The Sentinel (Jack Reacher)

by Lee Child

  ‘I guess you’ve answered one question,’ Reacher said. ‘The one I asked you at the courthouse when we first met. About why you were so desperate to sweep Rutherford’s attempted kidnapping under the rug.’

  Goodyear didn’t respond.

  ‘That means there’s one question left,’ Reacher said. ‘Why were you helping Klostermann? Money? Blackmail? What?’

  ‘Principle,’ Goodyear spat back. ‘Mr Klostermann was working to save our country. Our race. I was proud to help him.’

  ‘Stand up.’

  Goodyear didn’t move.

  Reacher pushed away from the desk.

  Goodyear hauled himself to his feet.

  ‘Take off your jacket,’ Reacher said.

  Goodyear slipped his arms out of his sleeves and dropped the coat.

  ‘Open your shirt.’

  Goodyear undid his buttons, one by one, starting at the top, working down to his waist.

  ‘All the way,’ Reacher said.

  Goodyear slowly pulled the sides of the shirt apart. Reacher looked at his chest. At the left side. Where there was a tattoo. Of an eagle. With a swastika.

  ‘You might have heard that I met some of your so-called brothers the other night,’ Reacher said. ‘They all resigned from your little band. With orders to explain that anyone who didn’t would get their house burned down. With them inside.’

  ‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘Don’t do that. Please. I’ll resign.’

  ‘You will. But not just yet. Your buddies told me Klostermann was planning to recreate Hitler’s Cathedral of Light. They were too stupid to understand what that was. I’m hoping you have a better grasp of history.’

  ‘You’re damn right I do. I helped Mr Klostermann with every stage of the planning.’

  ‘So you know about bringing people in from all the other states.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘So you have contacts. With similar sad-ass groups in other places.’

  ‘You can stop right there. I’ll go to jail before I betray my brothers.’

  ‘Refuse, and jail will be the least of your worries. But let me ask you one thing about your cause. You shared it with Klostermann?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Henry Klostermann was your brother?’

  Goodyear nodded.

  ‘He wasn’t your brother,’ Reacher said. ‘He was a Russian agent. He was playing you for a fool. Using you every step of the way. I bet he laughed himself to sleep every night, thinking about how dumb you are.’

  ‘Nice try, Reacher. But I’ll never believe that.’

  ‘That picture.’ Reacher pointed at the wall above the filing cabinets. ‘Was it always up when you came here?’

  Goodyear stood and threw out a sharp salute. He winced as he tried to straighten his hand. ‘Always.’

  ‘Take it down. See what’s on the other side.’

  Goodyear stayed where he was. ‘Touching it would be sacrilege.’

  ‘I’ll do it then.’ Reacher stepped forward, but Goodyear darted in front of him.

  ‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘If anyone’s going to, it should be me.’

  Goodyear paused in front of the picture as if saying a prayer. Then he stretched out and took hold of it. He used both hands. One on each side of the frame. Lifted it down. Paused again. And turned it over.

  ‘You know who that is, right?’ Reacher said. ‘Klostermann’s true idol. Henry Klostermann dedicated his entire life to destroying everything you believe in. And he tricked you into helping him. The journalist who was murdered? Toni Garza? Klostermann killed her. Because she was going to expose him. Only you buried the investigation. Because he told you to. You helped him get away with it.’

  Goodyear shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,’ Reacher said. ‘The FBI will explain it to you. I wasn’t lying when I told you the agents are on their way. You can stay and help them round up the other groups. Which would be doing your brothers a favour, honestly. It would stop anyone with a double-digit IQ being able to exploit them. Or if you don’t like that idea we can go to your house.’ Reacher pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. ‘We can pick up some gas on the way.’

  Goodyear sank back down on to the floor. ‘No. I’ll stay.’

  ‘Take out your cuffs,’ Reacher said.

  Goodyear pulled them from a leather pouch on his belt.

  ‘Secure yourself to a filing cabinet. To the drawer handle.’

  Goodyear did what he was told.

  ‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Two last things before I go.’ First he took the painting and smashed it over Goodyear’s head, leaving the frame hanging like a necklace. Then Reacher punched Goodyear in the face. Normally he would have used his left hand. Maybe dialled back the power a little too. But making an exception seemed the right thing to do.

  Reacher left Klostermann’s burner phone on his desk. There were four numbers in its call log. Goodyear’s, which was accounted for. Marty’s, which was a dead end. Literally. But that still left two for the FBI to track down. Two more crooked cops, maybe. Or two more suitcase carriers. Whatever they turned out to be, they needed to be stopped.

  He checked that Goodyear was breathing. Then made his way out of the house and across to the red Chevy. He figured he would drive to the truck stop. Leave the car in a parking lot. Walk over to the gas station. To the truck side. And go wherever the first driver willing to take him was heading.

  He pulled up to the gate. Waited for it to slide to the side. Drove through. And stopped dead. A car had pulled in front of him. From out of nowhere, it seemed. Certainly not the road ahead. It must have been up on the grass verge, parallel to the wall.

  Reacher waited for the car to move. It was small. A late model Honda Civic. A woman was driving. She was wearing plain clothes. Which was why it took Reacher a moment to recognize her. It was Officer Rule.

  Rule recognized Reacher at the same moment. She climbed out of the Honda and walked around to Reacher’s door. He rolled down his window.

  ‘Reacher?’ Rule said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Leaving,’ Reacher said. ‘In fact, I was never here. You?’

  Rule was silent for a moment, as if she was trying to decide whether to answer. ‘I followed someone here.’

  ‘Detective Goodyear?’

  Rule nodded.

  ‘Why?’ Reacher said.

  ‘I figured something weird was going on. Something wrong.’

  ‘There was. How did you know?’

  Rule shrugged. ‘Call it a cop’s instinct. I saw Goodyear take a call on a cell phone, then hurry into his office. Only it wasn’t his regular phone. We’ve all had to use our own while the department phones have been down, and I know he has an iPhone. The latest kind. But several times now he’s used this other one. It’s old. And he’s often seemed kind of furtive. I’ve always ignored it before. Then I thought, this is it. I have to know what his deal is.’

  ‘This was at the courthouse, where he took the call?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So why aren’t you in uniform? And how come you’re using your personal vehicle?’

  ‘I was at the courthouse to hand in my notice. I quit. I’m sick of the place. I mean, think about it. You’re a stranger. Drifting through town. And you cared more about stopping crime here than our detective. You’ve already helped me more than anyone in the department ever did. I’ve had enough. It’s time for a fresh start somewhere else.’

  ‘Your letter. Will anyone have read it yet?’

  ‘I doubt it. Why?’

  ‘You might want to get it back.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘The town has a vacancy for a new detective.’

  ‘We only have one detective position. And it’s taken.’

  ‘Not any more. Goodyear just resigned.’

  ‘Are you serious? Why?’

  ‘Call it a personal crisis. So he’ll have to
be replaced. They could bring someone in from the outside, I guess. But someone local would be better. Someone who cares about the town. Who has a string of recent arrests to her name. You know anyone like that?’

  Rule thought for a moment. ‘Time for me to get back to the courthouse. Make that letter disappear.’ She got halfway around the hood of her car then turned back to Reacher. ‘What about you? Where are you going?’

  ‘I have no particular place in mind.’

  ‘How about my place? You know where it is. It’s Friday evening. We could get some carry out. I have some beer. Some wine.’

  ‘What about your neighbours? They would be bound to see me.’

  ‘Screw them. What are they going to do? Mess with the town’s soon-to-be only detective?’

  THIRTY

  Rusty Rutherford emerged from his apartment on Monday morning, exactly two weeks after he got fired.

  He wasn’t normally the type of guy who dawdled in his local coffee shop. He went to the same one every day. Purely for the caffeine. He didn’t go in search of conversation. He wasn’t interested in finding new company. He stood quietly in line. Placed his order. Collected his drink as soon as it was ready. And left. Even after the week he spent with Jack Reacher it proved a difficult habit to break.

  The adjustment process wasn’t made any easier by the response he received from the other patrons. Everyone was pleased to see him. He felt like a magnet with the right polarity. The surrounding customers crowded in closer than usual. By the time he reached the counter he had exchanged kind words with a dozen other people. And he had seen how the barista dealt with the two men in front of him when they stepped up to order. She had slammed their cups on the counter. Slopped coffee into the saucers then slid them forward, spilling even more. But she smiled at Rusty when it was his turn, and asked if he wanted his regular.

  ‘House blend, medium, no room for milk, right?’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ Rusty said. ‘To go.’

  ‘It’s on the house,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow?’

  The same time Rusty Rutherford was leaving the coffee shop, Jack Reacher was standing at the side of the street. He was half a block from the town’s only set of traffic lights, which were working perfectly. He watched Rutherford set off, heading east. Not hurrying. Not dawdling. Just drifting along in his own little bubble. Following a familiar route. Comfortable with his surroundings. Heading home. Where he belonged.

  A car drew up alongside Reacher and stopped. It was new and shiny and bland. A rental. Driven by the insurance guy Reacher had met the week before. He was still wearing his plain, dark-coloured suit. But he no longer seemed panic-stricken. More like he was on top of the world.

  ‘Need a ride?’ the guy said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Reacher said.

  ‘Nashville. Meeting at the office. Giving a presentation about how I negotiated the ransom down forty per cent, and still got the town’s systems back up and running. All apart from some archive thing, but whatever. History. Who cares?’

  Reacher thought for a moment. He had just left Nashville, and he had a rule. Never go back. It rarely ends well. But he had been making a few exceptions recently. They had all worked out OK. And if he made another one now he could go to a club.

  Catch a band.

  Make sure they got paid.

  Read on for a Q&A with

  Lee Child

  and

  Andrew Child

  How did you find collaborating on The Sentinel?

  LC: Sitting down together to write The Sentinel felt like the final phase of a twenty-five-year process. When I finished the first Reacher book, Killing Floor, I showed it to my wife and daughter, who were loyal and enthusiastic, but neither of them was a natural thriller reader, so next I showed it to Andrew, for what I felt would be an informed opinion. I knew it would have been really tough for him to criticize his big brother’s work, but equally I knew he would if necessary. He’s like that. But fortunately he approved, and from then on Reacher became a kind of family property … almost like another brother. So in the end the collaboration felt pretty easy.

  AC: I found the writing hard – Lee sets a very high bar! – but the collaboration part came much more naturally than I’d expected. I haven’t written anything with anyone else for years – decades! – because in the past when I tried I always felt like I was swimming against the tide. I was always out of step with my partners and none of my ideas seemed to mesh with theirs. But with Lee we were in sync from minute one and remained that way throughout.

  What was it like writing a novel during the Covid-19 lockdown?

  LC: A lot of it was mapped out and written before lockdown, but those enforced nothing-else-to-do months were really helpful, actually, in terms of focus and concentration.

  AC: The lockdown meant that we had less face-to-face contact than I’d expected while we were writing, meaning more had to be done via Zoom and text etc., but I agree that the opportunity for total immersion in the creative process was very beneficial.

  Andrew, what was Lee like growing up?

  AC: I have few memories of us living together due to the difference in our ages but there is one incident that will always stay with me. I was about five and my father was mad with me due to some childish misdemeanour I’d committed. Lee was the only one who took my side, and in the aftermath we struck a deal: he would always stand up for me, and I would always stand up for him. I had very little in common with the rest of my family so as I grew up I saw Lee very much as a beacon of hope – proof that it was possible to find your own path in life, have fun, and be a success.

  And Lee, same question about Andrew!

  LC: I was a teenager when he was born. I had girlfriends and was going to gigs and parties all the time. But he was a cute baby, and soon developed a fascinating personality … stubborn, obstinate, opinionated, but funny, too. From the start he had to carve out his own space in a crowded house. I had a good time hanging out with him. And he was good practice for having my own kid later. One time I babysat for him when he was a few months old, he wouldn’t sleep because he had a cold. So I held him upside down by the ankles until all the snot drained out, and then he slept like a log. A useful technique. Then I left home, so really he grew up a friend rather than a brother, because we weren’t under the same roof all the time, with all the usual sibling issues.

  There’s quite an age gap between you. Did you find that creatively useful?

  LC: Totally, and that’s very much the point of the transition. As a writer I’m aware now of the world passing me by somewhat, and I wanted the series to get a shot of more contemporary energy. Having Andrew on board is like mysteriously waking up fifteen years younger, full of ideas and passion. It’s like meeting a younger me.

  AC: The situation is a complete turnaround for me. As the youngest in the family I was always aware of being the slowest, the least qualified, the least experienced. And now, for the first time in my life, being younger has turned to my advantage and given me something different to contribute.

  Was there anything you disagreed on?

  LC: Not really. We both knew what we were aiming for.

  AC: The opposite, actually. I was always clear where I thought the story should go but didn’t always know how to get there, so having Lee to constantly steer us in the right direction was invaluable.

  It’s well known that you both love coffee. Who is the bigger addict?

  LC: You know how some folks take a glass of water to bed? Andrew went through a phase of taking a cup of black coffee, so probably he’s the bigger addict, although how his head doesn’t therefore explode is a mystery to me.

  AC: I still do that, some nights. If I haven’t had enough coffee during the day I end up with a headache and can’t sleep. A friend once bought me a mug with a diagram of all the veins and arteries in the human body on it with the caption, ‘There’s too much blood in my caffeine system.’ That pretty much sums me up.

  Do you h
ave the same favourite Reacher books?

  LC: I have a certain quiet pride in some of them, but ultimately my favourite is always the next one, because theoretically it could be the perfect one … but then I worry that if an author was totally satisfied with a book, where’s the motivation for carrying on?

  AC: There are two that particularly stand out for me. Killing Floor, because it was the first and I will never forget how I felt after reading the manuscript. The joy of tearing through such a magnificent book. The relief of seeing how great it was, knowing how much was at stake for my brother. And in addition, a sense of connection. The narrative is written in the first person and we don’t learn Reacher’s name for quite some time, but long before it was revealed I thought, I know this guy on a deep, fundamental level. The other book I think is particularly special is Make Me. It has all the ingredients that make us love Reacher – the captivating location, the pervading sense of mystery, the fabulous characters, the intriguing (and particularly disturbing) plot, the propulsive prose, the action, the sense of justice done – but I feel that this time out, the language was even more lyrical and aesthetically satisfying.

  How do you hope people will feel when they finish reading this book?

  LC: Relieved and satisfied that justice has been done, and that the bad guys got more than just a stern talking-to.

  AC: All the above – and wanting more!

  What does the future hold for Jack Reacher?

  LC: As always, that’s up to the readers. If they want more, we’ll supply it!

  AC: With the greatest pleasure!

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