THE JACK REACHER FILES: VELOCITY (with bonus thriller CROSSCUT)

by Jude Hardin

  “You think Virgil was in on killing his wife and daughter-in-law, and Joe his mother and grandmother?”

  Pete frowned. “Probably not.”

  “There was someone else at the scene,” I said. “The police found DNA from someone other than the Lambs or Derek Wahl. That’s who we need to find.”

  “How do we go about doing that?”

  “I don’t know. The DNA evidence was a dead end. Didn’t show up on any databases. If it had, the cops would probably have somebody in custody by now.”

  Pete stared into the fire.

  I studied the lip of my beer can.

  “What about that guy named Bear?” Pete said.

  “Lester was under quite a bit of stress when he told me about that. He might have made it up. But we’ll check into it.”

  “Want to check into now?”

  “Yeah.”

  We left the cabin. A winding two-lane road skirted by steep rocky cliffs snaked down the western side of the mountain, with only the sharpest curves protected by guardrails. The fact that a blown tire or a momentary lapse in concentration could send us careening a hundred feet to our deaths didn’t seem to bother Pete, but I could feel my blood pressure in my eyeballs. I longed for the warmth and flatness of Florida.

  “You just passed it,” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “Carp Lane. You just passed it.”

  “Shit.”

  A couple of miles and a bucketful of expletives later, I steered my Jimmy onto a dirt path that lead into the woods. I waited for a tractor-trailer to lumber by in low gear, and then backed out and turned around.

  Carp Lane had been paved, but years and years of harsh winters and neglect had resulted in some uneven cracks and potholes and crumbling edges.

  “Should have brought the lunar rover,” Pete said.

  “They left it on the moon,” I said.

  “What?”

  “They left it up there. I saw a story about it on TV.”

  “And we all know everything on TV is true.”

  “What’s your point?” I said.

  “It was a hoax. The whole thing was a hoax. Nobody ever landed on the moon. All those pictures and videos were taken in the desert. And on soundstages.”

  “You’re crazy. Of course they went to the moon.”

  “There’s a whole lot of evidence to the contrary. And if they left some stuff up there, why don’t they take some satellite photos now and prove it? I can go on the Internet and zoom in on my car in my driveway, so why can’t they do the same thing with the moon? They don’t want to, that’s why. Because there’s nothing there.”

  “Whatever, man. I’ve heard all that hoax stuff—”

  “You passed it.”

  “What?”

  “The Bar. I think that was it back there.”

  “Shit.”

  I turned around.

  There was a gravel lot on the left side of the building with several parking places and a hitching post for horses. I parked and we got out. The metal roof sloped away from the gables and sheltered a wooden porch cluttered with antique farm equipment and whiskey barrels. Signs advertising products that no longer existed had been tacked to the board-and-batten siding in front.

  “There’s nobody here,” Pete said, cupping his hand against the window and peeking inside.

  “I guess we’re a little early for happy hour. Or maybe they’re only open on certain days.”

  “We could sit in the truck and wait for a while.”

  I was about to suggest an alternative plan when a black Dodge Ram pulled into the lot and parked beside my Jimmy. A man got out and walked toward us. It was Ted Grayson. Something about him had changed since the poker game, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  “Hey, Nicholas,” he said gleefully. “What are you up to?”

  “Rumor has it a man can get a drink and shoot a game of pool here,” I said.

  “Now where’d you hear a thing like that?”

  “Around.”

  “Who’s your buddy here?”

  “I’m sorry. This is Pete Strong. Pete, Ted Grayson.”

  They shook hands.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Pete said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Ted owns the meat packing plant,” I said. “Grayson’s Meats.”

  “No kidding?” Pete said. “I eat your ham all the time. Good stuff.”

  “Well, thank you. We take pride in putting out a quality product. I rode over here to check the pilot light on the furnace. It went out the other day, and I wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again. You guys are welcome to come in for a spell if you want. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  I needed a drink after traversing that perilous mountain road. Ted opened the door and we walked inside.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ted switched the lights on, revealing what could only be described as a classic roadside honkytonk. Wood paneling, jukebox, neon beer signs, pickled eggs. There was an L-shaped bar and some booths with globed candles on the tables. Bottles of liquor lined the shelves behind the bar, and a stainless steel beer cooler hummed monotonously in the far left corner.

  “I’m assuming you own this place,” I said.

  “I do,” Ted said. “It’s illegal, but none of the cops around here bother us.”

  “What’s back there?” I said, pointing toward a dark archway.

  Ted flipped another switch, and the lights came on in the adjacent room. There was one coin-operated pool table and some bistro tables and a large television. Everything was neat and tidy, the ashtrays on tables clean and ready for business.

  Ted gestured toward the stools back in the main room.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said.

  Pete and I sat at the bar. We didn’t take our coats off.

  “I guess this is what they used to call a speakeasy,” I said.

  “Amazing what you can do with the right kind of money.”

  “Yeah.”

  The furnace kicked on.

  “How are you planning to approach this?” Pete whispered. “He thinks you’re up here scouting fishing locations, right?”

  Ted clomped back in before I could answer. He grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey and three glasses from the back bar.

  “Bourbon okay?” he said.

  Pete nodded.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Ted poured the drinks.

  “Pilot light went out again. Guess I’m going to have to call someone. You guys know anything about HVAC?”

  “I adjusted a thermostat one time,” I said.

  They didn’t laugh.

  “You still eyeballing spots for the bass rodeo?” Ted said.

  “I need to talk to you about that,” I said. “I kind of made all that up.”

  “Huh?”

  “I love to fish, but that was never my mission here. I’m a private investigator. Pete and I are working together on a case, the murders at the Lambs’ residence a year ago Thanksgiving.”

  “Unbelievable. Chris was right about you. He said you were up to something, and he was right.”

  “He was right, in a way, but I never—”

  “So what are you going to do now? Bust me for operating a tavern in a dry county?”

  “Not at all. This isn’t about you.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “Ever hear of a militia group called the Harvest Angels?”

  “No.”

  “One of my sources told me a guy named Bear comes in here sometimes. Supposedly he’s a member.”

  “Never heard of him. But I’m not here that much. A couple of bartenders and a bookkeeper mostly run the joint. I pay them under the table, so they’re not going to be too happy to be involved in any kind of investigation.”

  “Maybe you could do me a favor,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just call one of your bartenders an
d ask him if he knows anything about this Bear fellow.”

  “You lied to me. Why would I want to help you with anything?”

  I thought about telling him I had friends who worked for the IRS, but I was on his turf and didn’t want to get into a game of hardball I couldn’t win. I decided to come clean all the way.

  “I originally thought Virgil Lamb’s gambling debts had something to do with his disappearance,” I said. “I figured a loan shark sent a couple of guys to the house to take care of business, and that Derek Wahl just happened to show up at the wrong time. The crosses carved into the victims’ foreheads initially had me intrigued, because I saw the same thing on a young woman who was killed three years ago. Her name was Leitha Ryan, and she had hired me to find her sister, Brittney, who had run away from home. The man who killed Leitha was an old acquaintance of mine. Later on, I found out he belonged to the religious cult. So at first I thought there might be a connection, and then I dismissed it as paranoia on my part. I couldn’t find any evidence to back the assumption. But when Derek Wahl broke into my house—”

  “I heard about that. So you’re the one who killed Derek?”

  “I’m the one. I shot him in the chest.”

  “He was a good man. Good police officer. He used to come in here and have a drink every now and then.”

  “I’m sure he was a fine upstanding citizen,” I said. “Right up to the time he tried to kill my wife and daughter.”

  “Something must have happened. That’s not the Derek I knew.”

  “Affiliation with a cult can change a man,” I said.

  “All right, I understand why you killed Derek, but why the obsession with this Harvest Angels outfit? Why don’t you just go on back to Florida and play your music?”

  “Because Derek came all the way from Tennessee to invade my home and murder my family. That’s pretty personal. I have to assume I’ve been targeted. If not by the Harvest Angels, then by someone else. I have to find out who it is and put a stop to it.”

  “And you want me to help you.”

  “Well, I did sign those records for you.”

  Ted reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. A minute later, he penciled a name and address on a cocktail napkin.

  Phineas R. Boyle, a.k.a. Bear.

  “Now we’re even,” Ted said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Coincidentally, Phineas Boyle’s singlewide trailer was located along the same dirt road I had used to turn around on earlier. It was a shabby, depressing little place, with olive green shutters on the windows and a rusted ’55 Ford in the yard. A very large pair of jockey shorts trembled on a clothesline stretched between two trees.

  “We just going to walk right up to the door and knock?” Pete said.

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “Maybe we should tail the guy for a while or something. Call me crazy, but cults tend to make me nervous.”

  I pointed toward the underwear. “It’s okay. He’s already raised the white flag.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’ll go up there and talk to him by myself,” I said. “If something bad happens, you can come to my rescue.”

  “Aren’t you just a little bit afraid? You go up there and start confronting this guy—”

  “I’m going to act like I’m interested in joining. All I want from this Bear dude is to confirm the existence of a Harvest Angels cell here, and try to find out their location for meetings. Then I’m done. I’ll turn it over to the state police and drive on back to Florida.”

  “Won’t he be a tad suspicious about the black man in your car?”

  “That’s why I parked this way. He won’t be able to see you through the tinted windows.”

  “This stuff makes me nervous.”

  “We’ll be fine. Be back in two shakes.”

  I got out and walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door. An enormously fat man with long black hair and a full beard answered. It was obvious how he got his nickname.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Eighty-eight, brother,” I said. It was something I learned when I infiltrated the cult called Chain of Light down in Florida three years ago. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet. Eighty-eight means double H, which stands for Heil Hitler.

  He smiled. “Eighty-eight,” he said. “Come on in.”

  He stepped aside and allowed me to enter the cramped living room. It was a manly place, with the head of a buck on one wall and three mounted bass on another. He motioned for me to have a seat on a ratty plaid sofa, half of which was covered with dirty laundry. I sat, expecting to sink, but the couch was surprisingly firm. It must not have been in there long enough for Bear’s weight to trash the springs. He pulled up a stool that reminded me of a drummer’s throne and sat across the coffee table from me.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “My name’s Nicholas Colt. I’m thinking about moving to the area, and I’m interested in finding some like-minded individuals.”

  “You believe in taking back the country for the white man?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You know about the Harvest Angels?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Got some I.D.?”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver’s license.

  “That picture’s a few years old,” I said.

  “Florida, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Florida’s nice, man. Why you want to move to Tennessee?”

  “I miss the change of seasons.”

  “What kind of work you do?”

  “I was second ham boner at a slaughterhouse down in Hallows Cove,” I said. “Hoping to get me a job at Grayson’s.”

  A two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew stood greenly erect amongst the general mishmash of items on the coffee table. Bear picked it up, twisted the cap off, and took a drink.

  “Want some?” he said.

  “No thanks.”

  “I have some beer in the refrigerator.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “There’s a meeting here at my house tonight, if you’re interested. You can come over and meet some of the guys.”

  “What time?”

  “Around seven. I got plenty of beer. You can bring a bag of chips or something.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

  “Cool, my brother. Well, I got some work to do, you know.”

  “That’s cool. Thanks for the invite. I’m definitely interested.”

  “See you tonight, then.”

  I got up and walked toward the door. When I reached for the handle, something hard and unforgiving smashed into the back of my skull.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I woke up with the worst headache of my life. I was positioned in some sort of recliner, maybe a dentist’s chair, my arms and legs bound with leather straps. Plastic tubing coiled upward from my left arm to a bag of clear liquid hanging on a pole. My clothes had been stripped off and replaced with a hospital gown. Another plastic tube, a larger one, snaked from between my legs to a bag attached to the foot of the chair. The bag was about half full of what I assumed was my own urine.

  A male voice from behind me said, “What’s your name?”

  “Nicholas Colt,” I said.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, let me assure you, you did.”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “An old friend, Mr. Colt.”

  He came around to where I could see him. His features were chiseled and expressionless. I decided to name him Stoneface. I didn’t recognize him, but there was something about the voice. Something familiar. I couldn’t place it.

  “What do you want with me?” I said.

  He walked across the room and opened the top drawer on a steel cabinet. He pulled out a small bag of intravenous fluid and a syringe. He uncapped the syringe and injected its contents into a port on the bag. He grabbed
a set of tubing and walked back to my chair and piggybacked the new IV into the one on the pole beside me. He opened a clamp, and I watched the fluid drip into a chamber until everything went black.

  A period of time lapsed. I didn’t know how much. When I opened my eyes a young woman with blond hair tied in a bun walked into the room carrying a food tray. She set the tray on a table and wheeled it to my chair and tried to spoon feed me some green mush from a bowl.

  “I don’t want that,” I said.

  She rolled the table back to where it had been and carried the tray out of the room without saying anything. Stoneface came in a few minutes later.

  “Why won’t you eat?” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you continue to refuse sustenance, I’ll be forced to surgically insert a feeding tube into your stomach. Is that what you want?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What I’m offering you is a specially formulated paste with precise amounts of protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals, fiber, everything you need to stay healthy. I invented it myself. There’s a patent pending. I’m planning to pitch it to NASA one of these days. It doesn’t taste bad. I promise.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I see. Well, we can’t have you starving, so tomorrow I will place a gastrostomy tube into your stomach and we’ll feed you that way. I was hoping we could avoid that, but apparently not.”

  Gastrostomy tube. Why? The last thing I remembered was being in Bear’s house, being invited to a meeting of the Harvest Angels. I had to assume Stoneface was a member of the cult as well. But why would he want to feed me through a tube? Why keep me alive? None of it made any sense.

  “Why are you doing this?” I said.

  No response.

  I wondered what had happened to Pete. Maybe Pete had escaped. Maybe he was out looking for me.

  Stoneface got up and walked to the medication cabinet. He did his thing with the small bag of fluid and the vial and syringe. He connected it to my primary drip and a few minutes later I went reeling into the worst nightmare of my life.

  I had an intense hatred for a man I’d never met, and I was out to hurt him in the worst possible way. I knew where he lived. I knew he wasn’t home. I took a taxi to his neighborhood and got out a block from his house. I strolled by casually with my hands in my pockets. There was a handkerchief in one front pocket and a small bottle of chloroform in the other, and a ski mask stuffed into one of the back pockets. I kept trying to remember my name but could not. The garage door was open. There was one car parked in there. There was a washer and dryer, and the washer was running. It was on spin cycle. I could hear it whining furiously. I walked up the driveway and into the garage. I crouched down between two large blue trash cans and put the ski mask on and waited. I pulled the bottle out of my pocket and poured some of the chloroform onto the handkerchief. The washing machine completed its cycle, the basket winding down to a complete stop. The garage got very quiet, and I had to make sure I didn’t make a sound when the woman came out to transfer the clothes from the washer to the dryer. She set the timer and pushed the button and the dryer started humming and when she opened the door to go back into the house I came up from behind and pressed the handkerchief soaked with chloroform against her face. The tiniest little whimper escaped from her throat before her muscles went slack and she fell back into my arms. I picked her up and carried her inside and set her on the floor. The girl was sitting at the table eating soup and crackers. She looked at me and screamed. I ran over there and backhanded her in the face. She started crying. Her nose was bleeding. I pressed the handkerchief against her face until she passed out. I found the master bedroom and carried the woman first and then the girl and positioned them side-by-side on the king size bed and took their clothes off. I went back to the kitchen and looked for the knives. I found them in a block on a shelf in the pantry. I pulled one out and felt the edge with my thumb. It was very sharp. I found a roll of duct tape in the drawer under the toaster. I carried the tape and the knife to the master bedroom and bound the girl’s wrists and ankles and the woman’s and cut the tilted crosses into their foreheads. There was a lot of blood. Deep inside I knew this was wrong, that I was doing a very bad thing, but I couldn’t help myself. I heard something from the direction of the kitchen. Someone had entered the house through the garage. I quickly left the master bedroom and ducked into the smaller bedroom down the hall. The intruder stomped into the master bedroom, and I heard moans and other painful sounds from the woman and the girl. I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t part of the script. I gripped the knife and walked back, and there stood The Man I Had An Intense Hatred For. I went at him quickly and viciously with the knife. He dodged the first thrust and I started swiping at him with the blade and I lunged forward like a pirate in a swordfight but The Man I Had An Intense Hatred For spun to the left and the knife went deep into the drywall. By the time I dislodged the knife he had rolled onto the floor and I went at him overhand knowing this was it and I was going to open him up like a melon but then there was an explosion and another and another and another and the world got hazy and dim and I dropped the knife and fell to the floor. An instant before I stopped breathing, I finally remembered my name. My name was Derek Wahl. My mission had been to kill the family of The Man I Had An Intense Hatred For, but I had failed.