by Lee Child
An electronic chime sounded in the kitchen and Rutherford stood up. ‘That’s my computer. It’s finished its updates. Finally. Let’s see—’ His phone rang. He checked the screen. ‘It’s a local number. I don’t recognize it. Should I answer?’
‘It’s your phone,’ Reacher said.
Rutherford pressed a key and held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello.’ He listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Reacher. ‘It’s Officer Rule. She wants to talk to you.’
‘This is Reacher.’ He stood and walked to the window.
‘We need to talk,’ Officer Rule said. ‘I’ll give you an address. Come alone. The garage will open. Drive in and stay in your car.’
Reacher found the address Officer Rule gave him without any problem. It was a small single family home with a neat but plain yard on a neat but plain street in a sleepy neighbourhood half a mile from the courthouse. The blacktop had been resurfaced within the last year judging by the colour and the lack of severe cracking, but Reacher thought it was strange that there were no sidewalks. The street butted right up to people’s properties. To their lawns or driveways or beds full of medium-size shrubs. Reacher wondered if that was down to the heat. Or the humidity. Or if people in that town were particularly averse to any form of exercise that involved leaving their own yards.
The correct house was easy to spot because it had a police cruiser parked outside along with a late model Honda Civic. Reacher guessed that would be Officer Rule’s personal vehicle. He slowed as he approached, checked his mirrors a final time to be sure no one was following, then turned on to the driveway. The garage door immediately began to clang and clank its way up and when it was all the way open Reacher rolled inside. He killed his engine and the door began its descent. There was an aluminium ladder fixed on the wall on one side and a bicycle suspended by its front wheel from the other. There was a stout shelf covered with gardening fertilizers and weedkillers and tools of various kinds. Reacher had no idea what any of them were for.
Once the door to the driveway was all the way down a personnel door opened on Reacher’s left and Officer Rule stepped through. She was wearing navy sweatpants with a matching T-shirt. Her hair was held back by a gold clip. And she was holding a slim envelope. Reacher opened his door and started to get out but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay put.
‘We’ve got to be quick. My neighbour will be home any minute and I don’t want her to see you leaving.’
‘You think she’s spying on you?’
‘You’ve never lived in a small town, have you?’ A smile spread briefly across her face. ‘Of course she’s spying. Everyone is. Maybe not the way you were thinking but I still want nothing to do with it. Here.’ She passed the envelope to Reacher. ‘This is for you.’
‘What is it?’ he said. There was nothing written on it. Nothing printed. No label.
‘A file. A copy, anyway. For the journalist you were asking about.’
‘Why are you giving it to me?’
‘Because I’m sick and tired of it. What happened to her is horrible and no one in the department is doing anything about it. You were a military cop. You showed good instincts with Holly’s scumbag boyfriend. Maybe you can shake something loose. Get some justice for this woman. Her name was Toni Garza. I’ve never even heard Detective Goodyear say it out loud.’
The photographs of the dead journalist were safely tucked inside the envelope, and the envelope was safely tucked beneath the floor mat on the passenger side of Marty’s car. There was always the chance of a random traffic stop and Reacher didn’t want to fall foul of a cop with prying eyes if he got pulled over. But even though the pictures were hidden the images continued to cycle through Reacher’s head as he drove. His having seen them made no difference to Toni Garza. She was still dead. It did make a difference to Reacher, though. He had to assume that whoever had killed Garza was the person chasing Rutherford. Or part of the same organization, at least. And now that he’d seen the level of brutality involved, there was no way he could leave Rutherford alone.
Sands opened the door to Mitch’s apartment when Reacher knocked. She’d dried her hair and styled it and had changed into yoga pants and a loose, pale blue silk shirt. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked. ‘What did this Officer Rule person want with you?’
‘She had some information for me. On the QT. A kind of cop to ex-cop thing. Related to a case I’d asked her about at the station house earlier.’
‘Is it helpful, this information?’
‘Helpful’s not the word I’d use. But it does add perspective.’
Rutherford was in the kitchen, tethered to his computer. Apparently it was showing its age by refusing to operate unless it was attached to an outlet.
‘Is that thing working?’ Reacher said. ‘I need you to find the email Toni Garza sent you. The journalist.’
Rutherford rattled some keys and prodded a square pad and after a minute he gestured for Reacher to come closer.
‘Here it is.’ Rutherford pointed at the screen. ‘Like I said, she was enquiring about property records. For a particular address. No mention of an owner’s name.’
‘What about her second message?’ Reacher said.
Rutherford shook his head. ‘That was a voicemail. I deleted it as soon as I listened to it.’
‘Do you have the address of the property?’ Reacher said. ‘Is it still standing? If someone lives there I want to pay him a visit. Or her. First thing in the morning.’
‘We have to track down the servers in the morning,’ Sands said.
‘Let’s see what I can find,’ Rutherford said. ‘Give me two minutes.’ He pressed and prodded and called up maps and databases, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It’s still standing. It’s actually famous. Or notorious. I’ve never seen the street address before. I only know it by its local name. The Spy House. Two Soviet secret agents lived there. Back in the 1950s. Now it’s owned by a businessman. Henry Klostermann.’
FIFTEEN
There were two bedrooms in Mitch’s apartment, and two other occupants that night alongside Reacher. Although Reacher felt that describing the sleeping areas as bedrooms was going a little far. They had no doors. No windows. No walls to speak of. The only things separating them from the rest of the apartment were the wooden dividers, and they only came up to Reacher’s chin. He knew without looking that the beds would be too short so he figured his best bet was to let Sands and Rutherford use them. He could sleep on the couch. He’d have to forgo his usual practice of pressing his clothes under the mattress. But it would be better from a security perspective. It meant that if anyone found out where they were billeted he would be the first one they came to if they got through the door.
Reacher woke himself at 7:00 a.m. He could hear slow peaceful breathing plus the occasional grunt and snort from the other side of the dividers so he lay still for another half hour and ran a few of his favourite guitar riffs through his head. Then he got up, coaxed Mitch’s complicated coffee machine into action, and while it gurgled and hissed he took a shower. He emerged from the bathroom fourteen minutes later, still unshaved and with his hair still damp, and found Sands perched on a stool at the kitchen counter. She was wrapped in the same robe as the day before and was sipping coffee from a plain white mug. She stood when she saw Reacher and poured a mug for him, and then poured another as Rutherford stumbled out from behind the dividers, rubbing his eyes.
Sands was in favour of calling ahead to set up an appointment at the Spy House. She felt it was the polite thing to do. And also the practical thing. They could make sure someone was home. Avoid the risk of a wasted journey. And the risk that the sight of Reacher arriving unannounced could lead a panicked homeowner to call the police. Reacher didn’t agree. Experience told him that surprise was his friend. He’d prefer to be knocking on the door at 4:00 a.m., the way the KGB had done back in the day. And if no one was home, all would not be lost. It’s easier to search a house when the owners aren’t there.
Ruthe
rford was still too dopey to voice a coherent argument either way so they decided that Reacher would go unannounced and Sands would stay at the apartment and find out what the town did with its discarded computer equipment. She was clinging to the hope that they could find the servers Rutherford had trashed and keep the dream of making their fortune alive. Reacher drained one more mug of coffee then stood up to leave.
‘Wait.’ Rutherford slid down from his stool. ‘I’ll come with you. Give me two minutes to get dressed.’
‘You don’t want to stay and help Sarah?’ Reacher said.
Rutherford shook his head. ‘There’s no point. No one would talk to me. Sarah’s far more persuasive, anyway. And I always wanted to see inside the Spy House.’
‘Why? It’s not going to be full of spies in disguises practising secret codes with invisible ink. It’ll just be a normal house.’
‘I know. I still want to see it.’
Reacher sat back down and drank another mug of coffee while Rutherford rustled and rummaged behind the divider. He returned wearing the same pants as the day before and the same kind of polo shirt, only in a different colour. Reacher stood and picked up the key to Marty’s car.
‘You know what?’ Rutherford said. ‘Why don’t we take my car?’
Reacher smiled to himself. ‘I get it now. You don’t want to see the Spy House at all. You just want to find out if I brought your Beetle back in one piece.’
‘Can you blame me?’ Rutherford said. ‘I love that car. It’s irreplaceable.’
In the garage Reacher waited for Rutherford to walk around the VW and inspect every inch of paintwork. Then he got down on his knees on the passenger side and peered underneath.
‘What are you doing?’ Rutherford said. ‘Did you drive over something? Tell me you didn’t hit a deer.’
‘I’m looking for tracking devices,’ Reacher said. ‘You do your side. Underneath the car. Along the running boards. Inside the fenders. Anywhere a magnet could stick.’
‘But you checked yesterday. You found a tracker. You said you ditched it.’
‘I was in the army for thirteen years, Rusty. We check. And then we check again. It’s what we do.’
Rutherford shrugged and then worked his way from the front to the back. He came up empty-handed. ‘Nothing on my side. You find anything?’
Reacher leaned across the hood and held out his hand. ‘Another tracker. The same kind. In the same place. And there was this.’ He showed Rutherford a scrap of paper. ‘It was held in place by the magnet.’
Rutherford took the paper and read it out loud. ‘Romeo, Juliet. A bunch of numbers. Eight bells. What does it mean?’
‘Romeo Juliet is R J in the NATO phonetic alphabet. My initials, military style. Reacher, Jack.’
‘I get it,’ Rutherford said. ‘And the numbers? They could be a grid reference. What about eight bells?’
‘That’s noon in Navy time.’
‘Maybe someone wants you to go to this place at noon? But why write it like that?’
‘To show they know my background? To gain my trust? Or intrigue me, perhaps.’
‘What if it’s a trap? You shouldn’t go.’
‘Have you got your phone? Can you figure out where this place is?’
Rutherford tapped his screen then made some swiping and pinching movements. ‘Reacher? Don’t go.’
‘Why not?’
‘I know about this place. It’s an old factory. Just outside town. It’s been abandoned for years. Growing up, there were all kinds of rumours. No one who went in was ever seen again. I never dared go.’
The Spy House was hidden behind a wall. The wall was built of stone, eight feet high, and topped with broken glass. The driveway was blocked by a gate. Made of iron. Also eight feet high. The kind that slides to the side so there are no hinges. No join in the centre, either. No weak spots at all. This particular one was plain. No nonsense. No ornamentation. Just thick vertical bars. It reminded Reacher of a grate covering a giant drain or a sewer. You’d need a tank to knock it down. The bars were too close together for anyone but a child to squeeze through. Not a welcoming proposition. And there was a sign mounted at eye level to complete the effect. It read No Photographs. No Trespassing. No Interviews without an Appointment.
Rutherford pointed to the sign. ‘Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe we should have called ahead.’ Then he wound down his window and pressed a call button on a keypad set on a pole.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice answered after half a minute. It was quiet and cold like a whisper from a tomb.
‘Good morning. My name’s Rusty Rutherford. Is Mr Klostermann available?’
‘Can you read, Mr Rutherford?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Then you should already know that Mr Klostermann is not available.’
Reacher leaned towards the open window. ‘Actually we don’t know that. Your sign says you need an appointment for an interview. We’re not here for an interview. So we don’t need an appointment.’
There was a pause. ‘Then what are you here for? There are no maintenance visits scheduled for today.’
‘We’re following up on something that will be of interest to Mr Klostermann. Considerable interest. To do with some correspondence from a journalist. About property records for his house.’
‘Please wait.’ A faint electronic buzz told them they hadn’t been disconnected, then after three minutes the woman’s voice returned. ‘Mr Klostermann will see you. When the gate opens drive directly to the front of the house.’
Beyond the gate the site was divided by a line of mature trees. Cypresses and sycamores. The area to the left of them was rough. Unfinished. There were no structures, and no plants taller than stalks of coarse, scrubby grass. The house was to the right. It had an attached two-car garage. Next to that was a covered porch. It was raised up on a stone base and plain white pillars stretched up to support its roof. The rest of the building was finished with wood siding. Long horizontal strips. Painted olive green. There were four windows on the ground floor. Four on the first. Each had shutters. All were open, pinned back against the wall, finished in a darker shade of green. The roof was covered in cream-coloured shingles. A chimney extended six feet above the ridge on the far left.
Rutherford followed the driveway towards the garage, then pulled into a parking area in front of the house and killed the engine. Reacher climbed out. Rutherford followed him and together they climbed the three steps and crossed the porch. Reacher rapped on the door. A woman answered. She was in her late twenties, wearing a knee-length black dress with a white apron. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun. She was thin, almost malnourished, but she moved with effortless grace, like a ballerina.
‘Please come in,’ she said. Hers was the voice they’d heard on the intercom. Quiet and cold. There was no question about that. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen some refreshment? Iced tea?’
They declined and the woman led the way along a narrow hallway. There was tile on the floor. Family portraits on the walls. Four doors. A pair on each side. Plain, pale wood. No panels. Narrow architraves. The woman paused outside the second door on the right, knocked, then opened it and stood aside to let Rutherford and Reacher enter. She didn’t follow.
There was one person already in the room. A man, slim, rangy, with a mane of white hair. Like Einstein if he’d worked in a bank, Reacher thought. He looked around seventy. Probably born around the time the house was built. Maybe born right there in the house. The man put down his newspaper, hauled himself out of his armchair, and offered his hand.
‘Mr Rutherford, I’m Henry Klostermann. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I know you by reputation, of course. And I don’t envy the position you’re in. I’ve done work for the town in the past. I’m essentially retired now but I make sure my company doesn’t even bid for municipal contracts any more. The penny-pinching. The endless finger-pointing. It drove me up the wall. Made it impo
ssible to do a job properly. I can only imagine what it was like to work there permanently. And your friend?’
‘Reacher.’ Reacher didn’t offer his hand. ‘Jack. I’m Mr Rutherford’s life coach.’
‘Really?’ Klostermann said. ‘How interesting. Now please. Gentlemen. Take a seat.’
Klostermann lowered himself into his chair. Rutherford perched on the edge of a couch with thin tweed cushions and a slender wood frame. Reacher joined him, hoping it would take his weight.
‘Now that you’re here, how can we help each other?’ Klostermann said.
‘Well,’ Rutherford said. ‘As you can imagine, I have some time on my hands right now. I’m trying to put it to good use, following up on things that fell by the wayside when I was working around the clock after the computer system was attacked. One of them is an email. Actually an email and a voicemail. I received them from a journalist. She was asking about property records to do with your home.’
Klostermann steepled his fingers. ‘The journalist. That would be Toni Garza, I presume. You heard she was killed? Such a tragedy.’
‘We heard.’ Rutherford paused. ‘It sounds awful, what happened.’
‘It was. Toni was such a lovely girl. She had so much talent. So much integrity.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Of course I knew her. She was working for me. In fact, it was me who suggested she should contact you. I was hoping you could help with some research she was doing.’
‘To do with your home?’ Reacher said. ‘Its unusual history?’
‘Goodness, no.’ Klostermann frowned. ‘There’s no need. What little there is of that stupid story has been done to death.’