The Reacher Experiment

by Jude Hardin

  “You have ten thousand dollars lying around somewhere?”

  “Give or take.”

  “I need it by Wednesday,” Allison said.

  “Why Wednesday?”

  “I thought you said no questions.”

  “Fair enough,” Wahlman said. “My pension check will be directly deposited into my checking account Tuesday. Once that happens, I’ll have a little over ten thousand in the account. I’ll pay you Tuesday afternoon.”

  “How do I know—”

  “You don’t,” Wahlman said. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Allison sat there and stared at the floor some more. Then she looked up at Wahlman and brushed a tear off her cheek and said okay.

  8

  Wahlman figured it would take the police at least a couple of days to go through all of the video footage from the security cameras in the area, which meant that it would be at least a couple of days before his face was displayed on every news broadcast in the country.

  “I’m not too worried about the police seeing me,” he said. “They don’t know who they’re looking for yet. It’s the killers I’m worried about. They know what I look like.”

  “They don’t know what I look like,” Allison said. “Just let me know what you want me to do.”

  Wahlman pulled some cash out of his billfold.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he said. “Go out and get us something to eat. And bring back some hair dye and some sunglasses. I need a new shirt and a new pair of pants, and I might want to borrow some of your makeup when you get back.”

  “Makeup?”

  “To cover this scar.”

  Allison nodded. “I’m going to need some money for gas, too,” she said. “My tank’s almost empty, and I maxed out my credit card to get this room for a few days.”

  Wahlman handed her the rest of his money.

  “That should be enough for everything,” he said. “I’ll hit the ATM again later.”

  Allison picked up her phone and her purse and walked to the door.

  “See you in a little while,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  Wahlman secured the deadbolt and the swing bar, and then he walked over to the coffee setup and grabbed the pot and took it to the bathroom and filled it with water. He tore open one of the little packages of coffee and loaded the handy-dandy prefabricated pouch into the filter basket and poured the water into the reservoir. He switched the machine on, and then he walked over to the corner of the room and started inspecting Allison’s luggage. It wasn’t something that he normally would have done, but he needed to make sure she wasn’t hiding something that would put them both in more danger than they were already in.

  The big suitcase was empty, and all Wahlman found in the carryon bag was a partial roll of quarters and a bottle of prescription pain tablets and two paperback novels. He fanned through the books to make sure there wasn’t anything hidden in the pages, and then he placed everything back the way it was and moved over to the dresser and started opening drawers. He looked through all of them, found nothing out of the ordinary, checked the closet next and found a folded piece of paper in one of the pockets of a brown leather jacket. He carefully unfolded the paper and saw that it was a contract for a loan in the amount of five thousand dollars. If you paid the money back within two weeks, the loan only cost you a grand. Two more weeks and the price went up to twenty-five hundred. And so forth. Allison had been telling the truth about how much she needed. Ten thousand by Wednesday, or the loan went to collections. Maybe a black eye to start with. Maybe a broken bone or two after that. And so forth. Wahlman folded the paper and slid it back into the pocket. He figured it wouldn’t be a problem as long as Allison handed over the money in time.

  Wahlman walked back over to the coffeemaker and grabbed one of the insulated paper cups from the caddy and unwrapped it and filled it with coffee. He tried to take a sip, but it was too hot. He found the remote and switched on the television, saw that 60 Minutes was on and realized that it was after seven o’clock and that there probably wouldn’t be any local news broadcasts until ten. He tried the coffee again and it was okay and he turned the television off and walked over to the window. Emergency vehicles everywhere. Yellow tape everywhere. There were two police cars parked at the intersection, lights flashing, blocking the traffic turning off Canal Street or coming straight over from Royal Street.

  Wahlman finished his coffee, poured himself another cup.

  And then the phone started ringing.

  Wahlman stood there and stared at it for a few seconds. Maybe it was Allison. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. They should have decided on some kind of code. Ring once, hang up, ring again. Something like that.

  Wahlman decided not to answer. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Say it was the front desk, and say a couple of police detectives were down there canvassing for potential witnesses. Allison’s room was directly across the street from the sandwich shop, so it was one of the first ones they would call. As long as nobody answered, they would have to assume that Allison was out of the room, and they would have to move on. They would probably try again later, but Allison would be back later and she could tell them she didn’t see anything, which happened to be the truth. That was Wahlman’s theory—based on his own experience as a law enforcement officer—that the phone would ring eight to ten times and then stop.

  But it didn’t stop.

  It kept ringing.

  And ringing.

  And ringing.

  Then Wahlman remembered. The hair dye. He hadn’t told Allison what color to get. Not that it really mattered, but he should have told her something. There was no way for her to know that he didn’t care. She was probably calling to ask about that.

  Almost certain that a detective working a fresh murder case wouldn’t have waited twenty-some rings for someone to answer, Wahlman walked over to the nightstand and picked up the phone and said hello.

  “May I speak to Allison Bentley, please?” a male voice said.

  Wahlman didn’t know which would seem more suspicious—hanging up or talking.

  He decided to talk.

  “She’s not here right now,” he said. “Can I take a message?”

  “Tell her Mr. Tanner called. Just a friendly reminder.”

  Dial tone.

  Tanner was the name on the loan contract. He was the guy Allison owed money to.

  The phone rang again. It was Allison this time, asking about the hair dye. Wahlman told her dark brown, and she was back in the room fifteen minutes later with the dye and a six-pack of beer and the sunglasses and the clothes and a big bag of fried chicken.

  Allison opened two of the beers, loaded the others into the little dormitory-style refrigerator by the window. She put a clean bath towel on the center of the bed and spread the food out and they sat there and ate picnic-style. Chicken, slaw, mashed potatoes, biscuits.

  “This is good,” Wahlman said.

  “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to go about finding the people who shot up the sandwich shop?”

  “They didn’t just shoot up the sandwich shop. They killed the owner.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “I heard four gunshots soon after I exited the building.”

  “Maybe they were just trying to scare the guy.”

  “Are you always so optimistic?” Wahlman asked.

  “Are you always so pessimistic?”

  “Not always. Anyway, we’ll know for sure at ten o’clock when the news comes on.”

  “You never did answer my question. Have you given any thought—”

  “Someone called here a while ago,” Wahlman said. “A man named Tanner. He said something about it being a friendly reminder. Then he hung up.”

  “I’ll call him back later. You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “I need to sleep on it.”

  “Which brings up another subject,” Allison said. “I hope yo
u don’t think—”

  “Don’t worry,” Wahlman said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “I guess I could ask for a rollaway bed.”

  “I would prefer to keep our little arrangement a secret. Eventually the police will be over here conducting interviews, so it’s best that the management doesn’t know you have a guest.”

  “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  They finished the chicken and opened two more beers and looked out the window for a while. Wahlman decided to go ahead and dye his hair and try some of Allison’s makeup on his face. He took his shirt off and walked over to the vanity in the little alcove that led to the bathroom and emerged an hour later looking like some kind of department store mannequin. Extra- large, extra-creepy.

  “What do you think?” he asked, laughing. “Tell the truth now.”

  “I think maybe I better help you,” Allison said.

  She went to the vanity with him and washed the makeup off and scrubbed some of the dye out of his hair. She toweled him off and put him in the desk chair and sat on the edge of the bed and reapplied the makeup.

  “I feel like I’m getting ready to go on TV or something,” Wahlman said.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever put makeup on someone else. I’m sure I’ll get better with practice. Anyway, this is better than it was. Want to take a look?”

  Wahlman got up and walked to the vanity and looked in the mirror. The transformation was remarkable. He barely recognized himself.

  “I think you did a great job,” he said.

  “Thanks. It’s almost ten o’clock. Did you want to watch the news?”

  “Yes.”

  Allison turned the television on, and a few minutes later they learned that the man who’d been working alone in the sandwich shop was indeed the owner.

  And they learned that he was in the hospital in critical condition.

  9

  Wahlman woke up at 5:27 a.m.

  He always woke up at 5:27, regardless of the time he went to bed. It was the time he’d always set his alarm clock for when he was in the navy. The last several years, anyway, after he’d been promoted to Senior Chief and didn’t have to work any of the night watches anymore.

  He put his new clothes on, khaki pants and a striped polo, made sure the makeup Allison had applied last night was still covering the scar, left the room and took the stairs down to the first floor. He exited the hotel through the side door, hoping to avoid any contact with the staff.

  One of the housekeeping associates was out on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette, but she was busy thumbing a text message into her cell phone and didn’t seem to pay any attention to Wahlman as he sauntered by and made his way out to the street.

  It seemed to Wahlman that for the past few decades a good percentage of the world’s population had been injected with a toxic dose of distraction. Amazing technology, they called it. Cell phones, tablet computers, navigation systems. Eyeglasses with holographic video displays. Wrist watches that monitored everything from your heart rate to your sleep cycles—and even your thoughts, according to some of the wilder conspiracy theories. Wahlman doubted that the technology was quite that advanced yet, although it was probably only a matter of time. At least the ubiquitous electronic devices made it relatively easy to walk around and not be noticed, he thought.

  Allison had set her alarm clock for seven, and Wahlman figured it would be at least eight before she was ready to do anything. He found a coffee shop on Canal Street, used the ATM by the door to withdraw some money, ordered a large cup to go and asked the barista how to get to the hospital.

  “You mean University?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about a mile up that way. Just past the interstate on the left.”

  “Will the streetcar take me there?”

  “Sure.”

  Wahlman paid her, walked up to the next corner and waited for the streetcar. The first one that came by was full, but the one behind it had plenty of space. Wahlman climbed aboard and paid the driver and found a vacant seat near the back. Solid wood benches, naked light bulbs, cords you pulled when your stop was coming up.

  Windows that you could lower if you needed some fresh air.

  Point A to Point B with no air pollution and very little noise.

  Engineering that had been around for almost two hundred years.

  Wahlman wondered why more cities didn’t use streetcars. He guessed they weren’t amazing enough.

  He got off and crossed the street and made his way through the revolving glass door at the front entrance of the hospital and stopped at the information desk. A woman wearing a navy blue dress and an expensive set of fingernails asked how she could help him this morning.

  “I wanted to check on a patient named Walter Babineaux,” he said.

  “Are you family?”

  “Just a friend.”

  The woman clicked her mouse and tapped her keyboard, the fake nails adding a whispery plastic-on-plastic sound that Wahlman found incredibly attractive for some reason.

  “He’s in the Intensive Care Unit on the eighth floor,” she said. “All I can tell you right now is that he’s stable.”

  “Would it be possible for me to go up and visit him?”

  “Sorry. Family only. Anyway—and I really shouldn’t be telling you this—he hasn’t regained consciousness yet. So I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much of a visit, even if you were allowed.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Wahlman walked over to a gigantic window that overlooked Canal Street, sat on a padded bench and sipped his coffee, which had finally cooled off enough to drink. He had wanted to ask Babineaux if he had seen the people who shot him. A physical description would be useful in identifying them if they happened to show up in the area around the hotel again.

  And Wahlman was almost certain they would.

  The local news channels were calling the attack on the sandwich shop an armed robbery. Addicts desperate for a fix, maybe. But Wahlman knew better. They might have taken some money on the way out to make it look like some kind of heist, but their primary purpose had been to eliminate Rock Wahlman.

  And leave no witnesses.

  Which meant that Walter Babineaux was still in great danger.

  Wahlman wondered if the police department had posted a guard outside his room. If not, they needed to. Family only, the woman at the desk had said, but hired assassins probably weren’t overly concerned with hospital rules. They would find a way to get to Babineaux, to make sure he never woke up.

  Wahlman walked around the first floor of the hospital until he found a payphone. He asked the operator for the non-emergency number for the New Orleans Police Department, dropped some money into the slot and made the call. The officer who answered identified himself as Sergeant Dobbs.

  “There’s a man named Walter Babineaux in ICU at University,” Wahlman said. “I have reason to believe that the people who put him there still pose a threat. He needs a guard outside his room around the clock.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “This is an anonymous call. I just wanted to make sure you know what you’re dealing with.”

  “We appreciate your concern, sir. Thanks so much for calling.”

  Sergeant Dobbs hung up.

  Wahlman called the number again. Dobbs answered again.

  “You shouldn’t blow me off,” Wahlman said. “I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sir—”

  “I know. It’s an ongoing investigation, and you can’t discuss any of the details over the phone. But here’s the thing: the media’s calling it an armed robbery. It wasn’t. It was an assassination attempt. I know this because I was the intended target. I was sitting there looking out the window when four bullets whizzed by my head. Walter Babineaux had nothing to do with anything. I just happened to walk into his sandwich shop instead of someone else’s. But he’s a witness now, and the people who shot him aren’t going to be happy that he’s still alive. He
needs protection.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, it sounds as though you might need protection as well,” Dobbs said. “Come to the station and identify yourself, and—”

  “I can’t do that,” Wahlman said. “Not right now. But if you give Babineaux the protection he needs, he can verify my story when he wakes up.”

  Dobbs started saying something about how much the department depended on ordinary citizens to come forward in cases like this, started rambling on and on about it, kept talking while Wahlman wiped his fingerprints off the receiver and left it dangling and walked back out to the streetcar stop. As he was boarding for the ride back to the hotel, he saw two NOPD cruisers pull to the curb in front of the hospital.

  Probably sent by the suddenly-talkative Sergeant Dobbs to apprehend him, he thought.

  10

  Allison was already downstairs when Wahlman got back to the hotel, sitting at a booth in the little bistro opposite the front desk. There was a crumpled copy of the Times-Picayune on the seat beside her. Wahlman could see that she had been working on the crossword puzzle.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” she asked, stirring some creamer and artificial sweetener into her coffee.

  “I’m supposed to meet with Detective Collins at the District Seven Police Station,” Wahlman said.

  “I thought you were avoiding the police.”

  “I’m avoiding them in regard to the shooting yesterday. There’s no way for Collins to know I was involved in that, not until the detectives working the shooting go through all the video, which should take at least a couple of days. Collins is in charge of the case involving the murdered truck driver.”

  “The one who looked just like you.”

  “Yes. The one who was stabbed to death, undoubtedly by the same people who tried to shoot me at the sandwich shop. If I can learn the driver’s identity, it might help in establishing a motive, which eventually might help in tracking down the killers.”

  “Have you thought about trying to get in touch with someone from your biological family? You know, to see if you had a twin brother?”