by Jude Hardin
“I want to go back to my room.”
“Shut up,” the mean one said.
A set of hands grabbed Felisa’s shoulders and shoved her backwards. She fell into a padded armchair. Leather, or a high quality imitation. It was soft and cool against her skin.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“I want you to shut up.”
“Why haven’t you contacted my people?”
“Sure,” the mean one said. “We’ll contact your people and arrange for a place to exchange you for the money. Everything will go smoothly. There won’t be any cops or FBI agents or snipers or anything. We’ll walk away rich, and you’ll walk away unharmed. That’s the way it always happens in the movies, right? Only it never happens that way in the movies. The kidnappers always get killed or carted off to prison. They never get away, because they’re stupid. They’re on power trips. They think the cops are going to follow their demands, but it never quite works out that way, does it? That’s why we’re not messing around with that whole ransom scenario in the first place.”
“What are you talking about?” Benny said. “I thought you said—”
“Never mind what you thought I said. There’s been a change of plans.”
A phone trilled and the mean one answered. Felisa heard his voice and footsteps trail off into another room, and then she heard a door slam shut.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Benny said. “This is all news to me.”
“Help me get out of here right now and I’ll pay you a million dollars. My financial manager can transfer it to any account you want in less than an hour. Please, let’s hurry while he’s in the other room.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. JR wouldn’t like that at all. He would find me. He’s really good at finding people. And he can be really mean sometimes.”
“Tell me about it. Listen, if you—”
“You don’t even know JR. Never mind. I shouldn’t have—let’s just don’t talk right now, okay?”
Benny started breathing hard. He seemed really upset about slipping up and mentioning this JR person, whoever it was.
The driver, Felisa thought. JR must have been the guy waiting with the engine running when Benny and the mean one forced her into the back of the van. She never saw his face, but she could tell that he was very tall, and she’d noticed the corded muscles on his forearms before the mean one blindfolded her.
“Please,” Felisa said. “Name your price. I’ll give you enough money to go anywhere in the world. You can change your name and—”
“Let’s just don’t talk right now.”
Felisa felt as though she needed to make a move now, while the mean one was in the other room, even if she couldn’t convince Benny to help her. It might be her last chance.
She couldn’t really see anything through the pillowcase, but she could distinguish light from dark. There was a bright rectangle straight ahead, which she assumed was the front door. If she could dart over there and make it outside before Benny grabbed her, she might be able to scream and shout and alert a neighbor or a passing motorist to call the police. She was famous, after all. Most people would recognize her right away, and most people would know from the media coverage that she had been kidnapped.
She decided to go for it.
She took a deep breath.
On three, she told herself.
One…
Two…
10
It was almost ten-thirty by the time Colt made it to Rock Creek. His watch still wasn’t working, but there was a digital display on the front of the bank that kept everyone apprised of the time and temperature twenty-four hours a day. It was big and bright and it reminded Colt of the 1980s when you saw those things everywhere.
Early that morning, the lead operative at the briefing session had given Colt two hundred dollars in cash, along with a debit card to use as needed. As he walked past the bank, he thought about trying the ATM, but he didn’t want to leave an electronic trail, and he figured The Circle had canceled the card by now anyway. So he had two hundred dollars and the clothes on his back, the briefcase with the Jack Reacher stuff in it and the flash drive Valinger had given him, and a driver’s license and a private investigator’s license that said Derek Ray Green. Everything else was gone.
Including any chance of ever seeing Juliet and Brittney again.
The Circle had given them new looks and new identities, and the only way Colt was ever going to see them again was if The Circle allowed him to see them again. If he continued running from the organization, if he made that his life now, he would never find them.
And that just wasn’t acceptable.
Sweat trickled down his back as he trotted to the other side of the highway, crossing at a traffic light that flashed red in one direction and yellow in the other. He needed to get back in good standing with The Circle, somehow. Surely he would be cleared of any wrongdoing when the toxicology reports came back on Kurt Valinger. Assuming they were negative, of course. It was possible that someone really had murdered him, that this whole ordeal was some kind of frame job, but Colt didn’t think so. Valinger died in his sleep. Unusual for a man his age, but it happens. He could have had a heart attack or something. The whiskey might have been a contributing factor, but he didn’t drink very much. He didn’t drink very much because Colt didn’t have very much. The bottle was almost empty when Valinger came to the room. And what he did drink, he drank of his own volition. Nobody twisted his arm.
The operative Colt left in the living room bound with duct tape had said that the toxicology report would take a few weeks. So maybe it was just a matter of time. If Colt could stay alive until it was apparent that Valinger had died of natural causes, maybe everything would be okay.
Or maybe not.
It was possible that The Circle would execute him anyway now, after everything that happened at the safe house. But maybe some insurance would help, like finding something on this Jack Reacher guy, something that The Circle could use against him.
Insurance.
Like going ahead and working the case as if nothing had happened. It was what The Circle wanted. It was why they sent him here. A nice show of loyalty and commitment might go a long way with The Director when he made his decision as to whether Colt should live or die. Colt would have to work in the shadows for the next month or so, but that was no problem. He’d done it before.
Colt had studied a map of Rock Creek at the briefing session. It was a small town with a simple layout. He walked along the main drag until he saw the strip mall he was looking for. He strolled along the sidewalk making mental notes of the storefronts for future reference, crossed thirty feet or so to a separate parking area that formed the perimeter of the diner where Felisa Cayenne had been abducted.
The interior looked pretty much like the set they’d built on the soundstage back at headquarters, only there were no chrome letters tacked to the wall over the service counter. Instead, there was a large painting of some buildings by the sea and some fishing boats. Somewhere in Europe, Colt guessed. Greece, maybe. The whole place had that sort of vibe. Not what you would expect in a place called Mac’s, but whatever. Colt was hungry and he needed caffeine. He didn’t care what country it came from, or even what planet.
A woman wearing black pants and a cranberry polo met him at the hostess station. Mid-twenties, short blonde hair, eyes a mix of gray and blue. Like a storm rolling in over the ocean. She was very beautiful. Her nametag said Erin.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Is the owner here tonight?”
“No. He hardly ever comes in these days. We might see him once a month if we’re lucky.”
She looked at Colt as if he might be there to clean the hood over the stove or something.
“I would like to get something to eat,” he said.
“We close in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re open now, right?�
��
“Yes, but—”
“Then I would like to get something to eat. And some coffee.”
She sighed and grabbed a menu and led him to a partitioned booth in front by the window.
“Can I have that table over there?” Colt said, pointing toward a corner on the other side of the room. He wanted to have a good view of the door, and he didn’t want to sit where anyone from outside could see him.
“Sure,” Erin said. “Sit anywhere you want to.”
Colt walked over and slid into the booth. Erin handed him a laminated menu and said it would be a few minutes on the coffee.
“Could I have some water, please?”
She turned and walked away without saying anything. She brought the water and stood there with her pen and pad, staring at Colt while he stared at the menu. There were a lot of choices, and there was a little note from the owner at the bottom of the back page:
Please come again. I’ll be disappointed if you can’t make it.
–Mac
A nice touch, Colt thought.
“The burgers are good,” Erin said.
“You’re not trying to hurry me, are you?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“I’m from out of town,” Colt said. “I was under the impression that Mac’s was open twenty-four hours a day.”
“Used to be. Not anymore. Not since the robbery.”
“There was a robbery?”
“Surely you heard about that. It was all over the news. CNN and everything.”
“I don’t pay much attention to the news. It’s hardly ever good.”
“Have you ever heard of Felisa Cayenne?”
“No.”
She laughed. “Never mind, then. What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have the Blue Plato Special,” Colt said.
Half a pound of ground beef on a bun with feta cheese and olive slices. Fries and whole olives on the side and some sauce made with yogurt.
“How would you like your burger cooked?”
“Well done.”
She jotted everything down and scurried off toward the kitchen.
Colt picked up his glass of water and drank it all in a single gulp. Ten minutes later, Erin returned with his food and his coffee and his bill. Twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents.
“Would you mind going ahead and paying, so I can cash out?” she said.
“What’s your hurry?”
“Babysitters are expensive.”
“Sit here and talk with me for five minutes,” Colt said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
She looked around. “I’m really not supposed to—”
“It’ll be all right.”
Erin took a seat across from Colt, sitting on the edge of the bench, obviously anxious to get up and get out of there as quickly as possible.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she said.
“About the robbery.”
“I thought you said you never heard about that.”
“Maybe I heard about it.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Private investigator. You were here that night?”
“Yeah, I was here. I thought they were going to kill us all. I’ve never been so afraid in all my life.”
“Tell me about it. Start from the beginning.”
She told Colt the story, starting from when the masked men came in and told everyone to get on the floor and ending with them shooting Deputy Marshal Clete Garrison and forcing a very distraught Felisa Cayenne outside to the parking lot. For the most part, it all jibed with the reenactment Colt had seen.
“That’s all I know,” Erin said. “I was pretty upset.”
“I’m sure you were. You didn’t happen to look outside at any point, did you?”
“No. Once they left the restaurant, I pretty much fell to pieces. I couldn’t stop crying. The police came, and it took a while before I could even talk to them. I was a mess.”
“Did the robbers ever mention the name Jack? Or Reacher?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Her eyes got big, and then she said, “Oh! But one of them did slip up and call the other one by his name. It was Clark. I remember, because it made me think of a friend of mine. Clark got really mad when that happened. He called the other guy an idiot, and then he slugged him in the arm. Hard.”
“Did you tell the police about that?”
“No, I just now remembered it. Kind of like that part was buried under everything else. Is that what they call a repressed memory?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, thanks for your time, Erin.”
“You’re welcome.”
Colt reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, handed her a twenty dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” he said.
“Thanks.”
She got up and walked back toward the kitchen.
Colt sliced his sandwich in half and took a bite. It was good. He drank some coffee and ate most of the burger and some of the fries. Erin came by a few minutes later and offered to refill his coffee cup.
“Can I get it to go?” Colt said.
“Sure.”
She took Colt’s plate and walked away, came back a couple of minutes later carrying a humongous Styrofoam cup with a lid on it.
“That’s a lot of coffee,” Colt said.
“I would’ve just poured it out anyway. Enjoy.”
“Can I trouble you for one more thing? It’ll only take a second.”
“All right.”
Colt opened the briefcase and pulled out the photograph of Jack Reacher in his army uniform.
“Ever seen this guy?”
She glanced down at the picture, then leaned over to take a closer look.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Is he really tall?”
“Yeah. Six-five. This was taken a long time ago. He’s older now.”
“You know, I think he did come in here one time. A while back when I was still on days. He ordered pancakes, if I remember correctly. And talk about a coffee drinker. I must have filled his cup about a thousand times.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, he was with a woman.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
Erin sighed. “It’s been a while. She was wearing a uniform, I do remember that. Army, I think. There’s a building not far from here where some military people work, so it’s not unusual to see customers in uniform. I don’t know much about it, but I think she was some kind of officer. She had a gold thing on each lapel, a little wreath with a sword and a feather crossed over it.”
“A quill pen,” Colt said.
“Huh?”
“The feather. It’s a quill pen. JAG Corps. She was a lawyer. You have a really good memory.”
She shrugged. “I just thought those things were kind of pretty. And while I was looking at them, I happened to notice her nametag. It said Sullivan.”
Colt closed the briefcase, slid out of the booth, lifted the bucket of coffee Erin had delivered to him for the road. She’d been a big help. She’d given him more information than he expected. Amazing what you can get for a seven dollar and sixty-three cent tip these days.
“Is there a hotel anywhere near the building where military people work?” Colt said.
She thought about it. “There is one, as a matter of fact.”
She gave him directions.
11
Three.
Felisa yanked the pillowcase from her head and bolted for the door.
“Hey!” Benny shouted. “Hey!”
She twisted the knob and slung the door inward and scurried out onto the porch. It was nighttime. The brightness she’d seen through the pillowcase was from a pair of flood lamps mounted on the soffit over the steps. She grabbed the wood railing and hurried down to the sidewalk and crossed the yard and ran along the street shouting at the top of her lungs.
“Help me! Help me!”
As she ran barefoot on the gritty pavement, she
noticed something very odd about the neighborhood. There weren’t any cars parked along the street, and most of the houses had boards over the windows. Apparently Benny and the mean one were squatting in some sort of condemned area, an entire neighborhood slated for demolition. Crumbling brick facades, wood ravaged by rot and insects, lawns and flowerbeds overgrown with weeds. Everything in a state of decay, sagging and corroding and anxiously waiting for the wrecking crew to put it out of its misery.
Running as fast as her legs would carry her, lungs on fire and heart pounding like a jackhammer, Felisa stumbled over a depression in the blacktop and rolled her right ankle. She shrieked, fell to the pavement with tears rolling down her cheeks, knowing that this was it, that she was never going to get away now.
An elderly man wearing nothing but a stained pair of undershorts came running out of one of the buildings.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“I’ve been kidnapped. I need help.”
The man was holding a phone, but it was one of those black rotary-dial things Felisa had seen sometimes in old movies and television shows. There was a frayed cord dangling from one end.
He picked up the handset. “Operator, this is an emergency. Please send the police right away to—”
Before the old guy could give the imaginary operator an address, the mean one gently took the handset from him and hung up the phone.
He was still wearing his ski mask, and he looked especially menacing under the jaundiced glow of the ancient streetlight. “She’s with me,” he said. “I’ll take care of her.”
The old man nodded and walked back into his house.
“Please,” Felisa said, hot tears streaming down her face. “I just want to go home.”
The mean one leaned over and picked her up and started carrying her back toward the only bungalow with lights on.
“That’s where we’re going,” he said. “Home.”
12
The building that Erin the waitress had mentioned—the one where military people worked—was the headquarters for the 110th Special Investigations Unit. Military Police. Jack Reacher’s old unit. Colt knew about it from the briefing session. If he was going to stick to the plan and try to dig up some dirt on Reacher, he figured it was as good a place to start as any.
