by Lee Child
‘Drive around where?’
‘Anywhere. Show me your old school. Your first girlfriend’s house.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m hoping someone will follow us.’
Rutherford turned right out of the lot and for a few minutes his driving was awkward and jerky, like a nervous teenager trying out for his permit before he was ready. He spent more time looking in the mirror than through the windshield. Twice he clipped the kerb. But after a while he settled and found his way past the house where he’d been born. Then he drove past his grade school. Then the house where an Irish girl named Siobhan had lived, who as a six-year-old he’d hoped to marry until she dumped him for refusing to give up his dream of becoming a race-car driver. Next was the house his family had moved to when he was ten. His high school. And so he continued, threading his way from one neighbourhood to another, some tidy and prosperous, some shabby and depressed, each with some kind of tie to his past. It was like travelling through a bricks and mortar encyclopedia of his life. Each new landmark seemed to relax or rejuvenate him. Each one made Reacher feel more claustrophobic. The idea of spending an entire life in one place made real and solid before his eyes.
The route they took was perfect for Reacher’s purpose. Too convoluted for anyone to follow without giving themselves away. Too random for anyone to anticipate and press on ahead. The only disappointment was that no one tried. Reacher wasn’t inherently impatient. He wasn’t tired of Rutherford’s company or irritated by his commentary. But neither did he wish to prolong his time in the town, so after another minute he told Rutherford to cut short his nostalgia tour and head for the alley next to the diner.
‘Your building’s the one opposite here?’ Reacher said as they climbed out of the car.
Rutherford nodded.
‘The woman you recognized from yesterday. The one who was watching you. Where was she?’
‘I feel stupid now.’ Rutherford hung back. ‘Maybe I only imagined it was her. Maybe I overreacted to this whole thing. I didn’t sleep very well last night and—’
‘No.’ Reacher turned to face him. ‘When your instinct tells you something’s wrong, then something’s wrong. Always listen to your gut. It’s what will save you from getting shoved into the back of some thug’s car.’
‘The woman was pretending to browse in a store window. Diagonally opposite from the entrance to my building. It’s a drug store, basically, but it sells all kinds of fancy things so it calls itself an apothecary. It’s full of candles and soft toys and home décor stuff. And it changes its window display every week. It’s a jungle now. It was a beach last week. Something to do with giraffes the week before.’
Reacher looked around the corner and identified the store Rutherford had described. No one was near it. He checked the sidewalk in both directions. Neither of the people missing from the gas station was there. None of the people from the aborted ambush were there.
‘She’s gone,’ Reacher said. ‘No one from yesterday is in sight. Now you look. Tell me if there’s anyone else you’ve seen before. Anyone who paid you a little too much attention recently. In the coffee shop. At the grocery store. Walking down the street. Even if you’re not one hundred per cent sure. Even if it’s only a feeling.’
Rutherford peered out of the alley, keeping his body as far back as possible and stretching his neck like a turtle from its shell. Then he retreated and shook his head. ‘No one.’
Reacher took a step towards the entrance to the diner and a synthrock song began to blare from Rutherford’s phone.
‘I need to take this.’ Rutherford checked the number on the screen. ‘It’s my lawyer.’
He moved ten feet away and talked on the phone for less than a minute.
‘Assholes!’ he said when he returned. ‘Remember I told you I had subpoenaed my work laptop? Obviously my boss knows he’s screwed if I get my hands on it because the town is now saying I can have it, sure. But not for eight weeks. And then only if I pay fourteen thousand dollars for them to redact confidential information now that I’m no longer a town employee.’
‘Can they do that?’ Reacher said.
‘My lawyer says they can. She says they’ve got me over a barrel.’
‘Is there any other way to get the laptop? Any legal-eagle tricks she can pull?’
‘Short of breaking in and taking it, no.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Agree, I guess. I need that computer. I’ve got the money. I can wait. And they say revenge is a dish best served cold, right?’
The retired couple had left by the time Reacher and Rutherford stepped into the diner and no other customers were in the place. They took the same booth as the previous night, with the turquoise Chevy and the view of both doors, and a couple of minutes later a waitress emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs and a pot of coffee. It was the woman who’d helped Reacher with the online telephone directory.
‘You found him, then,’ she said, and nodded at Rutherford as she poured Reacher’s drink.
‘I did,’ Reacher said. ‘Now I’m looking for someone else.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Holly. Your co-worker. Does she have a shift today?’
‘This is her shift.’ The waitress scowled. ‘It’s supposed to be, anyway. But she’s not here. She called in sick. Again. Which is why I’m here covering for her. Again. Instead of going shopping in Nashville with my daughter like I planned.’
‘Is Holly out sick often?’
‘She’s off work often. And she says she’s sick.’
‘But you don’t believe her?’
‘I’m not saying that. I guess it depends on your definition of sick. I do believe she’s often not in a position to work. Poor girl. Or stupid girl. Take your pick.’
‘You think there’s something else going on? The bottle, maybe?’
‘Not the bottle. Try the fist.’
‘She has an abusive husband? Or boyfriend?’
‘Not according to her. She says she’s single, and I’m not calling her a liar. But the makeup around her eyes? That surely is. She must put it on with a trowel, some days. And the long-sleeved shirts she wears when it’s a hundred degrees plus? They don’t back her position. No, sir. She’s either hooked up with some kind of an asshole or she’s the clumsiest person this side of a circus clown. Now, what can I get for you?’
Reacher ordered a double stack of pancakes with extra bacon, then added two slices of apple pie while Rutherford struggled to choose between waffles and crepes. He finally came down in favour of waffles and as the waitress scribbled on her pad Reacher asked if the place had any newspapers. He saw Rutherford smirk. ‘What?’ he said when the waitress was out of earshot. ‘Don’t you like to keep up with the news?’
‘I do like the news.’ Rutherford pulled out his phone. ‘That’s the point. News. Not history.’
The waitress sauntered back and dropped a pile of local and national papers on the table.
‘She should put them all in the recycling,’ Rutherford said. ‘There’s nothing in any of these you couldn’t already have read on here.’ He held up his phone. ‘In much more detail. Oh. Wait.’ He picked up a local paper from the top of the heap. ‘I’d missed that detail. Weird.’
‘What is?’
‘A journalist got murdered. I’d seen it in the headlines online but I hadn’t noticed her name. It’s there, look.’ He put the paper down and pointed to the story just above the fold. ‘It jumped out because she had contacted me a couple of times. It feels odd when the victim is someone you knew of. Even if you didn’t know them, exactly.’ He read more of the story and his face lost all its colour. ‘Oh, God. This is gross. It says she was kidnapped and kept alive, probably for days. And she was tortured. Then her body was cut up and dumped in three different places.’
‘Let me see.’ Reacher took the paper and read the story.
Rutherford picked up his phone, hit some keys, and dragged his finge
r up and down the screen. ‘I can’t find any more about it. There’s a picture, but only of her before she disappeared.’
‘You said she contacted you.’ Reacher put the paper down. ‘About what?’
Rutherford shrugged. ‘The first time was a few weeks ago. She sent me an email. She was researching a story. Something to do with property records, I think. It was around the time the warehouse with all the town’s archives in it burned down. All the records and documents going back to the Civil War, everything destroyed. She wanted to know if there were any digital records, so I guess she came to me because I was the IT manager.’
‘Could you help her?’
‘I remember thinking she might be in luck. The town had just finished a huge project to digitize all its public documents and put them online. It was almost ready to go live but I gave her the email address for the woman running the project anyway in case she could get an early peek. Then a couple of days after the ransomware attack she left me a voicemail message. She wanted to know if there was some other way to view the records now the database was locked. Obviously there wasn’t and I had bigger problems on my hands so I didn’t follow up.’
The waitress delivered their food but Reacher didn’t start to eat right away. He was thinking. A woman who had been in contact with Rutherford had been kidnapped and murdered. A group had tried to kidnap Rutherford. A group with a track record of torture and dismemberment and dumping bodies in suitcases, if the guy Marty was to be believed. Reacher was liking the situation less and less.
‘Rusty, I appreciate you coming back to bail me out this morning,’ he said, when they had both finished eating. ‘Even though I’d already gotten out. I was on my way out of town when some guys tried to ambush me. Four of the guys from yesterday. I think they’re the same people who killed the journalist. You need to take this seriously. Very seriously, or the next story in the paper will be about parts of your body being found in a bunch of different places. You should leave town. Right now. Don’t even go back to your apartment.’
‘Leave town? And go where? And come back when? And do what in the meantime?’ Rutherford wiped his face with his napkin. ‘If it’s true that the people who were after me killed the journalist, that’s pretty heavy action for a town this size. They must be from somewhere else. And if they can reach me here, they can reach me anywhere. What if I leave and wind up someplace I don’t know my way around, where it’s easier for them to catch me? So no. I’m going to stay. And I’m going to fight.’
‘Do you know how to fight?’ Reacher said.
‘No. But you do. You’ve done OK against these guys so far.’
‘Rusty, I’ve been happy to help. But I’m not going to be here for ever.’
‘Don’t go just yet. Please. Stay a while. I’ll pay you. I have savings.’
‘I don’t need money. And I wouldn’t take your savings anyway.’
‘OK then. Forget money. I’ll pay by teaching you about computers. Help you get into the twenty-first century. Or the twentieth, anyway. Or at least to use a cell phone.’
Rutherford had a point about there being no guarantee of his safety if he ran. And it wasn’t safe for him to stay, either. Not on his own. Not with federal agents who walked away from their promises to protect him. And not with people like Marty on the lookout, under orders to report his whereabouts.
‘What if I stay?’ Reacher said. ‘For a day or two. And in return, you don’t teach me anything about computers?’
‘It’s a deal.’ Rutherford held out his hand. ‘What do we do now? Stay out of sight? Hope they don’t try again?’
‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘We go on the offensive. Tell me, what time does the doorman in your building go off shift?’
‘He said he pulled a double today. He’ll be there till ten tonight.’
‘Good. There are some preparations we need to make. But first there’s a visit I want to pay. Grab your phone. Call up the telephone directory. There’s an address I need you to find.’
TEN
Reacher had heard stories over the years about people coming home, drunk or stoned, and going into the wrong house. Sometimes they were found there later, asleep in a bed or passed out on the floor. Sometimes they got shot by the home’s rightful owner. Sometimes they did the shooting, thinking their own home had been invaded. Reacher had heard plenty of excuses over the course of his career. The idea of a mistaken address was one he’d always found hard to swallow. That changed when he arrived in Holly’s neighbourhood.
He could picture it freshly built. Two miles west of town. One squat rectangular house after another. One rectangular lot after another. All on a succession of right-angle streets. All carved out of the surrounding fields by the flood of money flowing around the state in a wave of postwar development. It would have been easy to mistake one for another when they were freshly minted. Approaching the wrong one would still be a straightforward mistake to make despite the minor variations that had crept in over time. There was a newer roof here, less bleached after fewer years in the ferocious Tennessee sun. An extension there, defying the neighbours’ uniform contours. Some houses had fresher paint. Some had greener lawns. And others had owners who’d abandoned their attempts at decorating and gardening altogether.
Reacher walked up the path leading to the house next to Holly’s, but he wasn’t making a mistake. It was a deliberate move. Because of Holly’s front door. She had the worst kind, from a cop’s perspective. It had no windows so you couldn’t see in from the outside. There was a peephole so anyone on the inside could see out. And it was made out of wood panels. They were thin. Useless for security. They could be kicked through in a second. About as far from a boulder rolled across the entrance to a cave as you could get. But that kind of door did have one advantage for anyone defending the premises. Easy as it would be to open, there’d be no need. They could fire right through it. A shotgun would be the best bet. Not that Reacher expected a waitress to be lurking in the hallway with a full load of double aught. But it’s what you don’t expect that gets you killed.
There was no answer at the neighbour’s door. Reacher rang the bell again and waited. He allowed time for the demands of old legs or young babies. Then when he was reasonably certain the house was unoccupied he made his way down the side of the garage. He selected a section of fence which wasn’t overlooked and where the wood seemed at its strongest and vaulted over into Holly’s back yard.
It looked like someone’s hopes for the space had been high. Once. A long time ago. Approximately half the area was given over to a lawn. Its curved edge followed the shape of a sine wave and it was finished with a border of rustic bricks, set end-on. Only now the mortar between them was cracked and the grass was scorched and dead. In the far corner was the wooden skeleton of an arbour. Reacher guessed it had been conceived as a place to relax. Maybe with a bottle of wine in mind. Maybe with a little romance. Only now the vines that had been trained over it were shrivelled and dry. The trellis was smashed in several places. And the chain holding up the swinging love seat was detached on one side.
The part of the yard that wasn’t grass had been covered with flagstones. They clearly hadn’t seen the business end of a broom for many months. There was also a round metal table, painted green, with an overflowing ashtray and a pair of chairs. They were set near a sliding door. It was made of glass. Much better, Reacher thought.
Reacher stayed close to the wall and moved until he was close enough to look in through the door. He could see one person. A woman. She was wearing a pink robe and sitting at a small table with a mug of coffee in front of her, untouched. She was leaning with her head in her hands and her hair was loose, cascading forward. Reacher tapped on the glass. The woman sat bolt upright. She turned to the door. Reacher got a clear view. It was Holly. Her face was creased with shock. And fear. And she had a giant bruise around her left eye. She tipped her head until her hair covered her face again, then waved Reacher away.
Reacher shook his head.<
br />
Holly waved for him go.
Reacher made as if to knock again. He pulled his arm way back. Made it clear that if he did knock, it was going to be loud.
Holly jumped up, hurried to the door, slid it open, pushed Reacher back, and stepped outside. She slid the door shut, trying to be gentle, but made sure it was fully closed.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was a stern hiss. ‘You’ll get me in trouble.’
‘Looks like you managed that without my help,’ Reacher said. ‘Who did that to your face?’
Holly tugged at her hair. ‘No one. I was in a rush getting ready for work yesterday and it was late when I got home and I was tired so I forgot I left my wardrobe door open and I walked right into it. Anyway, my clumsiness is none of your business. What do you want? And why are you in my yard?’
‘I’m here as a representative of the International Fellowship of Luddites. We’re having a recruitment drive and after last night it occurred to me that you would be an ideal candidate.’
Holly’s good eye narrowed and she took half a step back. ‘What’s a Luddite?’
‘Someone who’s opposed to progress. Especially any that comes from new technology. Named after an English guy. Ned Ludd. He broke a bunch of machines back in the eighteenth century.’
‘Are you crazy? I don’t care about some ancient English guy. And I’m not opposed to progress.’
‘Then why don’t you want the town’s computers working again? What other reason could you have for wanting them to stay locked down?’
Holly shook her head. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. I work at the diner. Our computer’s working fine. Why would I care about the town’s?’
‘The bozos you set on me last night certainly cared. I assumed you shared their feelings.’
‘What bozos? Those guys have got nothing to do with me.’
‘Sure they do. They’re your friends. Or your boyfriend’s friends.’