton to call him. Why couldn’t the Army speak the same English as the rest of the country?
Clifton thanked him, and then as if he’d remembered something, asked, “Sergeant Church? Wasn’t your dad with the 110th around 1990?”
Church nodded. “Not for long, Sir. The 110th was his last command before he died.”
“Ah. Well. Thanks, Sergeant.” Church nodded again, and then Clifton got to his feet and beamed that smile down at me. “Will you excuse me, Agent Otto? I’m sorry Colonel Summer couldn’t keep your appointment. She could still show up. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
“I need to go anyway. I’ve got a lot to do yet.” I stood with them. “I’ll most likely get back to you on your offer to help if I may.”
Clifton and I shook hands. “You bet. Glad to do it. Anytime.”
He walked away with Church, who seemed to limp slightly, which reminded me of Gaspar. I watched their retreating backs for a second before leaving the warmth behind and hustling away through the sleet as quickly as my slipping, sliding leather soles would take me.
I was soaked and shivering again by the time I settled into the rental’s driver’s seat. The windshield was covered with a thin layer of ice and the wipers were frozen to it. I wasn’t about to stand out there scraping the windshield with my credit card and freezing to death. People said you don’t catch a cold from being cold, but I’ve never believed that. I started the engine and blasted the heat and defrosters for a full five minutes before I could move the ice and see well enough to leave the parking lot.
“Now there’s a metaphor, Otto. Your entire assignment is iced over and you’re stuck in park, aren’t you?” A sour grin stole onto my mouth, but no one was there to notice.
CHAPTER 7
I pushed the reverse route button on the GPS unit in the rental when I stopped at the exit gate. I returned my visitor’s pass and the soldier handed me a sealed manila envelope.
The envelope was unmarked aside from my name printed in all capital letters in the center. It was too flat to contain much of anything. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I was instructed to deliver it after you surrendered your pass.” He touched the brim of his hat—not a salute exactly, but a friendly gesture. Someone inside the booth said something and he nodded. “Road reports are bad out there, ma’am. You’re not going over the mountain, are you? There’s been a serious accident and the highway is closed. Better off taking the long way back to the airport, in this weather. You want to arrive in one piece.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
Delivering an envelope to me like that was exactly the sort of thing the Boss would do. Not in the mood for his brand of cat-and-mouse, I tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat.
I glanced into the rearview mirror and found a line of vehicles behind me, waiting to be logged out. I waved, the soldier raised the gate and I rolled slowly away from Fort Bird along the slick pavement.
As I pushed through the gate, I simultaneously pushed another button on the GPS for an alternate route. The distance showing on the screen was about thirty miles off-base to the edge of New Haven, the closest town. Ten miles longer than the newer route due north over the mountain, which the sentry said was closed. That left the old county road, which had been the only road when Reacher was the XO in 1990, as the last northbound option.
When there’s only one choice, it’s the right choice, as my mother would say.
None of the vehicles passing through the gate turned north behind me. The uneasy feeling that they knew something I didn’t about the best way out of here settled in my bones.
Even with the four-wheel drive, my speed never increased above fifteen miles an hour along the county road, although the posted limit was fifty-five. Traffic was light through the North Carolina countryside, but after the third oncoming vehicle had slid across the center line, requiring me to employ evasive maneuvers, I moved as far onto the wide gravel shoulder as possible.
Tension gripped my neck and shoulders as tightly as my hands clawed the steering wheel. My stomach was a churning mess and the delicious chowder lunch threatened to make an encore appearance, but I dared not dart my hand into my pocket to fish out an antacid.
The gray sky darkened as weak November daylight gave up the fight much earlier than expected. My headlights had been on the whole way, but I could barely see twenty feet ahead. Strip malls, scrubby pine
s, and dormant fields were obscured by fog.
People would be hunched inside on a dismal day like this, log fires burning in fireplaces or, at the very least, electric space heaters blasting. There were sure to be a couple of tragic fires overnight when the cheap heaters failed in various predictable ways.
The GPS showed my SUV steadily consuming the distance to town, but I saw no proof of civilization ahead.
My phone rang and I glanced over to where I’d placed it on the passenger seat on top of the flat manila envelope. The caller ID said Gaspar. My fingers had cramped around the steering wheel and refused all efforts to pry them loose until long after the ringing stopped.
The forty-minute drive from Bird devolved into a two-hour ordeal, but the GPS had not lied. Eventually, an intersection with a traffic light and a small green sign marking the New Haven town limits revealed itself.
The sign was a divider between here and there. On this side, nothing but icy fields and fog. On that side, a handful of low commercial buildings clustered in the foggy drizzle near the highway interchange that was the first exit north of Fort Bird on the newer mountain highway. I’d have passed by here on my way down to Raleigh. Summer would have passed on her way from Rock Creek, too.
A huge truck stop was the centerpiece, much newer than whatever had occupied the prime real estate during Reacher’s time. A square building with plate glass windows on the top half of the stucco walls anchored the middle of the complex. Inside, the building housed a convenience store, two fast-food chain eateries, and public restrooms with showers. Covered fueling stations flanked three sides of the building and a parking lot out back allowed long-haul eighteen wheelers to stay a few hours, grab a shower and try to nap before the next leg of the journey.
The place was designed for efficient coming and going. Definitely not a vacation destination. Yet, every available parking slot in and around the truck stop was occupied by stymied travelers today.
An easy walk past the truck stop was The Lucky Bar, a decades-old cinderblock lounge with no windows. Flashing neon signs on the roof were more than twice as tall as the building. Signs faced both north and southbound lanes so that no weary driver could possibly miss them when traveling in either direction.
Totally Nude Girls. Exotic Dancing. Nude Nude Nude. Girls Girls Girls.
Similar highbrow performances beckoned travelers along the entire Interstate highway system through most of the country. This one looked more prosperous than some. Probably because of its proximity to Fort Bird.
The Lucky Bar’s parking lot was as big as a football field. Competition for the lucrative entertainment dollar was plentiful both up and downstream, but every parking space I could see here was jammed three deep and vehicles overflowed onto the grass along the road’s shoulders. The Lucky Bar’s cash registers must have been overflowing with cash, too. Not to mention the garters or whatever exotic dancers used to hold their tips.
Conveniently located directly across the road from the gas station was the corresponding hot-sheets hotel. My home away from home for the night. I’d stay ten hours and be their longest tenant in—well—probably forever.
There are thousands of similar roadside budget hotels all over the country. Reacher had probably stayed in a few of them. This one was a member of the Grand Lodge chain. Invariably, these havens for the travel-weary are less grand than their monikers. They provide a clean, cheap room, a small continental breakfast buffet, and hot coffee. No mini-bar, no room service, and no entertainment beyond pay-per-view porn on the television and an unread Gideon Bible in the nightstand.
Those roadside hotels fortunate enough to have a strip bar across the street probably make quite a bit more profit. Real estate value is all about location.
The traffic light finally turned green. I pulled the SUV into the New Haven Grand Lodge driveway and parked as close as possible to the front entrance. When I stepped out of the warm cabin, the first thing I noticed was the cold. Temperatures had dropped since I’d left Fort Bird. The drizzle had thickened and chilled into slush that slicked the pavement to ice-rink thickness under my leather-soled shoes. I’d been a lousy ice-skater as a kid and I was no better now. Weak ankles or something, my mother said.
The second thing I noticed was the noise. Rumbling diesel engines from the truck stop underscored everything. Music pulsed from The Lucky Bar in a sound wave that might have knocked me over if I’d been standing even ten yards closer.
I shrugged. The next exit north might not have a hotel of any kind. I was cold and tired and hungry here and now. Nothing else to be done but collect my bag, lock the SUV and go inside. And try to do it all without falling on my butt.
A cavernous lobby that normally doubled as the breakfast room was more crowded than a sports bar during playoff season. The weather and the accident that had closed the highway had also stranded dozens of travelers. Those who weren’t in the bar or the truck stop had squatted here like tailgaters. Palpable cacophony throbbed and squeezed against me from all sides.
I hoped my room was far enough away from the boisterous lobby crowd. I planned to enjoy a peaceful night and regroup in the morning.
CHAPTER 8
At the registration desk, a well-groomed young man who might have been a student at the local community college majoring in hospitality, waved and flashed a blinding smile almost as big as the neon signs on the bar across the street. Probably an effort to communicate despite the deafening noise.
I pushed the telescoping handle down on my bag, lifted it, and elbowed my way through to the reception desk. At least the floor was carpeted. I could finally walk without sliding.
The smiling clerk didn’t bother with small talk that I couldn’t possibly have heard anyway. He simply held out his hand and I placed a credit card on his palm. He clicked a few keys on his computer, handed me a form to sign, then gave me back my card and two room keys and a map of the hotel. I nodded and elbowed my way through the lobby to the elevator bank.
Local news was playing on the television. I couldn’t hear the audio. The screen filled with photos and text banners, all about the storm at first, and then several vehicle crashes, including the one that closed the mountain highway between here and Fort Bird.
A news reporter with a handheld microphone was standing in the foreground. The video playing behind him carried a time stamp reflecting that the video was recorded hours earlier, not too long before I arrived at Fort Bird. The clip was pieced from footage from overhead cameras of some kind. Maybe drones or helicopters.
Bad weather had impacted the quality of the video and the images were hard to see from across the lobby. Flashing lights from five or six police and rescue vehicles were gathered around two tractor-trailer combos, one in front, and one behind what might have been a red subcompact once upon a time. Now the little red car was mangled beyond all recognition. It looked like a crumpled candy wrapper.
An involuntary shudder ran up my back. I’d almost taken that route on the way to Bird earlier in the day. It was a direct Interstate highway from DC to Miami. If I’d flown into Raleigh, I’d have been on that very highway shortly after that crash. But the Boss routed me to Charlotte and the drive north because the flight times were better.
There but for the Grace of God…
Next up on the television was the weather map, which showed the storm moving across the entire central East Coast, confirmed there was zero chance I’d be driving anywhere else tonight. Not that I’d planned to.
The elevator pinged. The doors slid open. A half-dozen revelers fell out. I entered and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors slid closed, but I heard the boisterous crowd through the elevator shaft all the way up.
When I reached the third-floor elevator lobby, the plate glass windows rumbled to the cadence of the diesel trucks and the booming music and rowdy crowd overflowing The Lucky Bar.
My room wasn’t far down the corridor. From inside room 309, a single window provided a straight sightline to everything from t
he Grand Lodge to the highway on the west side of the truck stop directly across. The fog and sleet obscured my view but didn’t eliminate it entirely.
The Lucky Bar’s door was propped open, even in this weather. I couldn’t see the crowd inside, but a steady stream of middle-aged road warriors strode in and staggered out. On ordinary nights, the place was probably a favorite social spot for locals and enlisted personnel from Fort Bird, too. If there were any Army in there tonight, their local bar was no longer theirs. Locals were outnumbered tonight by stranded civilians, for sure.
While I watched, three pairs of exotic dancers and their escorts crossed the road toward the Grand Lodge, while two lone women trudged back from the hotel toward The Lucky Bar, having evidently lost their customers to ESPN or perhaps unconsciousness now that their transactions had been completed. I rubbed my sore neck with my right hand and counted myself lucky to have a bed tonight that didn’t already have a hooker in it.
My room’s window glass vibrated to the heavy beat of country music, despite the distance. Soundproofing in this room was non-existent. I wondered how difficult it was to perform exotic dances accompanied by twangy voices, guitars, and fiddle music, whether the dancers were nude or otherwise. Was there such a thing as naked Texas Two-Step or country line dancing?
I turned up the heat in the room and pulled out my phone. Gaspar had left his message more than an hour ago, so I cranked up the volume and listened to that first.
“No baby yet. False alarm. Man, this kid is stubborn. I know what you’re thinking: Just like his old man. Well, maybe so. Either way, the doctors are sending Marie home. I can get away in a few hours. Give me a call when you get this and we’ll make a plan.”
He sounded exhausted. Baby business or no, he never slept well because of the pain in his right side and right leg. But his disability was a subject we never discussed. As long as he did the job, he was entitled to some privacy.
