The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  So, heads or tails?

  She pulled the blue door shut behind her, and she started walking.

  They put the old Range Rover on a curb in a tow zone outside the rental lot, and they lined up at the desk behind a white-haired couple just in from Phoenix. When their turn came they used Baldacci’s license and credit card and picked out a mid-size sedan, and after a whole lot of signing and initialing they were given a key. The car in question was a white Ford, dripping wet from washing, parked under a roof, and it was bland and anonymous and therefore adequate in every way, except that its window tints were green and subtle and modern, nothing like the opaque plastic sheets that had been stuck to the Range Rover’s glass. Driving the Ford was going to feel very different. Inward visibility was going to be restricted only by sunshine and reflections. Or not.

  Turner had brought her book of maps, and she plotted a route that stayed away from Vineland Avenue until the last possible block. The day dawned bright and fresh in front of them, and traffic stayed quiet. It was still very early. They came out of Burbank on small streets, mostly through office parks, and they rolled through North Hollywood, and they crossed the freeway east of Vineland, and they headed for the neighborhood at an angle, feeling exposed and naked behind the thin green glass.

  “One pass,” Turner said. “Slow constant speed to the end of the street, no stopping under any circumstances, all the time anticipating normality and the presence of law enforcement vehicles, and if it turns out any different we’ll continue to the end of the street anyway, and we’ll work it out from there. We must not get trapped in front of the house. OK?”

  “Agreed,” Reacher said.

  They turned into the first elbow, and they drove past the grocery, and past the car with no wheels, and they turned left, and then right, and then they were in her street, which stretched ahead long and straight and normal, a narrow metallic lane through nose-to-tail cars, both sides, all parked, all winking in the morning sun.

  Turner said, “FBI ahead on the right. Purple Dodge Charger.”

  “Got it,” Reacher said.

  “Plus the last car on the lot ahead on the left. The MP special.”

  “Got it,” Reacher said again.

  “The house looks normal.”

  Which it did. It looked solid and settled, and still, as if there were sleeping people inside. The front door was closed, and all the windows were closed. The old red coupe had not moved.

  They rolled on.

  Turner said, “So far every other vehicle is empty. No sign of Shrago. It was a head fake.”

  They kept on going, at a slow and constant speed, all the way to the end of the street, and they saw nothing at all to worry about.

  “Let’s go get breakfast,” Reacher said.

  * * *

  Romeo called Juliet and said, “They rented another car. A white Ford, at the Burbank airport.”

  Juliet said, “Why? Surely they know they can’t hide from us.”

  “They’re hiding from the FBI and the MPs. Changing cars is a sound tactic.”

  “A white Ford? I’ll tell Shrago immediately.”

  “Is he making progress?”

  “I haven’t heard from him.”

  Romeo said, “Hold on a minute.”

  “What’s up?”

  “More activity on Baldacci’s card. The gentleman in Long Beach just took a second day’s rental on the Range Rover. Which means they haven’t changed cars. What they’ve done is added a car. Which means they’ve split up, and they’re moving separately. Which is smart. They’re two against one. They’re pressing their advantage. Make sure Shrago knows.”

  They looped south of the neighborhood and came back north on Vineland as far as the coach diner. The white Ford was doing its job. It was turning no heads. It was unremarkable and anonymous and invisible, like a hole in the air. Ideal, except for its transparent windows.

  The diner was doing good business, at that time of the morning all of it serious and no-nonsense, with early workers fueling up ahead of long days of labor. There were no ironic hipsters present. The girl wasn’t there, either. Which wasn’t a surprise, because even though she was pretty much a regular, who ate practically every meal there, it was still very early. Reacher knew almost nothing about fourteen-year-old girls, but he imagined early rising was not among their top ten lifestyle preferences. The guy named Arthur was behind his counter, and the brunette waitress was rushing around. A swing shift, maybe, late night and early morning. The blonde wasn’t there. Maybe she worked peak hours only, starting just before lunch, and finishing just after dinner.

  They took the last booth on the right, directly behind the girl’s empty stool. A busboy gave them water, and the brunette gave them coffee. Turner ordered an omelet, and Reacher ordered pancakes. They ate, and enjoyed it, and lingered, and waited. The girl didn’t show. The rest of the clientele changed with the passage of time, office workers and retail workers replacing the laborers, their orders a little more delicate and a little less calorific, their table manners a little less like throwing coal in a furnace. Reacher got four refills of coffee. Turner got toast. The girl didn’t show.

  Reacher got up and stepped over and sat down again on the girl’s empty stool. The guy named Arthur tracked the move, like a good counter man should, and he nodded, as if to say I’ll be right with you. Reacher waited, and Arthur served coffee, and orange juice, and he bussed a plate, and he took an order, and then he came over. Reacher asked him, “Does Samantha get breakfast here?”

  The guy said, “Most days.”

  “What time does she come in?”

  The guy asked, “Would I be wrong if I said you’ll never see forty again?”

  “Generous, not wrong.”

  “Some people say it’s the times we live in, but I think it’s never been any different, which is that when a man in his forties starts asking an unhealthy amount of questions about a girl of fourteen, then most people are going to notice, and some of them might even do something, such as ask questions back.”

  “As they should,” Reacher said. “But who died and made you chairman of the board?”

  “It was me you asked.”

  “I enjoyed talking to her, and I’d like to talk to her again.”

  “Not reassuring.”

  “She’s curious about a law enforcement situation, which is not a good combination.”

  “The thing on her street?”

  “I thought I might trade her some facts for a promise to stay out of the way.”

  “Are you law enforcement?”

  “No, I’m here on vacation. It was this or Tahiti.”

  “She’s not old enough for facts.”

  “I think she is.”

  “Are you authorized?”

  “Am I breathing?”

  “She’s an early riser. She would have been in and out by now. Long ago. I guess she’s not coming today.”

  Chapter 60

  Reacher paid the check with Baldacci’s cash, and they got back in the Ford, and Turner said, “Either she ate at home today, or she skipped breakfast altogether. She’s a teenage girl. Don’t expect consistency.”

  “She said she ate practically every meal here.”

  “Which is not the same as every meal, period.”

  “The guy said most days.”

  “Which is not the same as every day.”

  “But why would she skip today? She’s curious, and she thinks I’m a source.”

  “Why would she expect you to be here?”

  “Law enforcement has to eat, too.”

  “Then the coffee shop would be just as logical, near the lawyer’s office. She knows there are two locations.”

  “We should go take a look.”

  “Too difficult. We wouldn’t see anything from the street, and we can’t go in on foot. Plus she’s an early riser. She’ll have been and gone.”

  “We should cruise her house again.”

  “That wouldn’t tell us anythi
ng. The door is shut. We don’t have X-ray vision.”

  “Shrago is out there somewhere.”

  Turner said, “Let’s go back to the off-ramp.”

  Reacher said, “In a white car in daylight?”

  “Just for ten minutes. To put our minds at rest.”

  In bright daylight the old binoculars were superb. The magnified image was crisp and hyper-vivid. Reacher could see every detail, of the street, of the white compact, of the purple Dodge, of the blue front door. But nothing was happening. Everything looked quiet. Just another sunny day, and just another endless stake-out, boring and uneventful, like most stake-outs are. There was no sign of Shrago. Some of the parked cars had heavy tints or blinding reflections, but they weren’t plain enough to be rentals. And those plain enough to be rentals were empty.

  “He’s not there,” Turner said.

  “I wish we knew for sure she was,” Reacher said back.

  Then his phone rang. Captain Edmonds, in Virginia. She said, “I found another file on Shrago, from five years ago. The decision to keep him out of the Middle East was controversial. We were fighting two wars, we were hurting for numbers, hundreds of people were getting re-upped involuntarily, the National Guard was gone for years at a time, and the idea of paying a loose cannon who couldn’t go to Iraq or Afghanistan was seen as absurd. First choice was involuntary separation, but he was making his case on compassionate grounds, so he had to be heard, and eventually the argument went all the way up the HRC chain of command, to an Assistant Deputy Chief of Staff for personnel, who ruled in Shrago’s favor.”

  “And?” Reacher said.

  “That same Assistant Deputy was also in charge of temporary commands. He was the guy who moved Morgan to Fort Bragg a year later.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so. Which is why I called. Shrago owed him, and Morgan was his chess piece.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Crew Scully.”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “New England blue blood.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He got promoted. Now he’s a Deputy Chief of Staff in his own right.”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “Personnel,” Edmonds said. “HRC oversight. Technically he’s my boss.”

  “Who moved Morgan to the 110th, this week?”

  “Scully’s second-in-command, I assume. Unless things have changed.”

  “Will you check that for me? And will you check whether Scully has access to Homeland Security intelligence systems?”

  “I don’t think he would have.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Reacher said. He clicked off the call, and went back to staring at the street.

  Juliet called Romeo, because some responsibilities were his, and he said, “Shrago tells me they’re not traveling separately. He decided to check the rental depot, and he got there just in time to see the Range Rover getting towed.”

  “More fool them. Using one car limits them. Which is to our advantage.”

  “That’s not the point. The Range Rover is on Baldacci’s credit card. We’ll have to pay the tow fee and the daily rental. It’s another slap in the face.”

  “What else did Shrago see?”

  “He’s close. She’s out of the house. Just walking around. There’s no one within a mile of her. He’s going to pick his spot.”

  “And get the message to them how?”

  “At the diner. They’ve been there twice. There’s a gentleman named Arthur who seems willing to pass the word.”

  * * *

  Turner’s ten minutes had turned into almost forty, but nothing had happened, either on the off-ramp behind them, or on the street in front of them. She said, “We have to go.”

  Reacher said, “Where?”

  “Just drive. Randomly. Within a mile of her door, because if she’s out, she’s walking. Surface streets only, also because she’s walking. Shrago will be thinking the same.”

  So they fired up the Ford and merged onto the 134, and got off again immediately, and started the search on Vineland, block by block, randomly, except for her own street, which they decided not to risk. Most blocks were about a thousand feet long and two hundred feet deep, which meant there were about a hundred and twenty in a square mile, which meant there were nearly four hundred inside a circle with a two-mile diameter, which meant there were close to ninety miles of road to cover. But not quite, because some blocks were double-wide, and the highway shoulders and the ramps ate up space, and some tracts had never been built. About sixty miles, probably. Three hours’ worth, at a safe speed of twenty. Not that moving around increased the chances of a random encounter. Space and time didn’t work that way. But moving around felt better.

  They saw nothing in the first hour, except the background blur of sidewalks and poles and trees and houses and stores, and parked cars in their hundreds. They saw not more than a handful of people, and they paid close attention to all of them, but none of them was the girl, and none of them was Shrago. They saw no cars crawling slow like their own. Most were heading from here to there innocently and normally, at a normal speed, and sometimes more. Which caused the only excitement in the whole of the second hour, when a dull black BMW ran a light about a hundred yards ahead, and was T-boned by an old Porsche on the cross street. Steam came up and a small crowd gathered, and then Reacher turned left and saw no more, until another random turn brought him back in line, by which time a cop car was there, with its light bar flashing, and after three more turns there was a second cop car, and an ambulance.

  But apart from that, there was nothing. Nothing at all. Thirty minutes later Turner said, “Let’s take an early lunch. Because she might, if she had an early breakfast. Or no breakfast at all.”

  “The diner?” Reacher said.

  “I think so. Practically every meal means she might skip one, but not two.”

  So they worked their way back through the maze, and they joined Vineland just north of the neighborhood, and they rolled south until they saw the old coach diner dead ahead on the left, all gleaming and shining in the sun.

  And crossing Vineland toward it was the girl.

  Chapter 61

  Juliet called Romeo, and he said, “I’m afraid it fell apart. We had a piece of bad luck. He needed to grab her near his car, obviously. Right next to it, ideally. He couldn’t drag her down the street screaming, not for any appreciable distance. So he leapfrogged ahead and parked the car, and then he looped around on foot and came out again behind her, and it was all going fine, and he was all set to pass her right alongside the car, and they had about twenty yards left to go, and then some idiot ran a light and got into a fender bender, and suddenly there was a crowd of people, and a cop car, and then another cop car, and obviously Shrago couldn’t do anything in front of a crowd of people or the LAPD, so the girl watched the fun for a minute and then walked on, and Shrago had to let her go, because at first he couldn’t get his car out from the middle of all the mess, and then when he finally got going, he’d lost her and he couldn’t find her again.”

  Romeo said, “So what next?”

  “He’s starting over. All her known haunts. Her house, the law office, the diner. He’ll pick her up again somewhere.”

  “This has to be finished in California. We can’t afford for them to come home.”

  * * *

  Reacher slowed, and let the girl cross fifty yards ahead of him, and then he swung the wheel and followed her into the diner’s lot. She went straight in through the door, and he parked the car, and Turner said, “Should I come in with you?”

  Reacher said, “Yes, I want you to.”

  So they went in, and they waited just inside the door, where they had waited before. The diner looked exactly the same as the previous evening, with the blonde waitress back on duty in the left side of the coach, and the long-suffering brunette working the right side, and Arthur behind his counter, and the girl on her stool, way at th
e end. The blonde waitress came by, like before, with the same blank smile, and Reacher pointed to a booth on the right, one away from directly behind the girl, and the blonde gave them up to the brunette with no marked reluctance at all. They walked in and sat down, Reacher with his back to the room again, Turner facing him across the atomic laminate, the girl with her back to them both, about six feet away.

  But she was watching them in the mirror.

  Reacher waved at her reflection, partly as a greeting, partly as a join us gesture, and the kid lit up like Christmas was coming and slid off her stool, and caught Arthur’s eye and jerked her thumb at the booth behind her, as if to say I’m moving again, and then she stepped across, and Turner scooted over and the kid sat down next to her on the bench, the three of them all together in a tight little triangle.

  Reacher said, “Samantha Dayton, Susan Turner, Susan Turner, Samantha Dayton.”

  The kid twisted around on the vinyl and shook hands with Turner and said, “Are you his assistant?”

  Turner said, “No, I’m his commanding officer.”

  “Way cool. What agency?”

  “Military police.”

  “Awesome. Who are all the others?”

  “There’s only us and the FBI.”

  “Are you leading or are they leading?”

  “We are, of course.”

  “So it’s your guy in the white car?”

  “Yes, he’s ours.”

  “Parachuted in from where?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  The kid laughed, and looked happy as a clam. The inside scoop, and a woman CO, and jokes. She said, “So the guy due to show up is a military guy? Like an AWOL soldier saying goodbye to his family before disappearing forever? But why would his family have a lawyer? Or is it his lawyer? Is he a spy, or something? Like a very senior officer, all old and distinguished, but tragically disillusioned? Is he selling secrets?”