The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “But it was more than that,” Reacher said. “For some of them, at least. Some of them never stopped. And a hundred years before that, think about the British. They went all over the world. They went on sea voyages that lasted five years.”

  “Economics again. They wanted markets and raw materials.”

  “But some of them couldn’t stop. And way back there were the Vikings. And the Polynesians, just the same. I think it’s in the DNA, literally. I think millions of years ago we were all living in small bands. Small groups of people. So there was a danger of inbreeding. So a gene evolved where every generation and every small band had at least one person who had to wander. That way the gene pools would get mixed up a little. Healthier all around.”

  “And you’re that person?”

  “I think ninety-nine of us grow up to love the campfire, and one grows up to hate it. Ninety-nine of us grow up to fear the howling wolf, and one grows up to envy it. And I’m that guy.”

  “Compelled to spread his DNA worldwide. Purely for the good of the species.”

  “That’s the fun part.”

  “That’s probably not an argument to make at your paternity hearing.”

  They left West Virginia and entered Pennsylvania, and five miles after the line they saw a billboard for a shopping mall. The billboard was lit up bright, so they figured the mall was still open. They pulled off and found a faded place anchored by a local department store. Turner headed to the women’s section with a wad of cash. Reacher followed after her, but she told him to go check the men’s section instead.

  He said, “I don’t need anything.”

  She said, “I think you do.”

  “Like what?”

  “A shirt,” she said. “And a V-neck sweater, maybe. At least.”

  “If you get something you can give me my old shirt back.”

  “I’m going to junk it. You need something better.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to look nice.”

  So he browsed on his own, and he found a shirt. Blue flannel, with white buttons. Fifteen dollars. And a V-neck sweater, cotton, a darker blue. Also fifteen dollars. He changed in the cubicle and trashed his twin T-shirts and checked the mirror. His pants looked OK. As did his coat. The new shirt and sweater looked neat under it. Nice? He wasn’t sure. Nicer than before, maybe, but that was as far as he was prepared to go.

  Then twenty minutes later Turner came back, head-to-toe different. New black zip boots, new blue jeans, a tight crew-neck sweater, and a cotton warm-up jacket. Nothing in her hands. No shopping bags. She had trashed the old stuff, and she had bought no spares. She saw him noticing, and said, “Surprised?”

  “A little,” he said.

  “I figured we should stay nimble right now.”

  “And always.”

  They moved on to the smaller stores in the mall’s outlying regions and found an off-brand pharmacy. They bought folding toothbrushes and a small tube of toothpaste. Then they headed back to the truck.

  The Pittsburgh International Airport was way far out from the city, and the Interstate led them straight to it. It was a big, spacious place, with a choice of hotels. Turner picked one and parked in its lot. They split Billy Bob’s remaining money nine different ways, and filled every pocket they had. Then they locked up and headed for the lobby. No luggage was no problem. Not at an airport hotel. Airport hotels were full of people with no luggage. Part of the joy of modern-day travel. Breakfast in New York, dinner in Paris, luggage in Istanbul. And so on.

  “Your name, ma’am?” the clerk asked.

  Turner said, “Helen Sullivan.”

  “And sir?”

  Reacher said, “John Temple.”

  “May I see photo ID?”

  Turner slid the two borrowed army IDs across the desk. The clerk glanced at them long enough to establish that, yes, they were photo IDs, and yes, they had the names Sullivan and Temple on them. He made no attempt to match the photographs with the customers. In Reacher’s experience few such people did. Possibly outside their responsibilities, or talents.

  The guy said, “May I swipe a credit card?”

  Reacher said, “We’re paying cash.”

  Which again was no problem at an airport hotel. Credit cards and travelers’ checks go missing, too, because as bad as the baggage handling is, the pickpocketing is good. Reacher peeled off the room rate plus a hundred extra for incidentals, as requested, and the guy was happy to take it. In exchange he gave up two key cards and directions to the elevators.

  The room was fine, if not radically different in principle than the cell in the Dyer guardhouse. But in addition to the basics it had a minibar refrigerator, and free bottles of water, and robes, and slippers, and chocolates on the pillows.

  And a telephone, which Turner picked up and dialed.

  Chapter 39

  Reacher heard the purr of a ring tone. Turner had the handset trapped between her shoulder and her neck, and she mouthed, “Leach’s cell number.” Then her eyes changed focus as the call was answered. She said, “Sergeant, this is Susan Turner. My official advice to you as your commanding officer is to hang up immediately and report this call to Colonel Morgan. Are you going to do that?”

  Reacher didn’t hear Leach’s answer, but it was obviously no, because the conversation continued. Turner said, “Thank you, sergeant. I need you to do two things for me. First, I need the A.M. number in the original signal from Weeks and Edwards. The transcript should be in the file room. Is Colonel Morgan still in the house?”

  Reacher didn’t hear the answer, but it was obviously yes, because Turner said, “OK, don’t risk it now. I’ll call back every hour.” Then she stayed on the line, ready to ask about the second thing she wanted Leach to do for her, but Reacher didn’t hear what it was, because right then there was a knock at the door. He crossed the room and opened up, and standing there was a guy in a suit. He had a walkie-talkie in his hand, and a corporate button in his lapel. A hotel manager of some kind, Reacher thought.

  The guy said, “I apologize, sir, but there’s been a mistake.”

  Reacher said, “What kind of a mistake?”

  “The incidentals deposit should have been fifty dollars, not a hundred. When paying in cash, I mean. For the phone and the minibar. If you order room service, we ask you to pay the wait staff direct.”

  “OK,” Reacher said.

  So the guy dipped in his pocket and came out with fifty dollars, two twenties and a ten, all fanned out, like Reacher had won a prize on a television show, and he said, “Again, I apologize for the overcharge.”

  Reacher took the money and checked it. U.S. currency. Fifty bucks. He said, “No problem,” and the guy walked away. Reacher closed the door. Turner put the phone down and said, “What was that?”

  “I guess the clerk at the desk hadn’t gotten a memo. We’re supposed to lodge fifty with them, not a hundred, because room service is all cash.”

  “Whatever.”

  “How was Sergeant Leach?”

  “She’s a brave woman.”

  “You know her number by heart? A sergeant you just met in a new command?”

  “I know all their numbers by heart.”

  “You’re a good commander.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What was the second thing you asked her for?”

  “You’ll see,” Turner said. “I hope.”

  Romeo dialed, but Juliet was slow to answer. Romeo rubbed his palm on the leather arm of the chair he was sitting in. His palm was dry, and the leather was smooth and lustrous, made that way by fifty years of suited elbows.

  Then in his ear Juliet said, “Yes?”

  Romeo said, “The names Sullivan and Temple just came up in an airport hotel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Fortunately for us its register is linked to Homeland Security. Being at an airport.”

  “Is it them, do you think?”

  “We’ll have descriptions soon. The hotel is sending a man up to take a look. But I th
ink it has to be them. Because what are the odds? Those two names in combination? As far as we know, those are the only IDs they have.”

  “But why the airport in Pittsburgh?”

  “Doesn’t matter why. Where are our boys?”

  “On their way to Los Angeles.”

  “See how fast you can turn them around.”

  The room was warm, so Reacher took off his miracle coat, and Turner took off her new jacket. She said, “You want to get room service?”

  “Sure.”

  “Before or after?”

  “Before or after what?”

  “Before or after we have sex again.”

  Reacher smiled. In his experience the second time was always better. Still new, but a little less so. Still unfamiliar, but a little less so. Always better than the first time, and in Turner’s case the first time had been spectacular.

  “After,” he said.

  “Then take your clothes off,” she said.

  “No, you first this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because variety is the spice of life.”

  She smiled. She took her new sweater off. She was wearing nothing under it. No bra. She didn’t really need one, and she wasn’t about to pretend. He liked her for that. He liked her for everything, basically. Not that he had a big problem with any kind of a topless woman in his room. But she was special. Mentally, and physically. Physically she was flawless. She was lean and strong, but she looked soft and tiny. One curve flowed into another, endlessly, seamlessly, like a single contour, like a Mobius strip, from the cleft of her back, to her shoulder, to her waist, to her hips, to her back, where it started all over again. Her skin was the color of honey. Her smile was wicked, and her laugh was infectious.

  * * *

  Romeo dialed, and this time Juliet picked up immediately. Romeo said, “It’s them. A tall, heavy, fair-haired man, and a younger dark-haired woman, much smaller. That’s what the hotel manager saw.”

  “Any indication how long they intend to stay?”

  “They paid cash for one night.”

  “Did they book a wakeup call?”

  “No. They can’t fly. Not with cash, and not with those IDs. Reacher looks nothing like Temple. Even the TSA would notice. I think they’re just holed up. Not a bad choice. Airport hotels are always anonymous, and Pittsburgh isn’t the center of the known universe. I’d like to know how they got so much money, though.”

  “Our boys will get there as soon as they can.”

  “The hotel manager said Turner was on the phone.”

  “Who to?”

  “I’m having it traced now.”

  Afterward they lay spent and sweaty in tangled sheets, breathing hard, then breathing low. Turner got up on an elbow and stared at Reacher’s face, and ran her fingertips over his brow, slow and searching. She said, “It’s not even bruised.”

  “All bone,” he said. “All the way through.”

  Her touch moved down to his nose.

  “This wasn’t, though,” she said. “Not all the way through. And recent, right?”

  “Nebraska,” Reacher said. “Some guy, all worked up about something.”

  Her fingertip traced the cuts, all healed up but not long ago, and the thickened bumps of bone, which now gave his nose a slight right turn. Still a surprise to him, but automatically normal to her. She traced around his ear, and his neck, and his chest. She put the tip of her pinkie in his bullet hole. It fit just right.

  “A .38,” he said. “A weak load.”

  “Lucky,” she said.

  “I’m always lucky. Look at me now.”

  Her touch moved on, to his waist. To the old shrapnel scar.

  “Beirut,” she said. “I read your file. A Silver Star and a Purple Heart. Not bad, but still, I bet overall you got more metal in your gut than on your chest.”

  “It was bone,” Reacher said. “Fragments of somebody’s head, who was standing nearer.”

  “It said shrapnel in the file.”

  “How many times did you read that file?”

  “Over and over again.”

  “You know where the word shrapnel comes from?”

  “Where?”

  “An eighteenth-century British guy named Henry Shrapnel.”

  “Really?”

  “He was a captain in their artillery for eight years. Then he invented an exploding shell, and they promoted him to major. The Duke of Wellington used the shell in the Peninsular Wars, and at the Battle of Waterloo.”

  “Terrific.”

  “But thanks for reading that file. It means a lot to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now I don’t have to spend a lot of time telling you a bunch of old stories. You know them already.”

  “Telling each other old stories has a nice ring to it.”

  “You haven’t told me any.”

  “But I will,” she said. “I’ll tell you as many as you want to hear.”

  Romeo dialed Juliet and said, “She was calling a pre-paid cell phone almost certainly purchased at a Wal-Mart. If it was paid for in cash, it’s untraceable. And I bet it was.”

  Juliet said, “It was worth a try.”

  “But you know, one big market for pre-paid cell phones is the military. Because some of them don’t make enough for a regular monthly contract. Which is shameful, frankly. And because some of them lead necessarily disorganized lives, and pre-paid suits them better.”

  “That’s a leap.”

  “The phone is showing up on three cell towers north and west of the Pentagon.”

  “I see.”

  “Rock Creek is north and west of the Pentagon.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I think she was calling the mothership. And someone aboard the mothership took her call.”

  “Our boys are on their way to Pittsburgh.”

  “Doesn’t matter. No one at Rock Creek can help her now.”

  Chapter 40

  Turner took a shower, but Reacher didn’t bother. He wrapped up in a robe and lounged in a chair, warm, deeply satisfied, as relaxed as he could ever remember being. Then Turner came out in the other robe and asked, “What time is it?”

  “Four minutes,” Reacher said. “Until you’re due to call Leach again. Does she know I’m with you?”

  Turner nodded. “I’m sure the whole world knows by now. And I told her, anyway.”

  “Was she OK with that?”

  “She’s a sergeant in the U.S. Army. I don’t think she’s a prude.”

  “That’s not the point. If you beat your thing, then no one can touch her for helping you. She’ll come out smelling of roses. But if I don’t beat my thing, then she’s still in trouble for helping me. Or vice versa. And so on and so forth. She’s doubling her risk and halving her chances.”

  “She didn’t object.”

  “You should hang on to her.”

  “I will,” Turner said. “If I ever get back.”

  And then she picked up the phone and dialed.

  * * *

  A little more than fourteen miles away, a phone rang inside the FBI Field Office on East Carson Street, Pittsburgh, which was a little south and east of the downtown area. A duty agent answered, and found himself talking to the Hoover Building in D.C. He was told that the Homeland Security computers were showing the names Sullivan and Temple as guests in an airport hotel nearby. The duty agent spooled back through his bulletins and his BOLOs, and saw that the D.C. Metro cops and the army MPs were looking for two fugitives presumed to be traveling under those names.

  The duty agent called his Special Agent in Charge, and asked, “Do you want me to spread the word to D.C. and the army?”

  His SAC was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “No need to complicate things.”

  No need to share the credit, the duty agent thought.

  His SAC said, “Send one of our own to check it out.”

  “Now?”

  “Whenever you can. No big rush. We’ve go
t until the morning. I’m sure they aren’t going anywhere.”

  Turner had the room phone trapped between her shoulder and her neck again, as before, and Reacher could hear the ring tone. Then he heard Leach answer. He couldn’t make out her words, but he could make out her mood. Which was not good. She launched into a long fast monologue, all of it reduced to a rapid plastic quack by the earpiece, but all of it frustrated and angry. Turner said, “Thanks anyway,” and hung up, looking very tired, and bitterly disappointed.

  Reacher said, “What?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “There was no number after all.”

  “The transcript is missing. Someone took it out of the file room.”

  “Morgan?”

  “Has to be. No one else would or could.”

  “So either he’s one of them or he’s following orders blindly.”

  Turner nodded. “They’re cleaning house. And they’re covering all the bases. Because they’re better than I thought they were. And therefore I’m screwed. There’s no way out for me now. Not without that A.M. number.”

  “Isn’t it still in a computer somewhere?”

  “We don’t really trust computers. The feeling is we might as well send stuff straight to The New York Times. Or China.”

  “So your physical transcript is your only record?”

  She nodded again. “It’s the only one I’m aware of. Maybe Bagram keeps a copy. Why? You thinking of asking JAG to issue a subpoena? Good luck with that.”

  “Could it be misfiled?”

  “No, and Leach checked everywhere anyway. She’s not dumb.”

  “There has to be another way around this.”

  “Wake me up if you think of it,” she said. “Because right now I’m all done thinking. I have to get some sleep.”

  She dropped her robe to the floor and padded naked around the room, straightening the drapes, turning out the lights, and then she climbed under the covers, and rolled over, and sighed a long, sad, exhausted sigh, and then she lay still. Reacher watched her for a moment, and then he went back to his chair, and sat a spell in the dark. He pictured the Rock Creek file room in his mind, upstairs, first on the left, room 201. He pictured the duty captain downstairs in 103, taking the long-distance call from Weeks and Edwards, writing it up, hand-carrying the sheet of precious paper up the old stone stairs, showing it to Turner, getting her reply, transmitting it, copying it out, and heading upstairs again to file both the call and the response in the right drawer, correctly, sequentially, back to back.