23 Past Tense

by Lee Child

  “Is that important?”

  “We have boxes to check.”

  “Family history,” Reacher said.

  “Now I need your name,” the guy said.

  “Why?”

  “We have targets to meet. We have to take names, or they think we’re inflating the numbers.”

  “You could make up names all day long.”

  “We have to see ID.”

  “Why? Isn’t this stuff in the public domain?”

  “Welcome to the real world,” the guy said.

  Reacher showed him his passport.

  The guy said, “You were born in Berlin.”

  “Correct,” Reacher said.

  “Not Berlin, New Hampshire, either.”

  “Is that a problem? You think I’m a foreign spy sent here to disrupt what already happened ninety years ago?”

  The guy wrote Reacher in a box on a form.

  “Cubicle two, Mr. Reacher,” he said, and pointed through a door in the opposite wall.

  Reacher stepped in, to a hushed square space, with low lighting, and long maple workbenches divided by upright partitions into separate stations. Each station had a muted tweed chair, and a flat-screen computer on the work surface, and a freshly sharpened pencil, and a thin pad of paper with the county’s name printed at the top, like a hotel brand. There was thick carpet on the floor. Fabric on the walls. The woodwork was excellent quality. Reacher figured the room as a whole must have cost a million dollars.

  He sat down in cubicle two, and the screen in front of him came to life. It lit up blue, a plain wash of color, apart from two small icons in the top right corner, like postage stamps on a letter. He was not an experienced computer user, but he had tried it once or twice, and he had seen it done many more times. Now even cheap hotels had computers at reception. Many times he had waited while a clerk clicked and scrolled and typed. Gone were the days when a person could slap down a couple of bills and get a big brass key in instant exchange.

  He moved the mouse and sent the arrow up toward the icons. He knew they were files. Or file folders. You had to click on them, and in response they would open. He was never sure whether you had to click once or twice. He had seen it done both ways. His usual habit was to click twice. If in doubt, etcetera. Maybe it helped, and it never seemed to hurt. Like shooting someone in the head. A double tap could do no harm.

  He put the arrow center mass on the left-hand icon and clicked twice, and the screen redrew to a gray color, like the deck of a warship. In the center was a black and white image of the title page from a government report, like a bright crisp Xerox, printed with prissy, old-fashioned writing in a government-style typeface. At the top it said: U.S. Department of Commerce, R. P. Lamont, Secretary, Bureau of the Census, W. M. Steuart, Director. In the middle it said: Fifteenth Census of the United States, Returns Extracted For The Municipality Of Laconia, New Hampshire. At the bottom it said: For Sale By The Superintendent of Documents, Washington, D.C., Price One Dollar.

  Reacher could see the top of a second page peeking up from the bottom of the screen. Scrolling would be required. That was clear. Best accomplished, he imagined, with the little wheel set in the top surface of the mouse. Between about where its shoulder blades would be. Under the pad of his index finger. Convenient. Intuitive. He skimmed the introduction, which was mostly about many and various improvements made in methodology since the fourteenth census. Not boasting, really. More of a one-geek-to-another kind of a thing, even back then. Stuff you needed to know, if you loved counting people.

  Then came the lists, of plain names and old occupations, and the world of nearly ninety years before seemed to rise up all around. There were button makers, and hat makers, and glove makers, and turpentine farmers, and laborers, and locomotive engineers, and silk spinners, and tin mill workers. The was a separate section titled Unusual Occupations For Children . Most were optimistically classified as apprentices. Or helpers. There were blacksmiths and brick masons and engine hostlers and ladlers and pourers and smelter boys.

  There were no Reachers. Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year Stan was two.

  He wheeled his way back to the top and started again, this time paying particular attention to the dependent children column. Maybe there had been a gruesome accident, and orphan baby Stan had been taken in by unrelated but kindly neighbors. Maybe they had noted his birth name as a tribute.

  There were no dependent children separately identified as Stan Reacher. Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year he was supposed to be two.

  Reacher found the place in the top left of the screen, with the three little buttons, red, orange, green, like a tiny traffic signal laid on its side. He clicked twice on red and the document went away. He opened up the right-hand icon, and he found the sixteenth census, different Secretary, different Director, but the same substantial improvements since the last time around. Then came the lists, now just eighty years old instead of ninety, the difference faintly discernable, with more jobs in factories, and fewer on the land.

  But still no Reachers.

  Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year Stan Reacher was supposed to be twelve.

  He clicked twice on the little red button and the document went away.

  Chapter 5

  Shorty tried the key one more time, but again nothing happened. There was nothing but a soft mechanical click, which was just the physical key itself, turning inside the barrel on the steering column. A soft little click no one ever heard, because normally it was drowned out instantly by the sounds of a car bursting into life. Same thing with the click of a trigger, ahead of a gunshot.

  But not that morning. The Honda felt dead. Like a sick old dog, gone in the night. A whole different condition. No response at all. Some kind of charge gone out of it.

  Patty said, “I think we better call a mechanic.”

  Peter looked over her shoulder. She turned, and she saw the other three guys walking up toward them. From the house, or the barn. The main man was in the lead, as always. Mark, who had checked them in the night before. Who had invited them to dinner. The guy with the smile. Behind him was Steven, and then Robert. They arrived and Mark said, “How are we doing this morning?”

  Peter said, “Not great.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Can’t tell. It’s dead as a doornail. I guess something fried.”

  “We should call a mechanic,” Patty said. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “It started last night,” Shorty said. “First turn of the key.”

  Mark smiled and said, “Yes, it did.”

  “Now it’s dead. Just saying. I know this car. I’ve had it a long time. It has good days and bad days, but it never dies.”

  Mark was quiet for a long moment.

  Then he smiled again and said, “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.”

  “Maybe poking around in there made it worse.”

  “You think Peter broke it?”

  “Something did, between last night and right now. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe it was Peter, and maybe it wasn’t. Doesn’t even matter anymore. Because the thing is, you guys poking around in there is pretty much the same thing as you guys assuming responsibility for it. Because you’re a motel. I’m sure there are innkeeper laws. Safekeeping of guest property, all that kind of issue.”

  Again Mark went quiet.

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Patty said. “He’s upset, is all.”

  Mark just shook his head, hardly moving at all, as if he was shrugging off the smallest of things. He looked at Shorty and said, “Stress is a hard thing to deal with, I agree. I think we all know that. But equally I think we all know the smart play here is to establish a minimum amount of courtesy, in all our mutual dealings. Wouldn’t you say? A little respect. Maybe a little humility, too. Maybe a little acceptance of responsibility. Your car hasn’t been well looked after, has it?”

  Shorty didn’t answer.

  “The clock i
s ticking,” Mark said. “Midday is on its way. Which is when last night becomes tonight, in the motel business, at which time you will owe us another fifty dollars, which I can see in Patty’s face you don’t want to pay, or can’t pay, so a speedy reply would help you much more than it would help me. But fast or slow, the choice is yours.”

  Patty said, “OK, our car is not well maintained.”

  “Hey,” Shorty said.

  “Well it isn’t,” she said. “I bet this is the first time the hood was up since you bought it.”

  “I didn’t buy it. I got given it.”

  “Who by?”

  “My uncle.”

  “Then I bet this is the first time the hood was up since it left the factory.”

  Shorty said nothing.

  Mark looked at him and said, “Patty sees things from a third-party perspective. Which implies a measure of objectivity. So I’m sure she’s absolutely right. I’m sure it’s that simple. You’re a busy man. Who has the time? Some things get neglected.”

  “I guess,” Shorty said.

  “But you need to say it out loud. We need to hear it from your own lips, in your own words.”

  “What?”

  “So we can all get off on the right foot.”

  “The right foot of what?”

  “We need to establish a friendly relationship, Mr. Fleck.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for instance, last night we fed you dinner. And, also for instance, about an hour from now you’re going to ask us to feed you breakfast. Because what other choice do you have? All we ask in return is that you give as well as take.”

  “Give what?”

  “An honest account of your own part in your predicament.”

  “What for?”

  “It would be like putting some chips on the table, I suppose. At the start of the game. It would be like an emotional stake in our friendly relationship. We opened ourselves to you, when we had you at our table, and now we ask that you return the favor.”

  “We don’t want breakfast.”

  “Not even coffee?”

  “We can get water from the bathroom tap. If that’s OK with you.”

  “You’ll ask us to feed you lunch. Pride can make you skip one meal, but not two.”

  “Just give us a ride to town. We’ll send a tow truck for the car.”

  “A ride to town is not on offer.”

  “Then call a mechanic for us.”

  “We will,” Mark said. “Immediately after you’ve spoken.”

  “You want a public confession?”

  “Do you have something to confess?”

  “I guess I could have done better,” Shorty said. “Some guy told me Japanese motors could take it. Like you could skip a year. Then I guess some years I couldn’t remember what year I was up to. So overall I guess some years got missed, that shouldn’t have.”

  “Only some?”

  “Maybe all of them. Like you said, I didn’t have the time.”

  “Good policy in the short term.”

  “It was easiest.”

  “But not in the long term.”

  “I guess not,” Shorty said.

  “A mistake, in fact.”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s the part we want you to say out loud, Mr. Fleck. We want to hear you say you made a dumb mistake that is causing all kinds of people all kinds of trouble. And we want to hear you say you’re sorry about that, to Patty especially, who we think is being touchingly loyal. You’ve got a good one there, Mr. Fleck.”

  “I guess so.”

  “We need to hear you say it out loud.”

  “About Patty?”

  “About the mistake.”

  No response.

  Mark said, “A moment ago you asked us to assume responsibility. But it’s you that must do that. We didn’t neglect your car. We didn’t treat a fine machine like a piece of shit, and then set out on a long important journey without so much as kicking the tires. It was you that did all that, Mr. Fleck. Not us. All we’re trying to do is make that clear.”

  No response.

  The sun was bright. It was hot on the top of Patty’s head.

  She said, “Just say it, Shorty. It won’t be the end of the world.”

  Shorty said, “OK, I made a dumb mistake that is causing all kinds of people all kinds of trouble. I apologize to all concerned.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said. “Now we’ll go call a mechanic.”

  —

  Reacher walked back the way he had come, past the stores with the bags, and the shoes, and the wares, past the place he had picked out for lunch, past the place he had spent the night, back to the records department, inside the city offices. The waist-high counter was once again unattended. He rang the bell for service. There was a short delay, and then Elizabeth Castle came in.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello again.”

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not so far,” he said. “They weren’t in either census.”

  “You sure you got the right town? Or state, even. There could be a Laconia somewhere else. New Mexico, or New York or New Jersey. There are a lot of N-states.”

  “Eight,” Reacher said. “Between New and North and Nevada and Nebraska.”

  “Then it might not have been N-H you saw. It might have been N-something else. Old-time handwriting can be weird.”

  “I saw it typed,” Reacher said. “Mostly by Marine Corps clerks. Who usually get things right. And I heard him say it, a dozen times. My mother would be ribbing him about something, most likely a missing romantic gesture, and he would say, well hell, I’m just a plain New Hampshire Yankee.”

  Elizabeth Castle said, “Huh.”

  Then she said, “I guess every census misses people. All kinds of geeky reasons. They’re forever trying to improve the methodology. There’s a guy here you should talk to. He’s a census enthusiast.”

  “Is that a new thing?”

  “Probably not,” she said, a little sharply. “I’m sure it’s a serious pursuit with a long and honorable history.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I think I offended you.”

  “How could you? I’m not a census enthusiast.”

  “If the census enthusiast was your boyfriend, for instance.”

  “He isn’t,” she said, with an indignant gasp, as if the idea was absurd.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Carter,” she said.

  “Where will I find him?”

  “What time is it?” she said, suddenly looking around for her phone, which wasn’t there. Reacher had noticed many fewer people wearing watches. Phones did everything.

  “Nearly eleven o’clock,” he said. “Four minutes to, plus a few seconds.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not? I took it as a serious question.”

  “Plus a few seconds?”

  “You think that’s too exact?”

  “Most people would say five to. Or about eleven o’clock.”

  “Which I would have, if you had asked me what time it was approximately. But you didn’t. You asked me what time it was, period. Three minutes and change now.”

  “You’re not looking at your watch.”

  “I don’t wear one,” he said. “Like you.”

  “Then how do you know what time it is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For real?”

  “Now it’s two minutes and maybe fifty seconds before eleven in the morning.”

  “Wait,” she said. She went back out through the door in the rear wall. A long moment later she came back in with her phone. She laid it on the counter. The screen was dark.

  She said, “What time is it now?”

  “Wait,” he said.

  Then he said, “Three, two, one, it’s the top of the hour. Eleven o’clock exactly.”

  She pressed the button on her phone.

  T
he screen lit up.

  It showed 10:59.

  “Close,” she said.

  It changed to 11:00.

  “How do you do that?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said again. “Where will I find your friend Carter, the census enthusiast?”

  “I didn’t say he was my friend.”

  “Co-worker?”

  “Different department entirely. In the back office. Not part of the customer-facing ecology, as they say.”

  “Then how do I get to see him?”

  “That’s why I asked the time. He takes a coffee break at a quarter past eleven. Every day, regular as clockwork.”

  “He sounds like a man of sound character.”

  “He takes thirty minutes exactly, in the place across the light. In the garden, if the sun is shining. Which it might or might not be. We can’t tell in here.”

  “What’s Carter’s first name?” Reacher asked, thinking about baristas calling out to customers. He figured the place could be crowded with office workers taking thirty-minute breaks, all of them looking pretty much the same.

  “Carter is his first name,” Elizabeth Castle said.

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Carrington,” she said. “Check back and tell me how it went. Don’t give up. Family is important. There will be other ways to find out.”

  Chapter 6

  Patty and Shorty were alone in room ten, sitting together on the unmade bed. Mark had invited them to breakfast after all. He had turned to go and then turned back with a forgiving grin on his face, all-friends-together, let’s-not-be-stupid. Patty had wanted to say yes. Shorty said no. They had gone inside and drunk toothbrush glasses of tepid water, standing at the bathroom sink.

  Patty said, “You’ll only feel worse when you have to ask him to give us lunch. You should have gotten it over with right away. Now it’s going to build up in your mind.”

  Shorty said, “You got to admit that was weird.”

  “What was?”

  “All of what just happened.”

  “Which was what?”

  “You saw it. You were there.”

  “Tell me in your own words.”

  “From my own lips? You sound like him. You saw what happened. He started up with some weird vendetta against me.”