The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “Homeland Security money. Got to spend it on something.”

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “An hour.”

  “Thanks for waiting.”

  Vaughan started the motor and backed up a little and then turned across the width of the road, in a wide arc that took the front wheels off the blacktop and through the sand on the shoulder. She got straightened up and accelerated.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Not really,” Reacher said.

  “You should eat anyway.”

  “Where?”

  “The diner will still be open. It stays open all night.”

  “In Hope? Why?”

  “This is America. It’s a service economy.”

  “Whatever, I might go take a nap instead. I walked a long way.”

  “Go eat in the diner first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you should. Nutrition is important.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “Someone was asking about you.”

  “Who?”

  “Some girl.”

  “I don’t know any girls.”

  “She wasn’t asking about you personally,” Vaughan said. “She was asking if anyone had been thrown out of Despair more recently than her.”

  “She was thrown out?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “They throw women out, too?”

  “Vagrancy isn’t a gender-specific offense.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Just some kid. I told her about you. No names, but I said you might be eating in the diner tonight. I was assuming you would get out OK. I try to live on the sunny side of the street. So I think she might come looking for you.”

  “What does she want?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me,” Vaughan said. “But my impression was her boyfriend is missing.”

  14

  Reacher got out of Vaughan’s cruiser on First Street and walked straight down to Second. The diner was all lit up inside and three booths were occupied. A guy on his own, a young woman on her own, two guys together. Maybe some Hope residents commuted for work. Not to Despair, obviously, but maybe to other towns. Maybe to other states, like Kansas or Nebraska. And those were big distances. Maybe they all got back too late to face KP at home. Or maybe they were shift workers, just starting out, with long trips ahead of them.

  The sidewalks close to the diner were deserted. No girls hanging around. No girls watching who was going in and coming out. No girls leaning on walls. No girls hiding in the shadows. Reacher pulled the door and went in and headed for a booth in the far corner where he could sit with his back protected and see the whole room at once. Pure habit. He never sat any other way. A waitress came over and gave him a napkin and silverware and a glass of ice water. Not the same waitress he had met before, during his caffeine marathon. This one was young, and not particularly tired, even though it was very late. She could have been a college student. Maybe the diner stayed open all night to give people jobs, as well as meals. Maybe the owner felt some kind of a civic responsibility. Hope seemed to be that kind of a town.

  The menu was in a chromium clip at the end of the table. It was a laminated card with pictures of the food on it. The waitress came back and Reacher pointed to a grilled cheese sandwich and said, “And coffee.” The waitress wrote it down and walked away and Reacher settled back and watched the street through the windows. He figured that the girl who was looking for him might pass by once every fifteen or twenty minutes. It was what he would have done. Longer intervals might make her miss his visit. Most diner customers were in and out pretty fast. He was sure there was a trade association somewhere with the exact data. His personal average was certainly less than half an hour. Shorter if he was in a hurry, longer if it was raining. The longest stay he could recall might be upward of two hours. The shortest in recent memory was the day before, in Despair. One fast cup of coffee, supervised by hostile glares.

  But nobody passed by on the sidewalk. Nobody glanced in through the windows. The waitress came over with his sandwich and a mug of coffee. The coffee was fresh and the sandwich was OK. The cheese was sticky in his mouth and less flavorful than a Wisconsin product would have been, but it was palatable. And Reacher was no kind of a gourmet. He rated food quality as either adequate or not adequate, and the adequate category was always by far the larger of the two. So he ate and drank and enjoyed it all well enough.

  After fifteen minutes he gave up on the girl. He figured she wasn’t coming. Then he changed his mind. He quit staring out at the sidewalk and started looking at the other customers inside the diner and realized she was already in there, waiting for him.

  The young woman, sitting three booths away.

  Stupid, Reacher, he thought.

  He had figured that if their relative positions had been reversed he would have walked by every fifteen or twenty minutes and checked through the windows. But in reality, he wouldn’t have done that. He would have come in out of the cold and sat down and waited for his mark to come to him.

  Like she had.

  Pure common sense.

  She was maybe nineteen or twenty years old, dirty blonde hair with streaks, wearing a short denim skirt and a white sweatshirt with a word on it that might have been the name of a college football team. Her features didn’t add up all the way to beauty, but she had the kind of irresistible glowing good health that he had seen before in American girls of her station and generation. Her skin was perfect. It was honey-colored with the remnant of a great summer tan. Her teeth were white and regular. Her eyes were vivid blue. Her legs were long, and neither lean nor heavy. Shapely, Reacher thought. An old-fashioned word, but the right one. She was wearing sneakers with tiny white socks that ended below her ankles. She had a bag. It was beside her on the bench. Not a purse, not a suitcase. A messenger bag, gray nylon, with a broad flap.

  She was the one he was waiting for. He knew that because as he watched her in his peripheral vision he could see her watching him in hers. She was sizing him up and deciding whether to approach.

  Deciding against, apparently.

  She had had a full fifteen minutes to make her decision. But she hadn’t gotten up and walked over. Not because of good manners. Not because she hadn’t wanted to disturb him while he was eating. He suspected her concept of etiquette didn’t quite stretch that far, and even if it did, then a missing boyfriend would have overwhelmed it. She just didn’t want to get involved with him. That was all. Reacher didn’t blame her. Look at yourself, Vaughan had said. What do you see? He had no illusions about what the girl three booths away was seeing. No illusions about his appearance or his appeal, in the eyes of someone like her. It was late at night, she was looking at an old guy twice her age, huge, untidy, disheveled, somewhat dirty, and surrounded by an electric stay-away aura he had spent years cultivating, like a sign on the rear end of a fire truck: Stay Back 200 Feet.

  So she was going to sit tight and wait him out. That was clear. He was disappointed. Primarily because of the questions surrounding the dead boy in the dark, but also because in a small corner of his mind he would have liked to be the kind of guy that pretty girls could walk up to. Not that he would have taken it anywhere. She was wholesome and he was twice her age. And her boyfriend was dead, which made her some kind of a widow.

  She was still watching him. He had moved his gaze so that he could see her reflection in the window next to her. She was looking up, looking down, kneading her fingers, glancing suddenly in his direction as new thoughts came to her, and then glancing away again as she resolved them. As she found reasons to stay well away from him. He gave it five more minutes and then fished in his pocket for cash. He didn’t need a check. He knew what the sandwich and the coffee cost, because the prices had been printed on the menu. He knew what the local sales tax percentage was, and he was capable of calculating it for himself in his head. He knew how to work out a fifteen percent tip, for the college-age waitress w
ho had also stayed well away from him.

  He folded small bills lengthwise and left them on the table. Got up and headed for the door. At the last minute he changed direction and stepped over to the young woman’s booth and slid in opposite her.

  “My name is Reacher,” he said. “I think you wanted to talk to me.”

  The girl looked at him and blinked and opened her mouth and closed it again and spoke at the second attempt.

  She said, “Why would you think that?”

  “I met a cop called Vaughan. She told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “That you were looking for someone who had been to Despair.”

  “You’re mistaken,” the girl said. “It wasn’t me.”

  She wasn’t a great liar. Not great at all. Reacher had come up against some real experts, in his previous life. This one had all the tells on display. The gulps, the false starts, the stammers, the fidgets, the glances to her right. Psychologists figured that the memory center was located in the left brain, and the imagination engine in the right brain. Therefore people unconsciously glanced to the left when they were remembering things, and to the right when they were making stuff up. When they were lying. This girl was glancing right so much she was in danger of getting whiplash.

  “OK,” Reacher said. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

  But he didn’t move. He stayed where he was, sitting easy, filling most of a vinyl bench made for two. Up close the girl was prettier than she had looked from a distance. She had a dusting of freckles and a mobile, expressive mouth.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Just a guy,” Reacher said.

  “What kind of a guy?”

  “The judge in Despair called me a vagrant. So I’m that kind of a guy, I guess.”

  “No job?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  She said, “They called me a vagrant, too.”

  Her accent was unspecific. She wasn’t from Boston or New York or Chicago or Minnesota or the Deep South. Maybe somewhere in the Southwest. Arizona, perhaps.

  He said, “In your case I imagine they were inaccurate.”

  “I’m not sure of the definition, exactly.”

  “It comes from the Old French word waucrant,” Reacher said. “Meaning one who wanders idly from place to place without lawful or visible means of support.”

  “I’m in college,” she said.

  “So you were unfairly accused.”

  “They just wanted me out of there.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  She paused. Glanced to her right.

  “Miami,” she said.

  Reacher nodded. Wherever she went to school, it wasn’t Miami. Probably wasn’t anywhere in the East. Was probably somewhere on the West Coast. Southern California, possibly. Unskilled liars like her often picked a mirror image, when lying about geography.

  “What’s your major?” he asked.

  She looked straight at him and said, “The history of the twentieth century.” Which was probably true. Young people usually told the truth about their areas of expertise, because they were proud of them, and they were worried about getting caught out on alternatives. Often they didn’t have alternatives. Being young, it came with the territory.

  “Feels like yesterday to me,” he said. “Not history.”

  “What does?”

  “The twentieth century.”

  She didn’t reply. Didn’t understand what he meant. She remembered maybe eight or nine years of the old century, maximum, and from a kid’s perspective. He remembered slightly more of it.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She glanced to her right. “Anne.”

  Reacher nodded again. Whatever her name was, it wasn’t Anne. Anne was probably a sister’s name. Or a best friend’s. Or a cousin’s. Generally people liked to stay close to home with phony names.

  The girl who wasn’t called Anne asked, “Were you unfairly accused?”

  Reacher shook his head. “A vagrant is exactly what I am.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “I liked the name. Why did you go there?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, “Anyway, it wasn’t much of a place.”

  “How much of it did you see?”

  “Most of it, the second time.”

  “You went back?”

  “I took a good look around, from a distance.”

  “And?”

  “It still wasn’t much of a place.”

  The girl went quiet. Reacher saw her weighing her next question. How to ask it. Whether to ask it. She put her head on one side and looked beyond him.

  “Did you see any people?” she asked.

  “Lots of people,” Reacher said.

  “Did you see the airplane?”

  “I heard one.”

  “It belongs to the guy with the big house. Every night he takes off at seven and comes back at two o’clock in the morning.”

  Reacher asked, “How long were you there?”

  “One day.”

  “So how do you know the plane flies every night?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Maybe someone told you,” Reacher said.

  No reply.

  Reacher said, “No law against joyriding.”

  “People don’t joyride at night. There’s nothing to see.”

  “Good point.”

  The girl was quiet for another minute, and then she asked, “Were you in a cell?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  “Anyone else in there?”

  “No.”

  “When you went back, what people did you see?”

  Reacher said, “Why don’t you just show me his picture?”

  “Whose picture?”

  “Your boyfriend’s.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Your boyfriend is missing. As in, you can’t find him. That was Officer Vaughan’s impression, anyway.”

  “You trust cops?”

  “Some of them.”

  “I don’t have a picture.”

  “You’ve got a big bag. Probably all kinds of things in there. Maybe a few pictures.”

  She said, “Show me your wallet.”

  “I don’t have a wallet.”

  “Everyone has a wallet.”

  “Not me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t prove a negative.”

  “Empty your pockets.”

  Reacher nodded. He understood. The boyfriend is some kind of a fugitive. She asked about my job. She needs to know I’m not an investigator. An investigator would have compromising ID in his wallet. He lifted his butt off the bench and dug out his cash, his old passport, his ATM card, his motel key. His toothbrush was in his room, assembled, standing upright in a plastic glass next to the sink. The girl looked at his stuff and said, “Thanks.”

  He said, “Now show me his picture.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “You’re young, to be married.”

  “We’re in love.”

  “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  Her left hand was on the table. She withdrew it quickly, into her lap. But there had been no ring on her finger, and no tan line.

  “It was kind of sudden,” she said. “Kind of hurried. We figured we’d get rings later.”

  “Isn’t it a part of the ceremony?”

  “No,” she said. “That’s a myth. I’m not pregnant either, just in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Good.”

  “Show me the picture.”

  She hauled the gray messenger bag into her lap and rooted around for a moment and came out with a fat leather wallet. There was a billfold part straining against a little strap, and a change-purse part. There was a plastic window on the outside with a California driver’s license behin
d it, with her picture on it. She unpopped the little strap and opened the billfold and riffled through a concertina of plastic photograph windows. Slid a slim fingertip into one of them and eased a snapshot out. She passed it across the table. It had been cut down out of a standard six-by-four one-hour print. The edges were not entirely straight. It showed the girl standing on a street with golden light and palm trees and a row of neat boutiques behind her. She was smiling widely, vibrant with love and joy and happiness, leaning forward a little as if her whole body was clenching with the onset of uncontrollable giggles. She was in the arms of a guy about her age. He was very tall and blond and heavy. An athlete. He had blue eyes and a buzz cut and a dark tan and a wide smile.

  “This is your husband?” Reacher asked.

  The girl said, “Yes.”

  15

  Reacher squared the snapshot on the tabletop in front of him. Looked at the girl across from him and asked, “How old is this photo?”

  “Recent.”

  “May I see your driver’s license?”

  “Why?”

  “Something I need to check.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I already know your name isn’t Anne. I know you don’t go to school in Miami. My guess would be UCLA. This photograph looks like it was taken somewhere around there. It has that LA kind of feel.”

  The girl said nothing.

  Reacher said, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  She paused and then slid her wallet across the table. He glanced at her license. Most of it was visible behind the milky plastic window. Her name was Lucy Anderson. No middle name. Anderson, hence Anne, perhaps.

  “Lucy,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry about not telling you the truth.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Why should you?”

  “My friends call me Lucky. Like a mispronunciation. Like a nickname.”

  “I hope you always are.”

  “Me too. I have been so far.”

  Her license said she was coming up to twenty years old. It said her address was an apartment on a street he knew to be close to the main UCLA campus. He had been in LA not long before. Its geography was still familiar to him. Her sex was specified as female, which was clearly accurate, and her eyes were listed as blue, which was an understatement.