by Jude Hardin
He climbed out of bed and took a shower and got dressed, and then he drove back over to Main Street. To the diner. He wanted to be there when it opened, to see if Rock Wahlman showed up for breakfast.
He parked across the street from the pharmacy again, set the radio to a station that played soothing music again. Then he noticed that one of the parking meters in front of the pharmacy was missing. Some idiot must have jumped the curb and run into it, he thought. Sometime after the diner closed last night, after he went back to the hotel.
He climbed out of his car and walked over there to take a look. The entire meter was gone, and someone had already capped the hole where the stem had been set into the concrete.
And something else was missing. The nice long park bench that had been on the sidewalk. That was gone too. Which was interesting, because there was no other evidence that a motor vehicle accident had occurred. No skid marks, no damage to the storefront. Just a missing meter and a missing bench.
Interesting indeed.
Mr. Tyler looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after six. He walked over to the diner and cupped his hands against the glass door and peered inside, saw nothing but darkness. He was about to walk back across the street to his car when the lights came on and the door opened and the guy in the apron stepped out to the sidewalk.
“Sorry,” the guy in the apron said. “Running a little late this morning. Come on in if you want to.”
“I was just going to get a cup of coffee,” Mr. Tyler said.
“I’ll get a pot going right away. Takes about five minutes.”
Mr. Tyler followed the guy in the apron into the diner. The guy in the apron hurried behind the counter and grabbed a stainless steel filter basket and a paper filter and started scooping some coffee out of a can.
Mr. Tyler took his coat off and sat on one of the stools at the counter.
“Here by yourself this morning?” he asked.
“Kasey should be here any minute,” the man in the apron said. “We’re usually pretty busy by seven, so I’m definitely going to need the help.”
“You get customers in here that early on weekends?”
“You’d be surprised. Anyway, sorry I was late opening up. We had a little excitement outside earlier this morning.”
“What kind of excitement?” Mr. Tyler asked.
“Some local guys got beat up pretty bad. By a homeless person. A transient. The local guys are all in the hospital right now. All three of them. One of them is in critical condition. They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I got a courtesy call from the electric company around three this morning, letting me know that the power to the restaurant was going to be off for at least a couple of hours. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to open at all this morning. Which concerned me, of course. Anyway, long story short, I drove over here to see what was going on, and I ended up getting some of the details from one of the cops working the scene. Apparently the three local guys were walking along minding their own business when this drifter came running out from the alley and attacked them in front of the pharmacy.”
“Just one guy?”
“Yeah. But they said he was really big.”
“Did the police catch him?” Mr. Tyler asked.
“No. But I think I know who it was. The cop I talked to said to call the station if I see him again.”
“Big guy, huh? Was he carrying a backpack? Was he in here eating breakfast yesterday morning?”
“You saw him?”
“I think he came in right before I left. If it’s the same guy.”
“Sounds like it,” the guy in the apron said. “He ordered breakfast, and then he had some words with some guys who come in here all the time. I don’t know if it was the same guys who got beat up last night, but it probably was. That would make sense. And of course it’s possible that the guys who got beat up are lying. They might have started the fight. They’re not exactly what you would call upstanding citizens, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you happen to catch the homeless guy’s name?” Mr. Tyler asked.
“Tom. Seemed like a nice enough guy. I even offered to set him up with a job, but I guess—”
“I’m going to have to take a rain check on that coffee,” Mr. Tyler said.
He got up from the stool and put his coat on and walked out of the diner. Crossed the street and climbed into his car and sped toward the bus station. He wanted to get there before they changed shifts. He wanted to talk to the person at the ticket counter. It was possible that Wahlman had used some other mode of transportation to get out of town, but the bus station seemed like a good place to start.
14
Wahlman got off the bus at 6:27 a.m. Downtown Bakersfield. He didn’t plan on staying there for any length of time, but he was hungry and he wanted to talk to Kasey before it got busy at The Quick Street Inn. He found a payphone and punched in the number for her cell. When she answered, he could tell that she had been crying.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I got a call about an hour ago,” she said. “My ex isn’t AWOL. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“I don’t have all the details yet. I just know that he was shot.”
“In combat?”
“No. He was murdered.”
Wahlman’s stomach lurched. Like the first big downhill plummet on a rollercoaster. Innocent people had died because of the mess he was in. One in Louisiana, one in Florida. The one in Louisiana had been the other surviving clone. The one in Florida had been his best friend.
Kasey’s ex-husband had been shot. Kasey’s ex-husband was in the army. Someone in the army was behind everything that was happening. Probably just a coincidence, Wahlman thought. He hoped that was the case. He hoped it with all his heart.
“Did it happen somewhere here in the states?” he asked.
“Yes. He was stationed at a temporary post not far from here. He’s been picking Natalie up every other weekend and taking her to his place. They found him in his car. I just can’t believe this is—”
She broke off then. Wahlman could hear her crying. Muffled. From a distance. He stood there and stared at the payphone’s keypad for a few seconds, trying to wrap his head around what she had just told him.
“Are you at work?” he asked.
“Work,” she said. Sighing, sniffling, making an effort to compose herself. “I forgot all about work. I need to call Greg.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I had to leave town this morning,” Wahlman said.
“Why?”
“I told you I was going to have to leave.”
“But I didn’t know it would be this soon.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
There was a long pause.
“I need to go,” Kasey said.
“Listen, this is not how I wanted to—”
“I’m going to have to wake my daughter up in a little while and tell her that her daddy’s dead. Do you have any idea how difficult that’s going to be?”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“Just being here would help,” Kasey said.
Wahlman stared at the keypad some more.
“I would like to stay in touch,” he said. “Is it all right if I call you sometimes?”
“What’s the point? I’m in Barstow, and you’re wherever. I just don’t see how—”
“Maybe we could meet somewhere,” Wahlman said. “I’ll get some money together and buy you a plane ticket. We could spend a whole weekend together. Or a whole week. And I don’t plan on living like this forever. I just need some time to sort some things out.”
“I need to go,” Kasey said.
Wahlman didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want this to be the end.
“Can I call you?” he asked again.
Another long pause.
And then a click.
Follow
ed by a dial tone.
Wahlman wasn’t hungry anymore. He bought another ticket and got back on the bus. He rode it all the way to Atascadero this time. He ate lunch and walked around for a while, and then he checked into a hotel. He took a shower and climbed into bed and turned the television on, hoping to hear some news about the recent homicide near Barstow. Hoping that it had been the result of an argument in a bar, or a drug deal gone bad, or a robbery, or a case of road rage, or whatever. Hoping to rule out what he feared the most.
That it might have had something to do with him.
And that the killer might be hot on his trail.
NO ESCAPE
THE JACK REACHER EXPERIMENT BOOK 3
1
Rock Wahlman was digging a post hole twenty miles east of downtown Seattle, and he was thinking about telling Kasey everything.
He’d been thinking about it for a few weeks. Kasey was the kind of woman you couldn’t get off your mind, even if you tried. And Wahlman hadn’t tried. He liked having her on his mind.
Maybe it was unwise to trust her. After all, he’d only known her for a short time, and he hadn’t even talked to her since the day he left Barstow. And maybe she didn’t even feel the same way. Maybe she hadn’t fallen for him the way he had for her.
But maybe she had.
He needed to know.
He’d discovered some things about himself over the past few months, some things that were nothing short of mind-blowing. Like the fact that he was an exact genetic duplicate of a former army officer named Jack Reacher. Like the fact that someone in the army was trying to kill him, trying to cover up a cloning experiment that had started over a hundred years ago.
Maybe telling Kasey all that would be a huge mistake.
But he had to do something. He needed to find out why all this was happening, and he needed to find out who was responsible.
And he couldn’t do it alone.
He dug some more dirt out of the hole, thought about it some more. One tiny misstep could cost him his life. One slip of the tongue. One wrong turn. One misplaced scrap of paper.
Should he trust her?
Joe walked over and asked him if he was ready to break for lunch. Joe was the owner of the fence company. Joe’s Fence Company, it was called, written in fancy letters on both sides of the company truck. It was a nice red truck, brand new 2098, all electric, with a nice hydraulic flatbed that tilted like the bed on a dump truck if you needed it to. There was a keypad on the dashboard. You punched in a code and the motor started. Wahlman knew the code. There had been times when he had needed to drive the truck for one reason or another, and Joe had told him the numbers, making it clear that the truck’s GPS tracking system was being monitored by a private security company twenty-four-seven, making it clear that anyone who even thought about going for a joyride would be dealt with in a manner that included the destruction of certain delicate anatomical features. Joe was a little overprotective when it came to his truck, but he was a good guy. He paid cash daily and he always paid for lunch. This was the fourth day Wahlman had been working for him. As far as Joe knew, Wahlman’s name was Calvin.
Joe was friendly and informal, and he’d been calling Wahlman Cal since day two.
“Let me just finish this last hole,” Wahlman said.
He’d used a solar-powered auger to dig most of the holes, but there was a tough tree root where this one was supposed to go, so he’d been forced to dig it out the old-fashioned way, with posthole diggers and a long steel tool called a root bar.
“Finish it later,” Joe said. “I’m hungry.”
Wahlman left the diggers sticking out of the hole and followed Joe to the truck.
“What time are the posts supposed to get here?” Wahlman asked.
“One o’clock. That’s why I wanted to go ahead and get lunch out of the way.”
Joe had arranged for one of the local home supply centers to deliver the four-by-four wooden fence posts today, and the eight-by-six wooden shadowbox panels tomorrow. The plan was to get all of the posts tamped in today, as long as the weather held out.
“I think I just felt a raindrop,” Wahlman said.
“Shut up, Cal. It was just your imagination.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. And I say it’s your turn to drive.”
Joe pitched Wahlman the fob that controlled the truck’s door locks.
“Where to?” Wahlman asked.
“Jimmy’s.”
There was a restaurant called Jimmy’s Ringside not far from the jobsite. It was a burger place. The owner was a former heavyweight boxing champion. The only thing on the menu that remotely resembled a vegetable was something called the TKO, which was basically an enormous order of deep fried onion rings, seasoned with cayenne pepper and served on a dish the size of a turkey platter. It came with a bowl of creamy dill sauce for dipping, just in case you still had one or two coronary arteries that weren’t clogged.
Wahlman steered the truck into the parking lot. The sky had gotten a little darker on the way to the restaurant, and a light mist had started coating the windshield. Just enough to activate the automatic wipers every few seconds.
Wahlman liked burgers, but he wasn’t really in the mood for Jimmy’s. Not after eating there Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
“What about that place across the street?” he said. “Might be good for a change.”
“Who paid for lunch yesterday?” Joe said.
“You did.”
“That’s right, Cal. I paid for lunch yesterday. And day before yesterday. And the day before that.”
“But this is going to be the fourth day in a row that we’ve—”
“I don’t care if it’s going to be the millionth day in a row. He who pays gets to choose, and he who pays chooses Jimmy’s.”
Wahlman felt like asking if he who pays also got to choose the physician for the eventual bypass surgeries, but he didn’t. He followed Joe inside and sat across from him at a booth by the window.
As always, Wahlman paid close attention to his surroundings, scanning the dining area and the parking lot for anyone or anything that looked even remotely suspicious. It was a habit that he’d picked up as a master at arms in the navy, a habit that was more important than ever now that someone was actively trying to find him and kill him.
The food servers at Jimmy’s wore extremely short cutoff jeans, black t-shirts, and sneakers. Every one of them was female, and most of them were blonde. Early twenties, fit, shapely. Some of them liked to roll the bottom hems of their t-shirts up a few inches, exposing their piercings and tattoos and store-bought tans. The one who came to the booth where Joe and Wahlman were sitting had eight gold studs in each ear. Which seemed excessive, in Wahlman’s opinion. Then again, maybe he was just old. He wondered if she could pick up shortwave radio signals with those things. He decided not to ask.
Joe ordered a glass of iced tea. Wahlman ordered coffee.
“Do you guys know what you want to eat?” the waitress asked. “Or do you need a few minutes to look at the menu?”
“I’ll take the Down-For-The-Count platter,” Joe said. “And I want the burger really well done this time. Yesterday it was still pink in the middle.”
“Well done,” the waitress said, writing the order down on a pad of guest checks. “Will this be together or separate?”
“Together,” Joe said.
The young lady turned to Wahlman.
“I’ll take the roasted chicken breast and a side salad,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Scratch that. I want the grilled salmon with steamed broccoli.”
“Sir, if you need a few minutes to look at the menu—”
“Never mind. I guess I’ll take that Down-For-The-Count thing too.”
“You want the burger well done?”
“Medium,” Wahlman said.
The waitress scribbled down the order, and then she slid the pad into her back pocket and walked away.
&
nbsp; “She must be new,” Joe said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Most of them don’t bother writing down the orders. Which means that the orders are wrong about half the time.”
“So why do you keep coming here?”
“Jimmy’s an old friend of mine. I used to spar with him sometimes.”
Wahlman nodded. “I’m going to the restroom,” he said.
He slid out of the booth and walked back toward the entrance. On the wall behind the cashier’s counter there were dozens of framed photographs, pictures of Jimmy back when he was still fighting. At the center of the display, there was a large chrome and glass frame with a championship belt mounted inside it. The gold buckle was about the size of a paperback novel. It was engraved. It said Heavyweight Champion of the World. Wahlman was impressed. He wondered if Jimmy ever came into the restaurant.
Past the cashier’s counter there was an alcove that led to the restrooms. At the center of the alcove, between the door that said Men on the left and the door that said Women on the right, there was a water fountain and a payphone. Wahlman stepped up to the payphone, lifted the receiver from its hook, and pressed zero to speak with an operator. He told her that he needed to make a long distance call, and that he wanted to pay for it with cash. She took the number he wanted to make the call to and told him that ten dollars would buy him five minutes. He inserted a ten dollar bill into the paper money slot at the bottom of the payphone. The operator said thank you, and a few seconds later Wahlman heard Kasey’s phone ringing.
“Hello?” she said.
“It’s Tom,” Wahlman said, using the name he’d been using in Barstow.
There was a long period of silence. Several seconds. Wahlman wondered if Kasey was going to hang up on him. She didn’t.
“Well, hello there stranger,” she said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Seattle. Sorry I haven’t called. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you some things.”
“Like what, Tom? What could you possibly tell me that’s going to—”
“My name’s not Tom, for one thing.”
“Oh, really? What should I call you, then? Shithead? Works for me.”
