Jack and Joe

by Diane Capri

  Taylor was nodding.

  “Executing the plan that particular day and time must have been important, too. The shot was already going to be difficult under the best of circumstances. He had to hike in from somewhere, carrying his gear, and then hike out again.”

  He kept nodding.

  “But that day, in addition to everything else he had to cope with, the weather was horrid. Worst possible conditions for a shot like that. Which increased his chance of failure exponentially.”

  “Uh, huh,” he said.

  “He could have chosen a different time, a different place. He could have shot her the day before or the day after. He could have set up closer to DC where the highway is flatter.”

  “And for the shot itself,” Gaspar said, “a moment before or after and the sniper would have missed his chance.”

  “Which means he knew she was coming and he knew when she’d be passing that exact location,” Taylor replied slowly, mulling things over.

  I paced the room and waited for one of them to identify the really scary things. Because it sounded a lot more complicated than it actually was.

  Taylor finally asked, “How many are involved? Three—the two truck drivers and the shooter?”

  I heard the hope in his voice. To him, three was a manageable number. Small-time. Three made the killing feel more like a personal grudge. With three, he could find means, motive, and opportunity. Especially since he already knew who two of them were. He could squeeze the two truck drivers and maybe learn the identity of the sniper. Three meant he could solve the case and bring the killers to justice and restore order to his town.

  Which was why I didn’t say that three was nothing more than a good start.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was Sunday and we were in the middle of the Bible belt, but The Lucky Bar had reopened for business. The flashing neon signs were unmistakable for both north and southbound traffic. Colonel Summer must have known precisely where she was whenever she drove past it over the years. No way could she have missed those lights, any more than she could have been disoriented or failed to realize that blind curve at mile marker #224.

  Gaspar pulled into the truck stop to refuel and look around. It was getting late and we would stay at the New Haven Grand Lodge tonight.

  “I thought you said Alvin Barry was hospitalized and his son, Junior, was arrested? Who’s running the bar?”

  I shrugged. It had been a long day. The last thing I’d hoped for was another trip to The Lucky Bar. But I knew that’s exactly where I was headed.

  Gaspar finished with the gas and we rolled over to The Lucky Bar’s parking lot. There were fewer vehicles in the lot than there were two days ago, but it was still three-quarters full. Gaspar parked and we exited the vehicle. The bar’s door was wide open and the wall of noise was palpable like before.

  As we walked toward the entrance, Gaspar’s limp grew less pronounced with each step, as always, yet he still pulled a Tylenol out of his pocket and swallowed it when he thought I wasn’t looking. I was worried about his liver, but I said nothing. I was his partner, not his mother.

  Once again, the stench of tobacco smoke and beer assaulted us more than ten yards away.

  At the front door, we stopped briefly before stepping inside. Behind the bar was a younger, slightly smaller version of Junior Barry. Same stocky build, same tight black T-shirt, tattoos in all the same places.

  Standing next to him was a woman I recognized. I nudged Gaspar with my elbow and nodded toward her. “Sergeant Major Madeline Jones, retired.”

  He nodded.

  The pounding, pulsing country music and the garish pink, blue, and green floodlights supplied the necessary accompaniment for the exotic dancer on the stage. Tonight, the tables were upright and the chairs were full. Again, patrons seemed to be about ninety-eight percent male, mostly civilians, and a few enlisted men from Fort Bird looking uncomfortable in civilian clothes with unmistakable haircuts.

  Everything about the place seemed to be business as usual like the shooting never happened.

  Jones recognized me. She waited until we found an empty table near the back of the crowded floor where the din was slightly quieter and conversation almost possible. She brought over three domestic beers in brown long-necked bottles and joined us. She raised her bottle in a toast. “Thank you for your help with Alvin and Junior the other night,” she shouted over the music.

  “I wish I could have done more,” I shouted back. I introduced Gaspar and she nodded and raised her bottle in his direction.

  Gaspar took a sip to be friendly, but he normally didn’t drink. I assumed he was worried about navigating on his bad leg while under the influence. Or maybe he was worried about his liver because all of the Tylenol he ate, too.

  “You just helping out for tonight?”

  “Alvin’s my brother. I watch the place a couple of nights a week so he can get a break. We never had a shooting before, but things can get out of hand pretty quickly. That’s a cousin behind the counter now. Everybody will be taking turns until Alvin is back on his feet and Junior is sorted out.”

  “Any news on Alvin’s shoulder?” I swigged the beer to be sociable.

  “Doc over at New Haven General says he’s not as young as he used to be, but he’ll be okay.”

  “What about Junior?”

  “He’ll probably get a few years in state prison. A couple bullets that hit the dancer and one of the patrons came from his gun.”

  I sipped and waited a second before I changed the subject. “The other day, you had some pretty hard words about Reacher. I’ve never met him. Anything else you can tell me for my background check would help.”

  She nodded a couple of times as if she was thinking things through. “At first, I liked him. He was straight with me. I had a young son at home and I was worried I might be left on the outside looking in after the big changes coming down because of the end of the Cold War.”

  “What did he say about that?” Gaspar asked.

  “He told me not to worry. He said my son would be out of college before they figured out the force reduction. He was dead wrong, but it made me feel better at the time.” She did seem to have liked Reacher, which stood in stark contrast to the impression she gave me in Tony Clifton’s office.

  She swigged her beer. Now that she’d started talking, she kept going. “We got along well enough. I brought him coffee. He had an emergency once and I loaned him all the money I had. I think it was about forty-seven dollars. He paid me back fifty-two, which included my babysitter.”

  She chuckled. She drained the beer and returned the bottle to the table.

  I said, “Junior told me that Jack Reacher was the one who messed up Alvin’s knee. Is that true?”

  A dark cloud floated across her features. “Lucky for him I didn’t know that until after he’d gone. Got off with a slap on the wrist for it, too.” She scowled. The hard tone she’d used in Major Clifton’s office that first day had returned, rocky as granite. “Just because he busted those officers, they let him off the hook for what he did to Alvin. A lot of us didn’t think that was right at the time. Still don’t.”

  The anger rolled off her in waves that I could feel like the pulsing of the loud country music in my veins. “What about Summer? What did she think about it?”

  “She thought it was just fine. But then, she would. She was sleeping with Reacher and she thought he hung the moon. She made out like he was some kind of misunderstood hero or something.” Jones’s scowl grabbed tighter across her face. “If Summer hadn’t spoken up for him, he’d have gone to Leavenworth for what he did. The pain he put Alvin through was criminal. Disabled a fine man who did nothing but take care of his own.”

  I nodded like what she’d said made perfect sense. “You heard about Colonel Summer’s accident? The same night as the shooting.”

  “I heard.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I told Sheriff Taylor. She was speeding around here in that l
ittle car like she always did. The truck slowed down and she didn’t. Nasty way to go, but at least it was over quick. She wasn’t disabled and in pain her whole life with a busted leg. Could’ve gone that way, you know.” Jones’s cold words made her sound a little sorry that Summer died instantly.

  “What do you know about the dancer that was the catalyst for everything that happened here the other night?”

  “Nothing much. She grew up around here, but she was a mousy little thing. High tailed it outta here with Mayne when she was too young to know better. She shouldn’t have messed with Delta Force. Those guys are all a little crazy, you ask me.” She drained her beer and set the bottle down. “Reacher’s still causing trouble and he’s been gone from around here for twenty years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The shooter. Jeffrey Mayne. He and Reacher had a beef, too. Around the same time as everything else. Reacher shoved a bullet up Mayne’s nose. Mayne didn’t take that well at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had another round or two before Reacher mustered out.” She rolled her shoulders and her neck cracked. “Did some kind of permanent damage to Mayne’s sinuses. Which got him discharged on a medical a couple of years later. After Mayne and Gloria were already gone from here.” She shook her head and scowled darkly. “And now Reacher circles back around and tears our lives up all over again—Alvin’s bar all shot up, a bunch of people dead, Gloria included, Junior headed for the pen—”

  “What do you mean? Reacher was here during the shooting?” I blinked. I felt whipsawed.

  “I don’t know where Reacher is, I told you that.” Jones shrugged. “But whatever happened here that night, it’s all because of him. Back in 1990, Reacher messed up Alvin’s leg for life because he thought Alvin had knocked one of the dancers around. Wasn’t true then and never been true since. Mayne thinking Alvin somehow kept Gloria away from him by force or something wasn’t true, either. People think Alvin looks scary, so he must be scary, you know?”

  Jones was drifting. I brought her back online: “So why did Reacher shove the bullet up Mayne’s nose?”

  “Mayne had delivered the bullet a couple of days before with Reacher’s name on it.”

  “A threat? For what?”

  “Reacher was poking into things he shouldn’t have been, disrespecting a murdered officer. Delta guys didn’t appreciate it, I guess.” She stood and collected her empty beer bottle. Ours were still full, so she left them on the table. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  Gaspar said, “Did you know either one of the big rig drivers involved in that crash?”

  “Sure. I know both of those men. Fine fathers and good truckers, too. This must be tearing them up.”

  “You heard about the deer, then?”

  She nodded. “Deer on the road around here are pretty normal. We got farmers all over the place and the deer eat the crops. Oftentimes we’ve got goats and cows on the roads, too. Natural hazards. Hell, there’s even a couple of signs on both sides of the highway saying to watch out for them. Summer knew that, just like everybody else does.”

  I met her eyes with a steady gaze. “You didn’t kill Summer, did you?”

  I expected her to bridle at the question or be shocked by the idea that anything but Summer’s own recklessness had killed her, but she just held my gaze and said, “Not me,” smirking in a way that suggested she knew who did.

  She wove through the tables and stopped to chat with a few of the men on her way back to the front. As I watched her go, I wondered if she’d had any sniper training and whether she’d qualified on the L115A3 rifle.

  CHAPTER 28

  The crowded, noisy bar provided as much cover from eavesdroppers as anywhere we could go, so I pulled out my secure cell and pushed the #1 speed dial button. When the Boss answered, I asked, “What is going on here?”

  “It’s classified.” His voice was quiet. I could barely hear him through the bar’s noise.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Not much.”

  “I can ask Finlay.”

  “If you think he’ll tell you, be my guest. I’d love to hear what he has to say.”

  I took a breath. Finlay and Cooper refused to be played off against each other and I should remember that. “The FBI is investigating Dynamic Defense Systems for what, exactly?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Silence.

  “Who is investigating General Clifton? He’s not within FBI jurisdiction. So it must be the Army’s Inspector General. But what’s the charge?” This one I already knew, but it was a test to see if he’d tell me.

  “You should ask him.”

  Figures. “He knows he’s being investigated?”

  “Of course. Everybody knows.”

  That one surprised me. “Everybody?”

  “It’s impossible to keep a secret like that under wraps, even if they wanted to. The first thing they do is ask the General himself. You’re a lawyer. You should understand the presumption of innocence. After that, they ask people around him who would know.”

  Now he was pissing me off. “Well if everybody knows, why not just tell us so we’re in the loop like everyone else?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” His tone wasn’t jocular, though. I figured he didn’t know everything, even though he wanted me to believe he did.

  I took a long pull on the beer, which wasn’t half bad, actually. I was feeling stubborn and belligerent and now I liked beer? Maybe my German DNA was more prominent than usual tonight. Dad would be happy.

  “General Clifton is being investigated for some kind of corruption,” I told him as if he didn’t already know that much. “Corruption was Summer’s specialty, so she was in the thick of it. Probably driving it. Jeffrey Mayne was also involved, somehow. He was Delta Force. Was he an Army trained sniper? And Thomas O’Connor is neck-deep in the whole thing.”

  “You always were a good guesser.”

  I took that as confirmation. “So what does any of this have to do with Reacher?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He hasn’t walked up and introduced himself if that’s what you’re asking.”

  For the first time, his comeback wasn’t quite so snappy. “Stay alert. He’s not the kind of guy who talks much. He’ll act first and sort later.”

  “He was one of the best snipers in the world at one time. Even if he’s grown old and slow, he could still pull this one off, maybe. Did he shoot Summer?”

  He paused. “Data downloaded from the satellites is inconclusive.”

  So he had something more from the satellites than the photos I’d seen from Sheriff Taylor. Maybe even photos of the sniper. “He’s certainly capable.”

  He didn’t deny the truth.

  I said, “The shot wouldn’t have been too difficult for him, back in the day, at least. Summer was speeding, but she was traveling at a steady pace along a well-marked and predictable roadway. Some calculations would have been required, but I heard from Joe Reacher’s ex that Jack’s always been good with numbers.”

  “This wasn’t the world’s longest or toughest sniper kill. Not even close.”

  “What was the world’s longest sniper kill?” I asked.

  “I haven’t checked the record books lately, but last I heard, it was still 2.47 kilometers.”

  “Which is what?” I did a quick calculation in my head. “About a mile and a half? What kind of rifle? Accuracy International L115A3 Long-Range?”

  “That’s a reasonable choice.”

  Which meant yes. Lightweight, easy to transport, comes with a stand and a suppressor to reduce the noise and the flash.

  I said, “It holds five rounds, too. Which means the shooter could get it wrong four times.”

  A team of FBI agents could comb the countryside out there and never find any evidence, though. Too much time had passed. Too much contamination of the scene from weather and travelers. And the terrain was rough. Mountains, trees, mud, and all m
anner of possible ways the evidence was probably destroyed.

  The bullet that hit Summer was never going to surface, either, and for many of the same reasons.

  “Expensive gun. Costs about $35,000.” He paused. “Requires significant training to shoot, and a shooting range set up to handle practice with a gun like that.”

  I nodded, but I was fairly sure he couldn’t see me. It was dark and smoky in here, for one thing. “It’s portable, but probably about fifteen pounds for the weapon alone. That’s pretty tough terrain out there. Any vehicles in the area at the time of the shot?”

  “Not even any two-tracks to drive them on.”

  “You figure it couldn’t have been a woman, then?”

  “Not likely. We don’t have very many female snipers in the modern military. And the military is the most likely place to train one.”

  “So he is a military-trained sniper with access to the best weapon for the job. He hiked into position, set up, shot to kill Summer, packed up, hiked out. And you never saw him and have no clue who he is.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  I said nothing.

  After a long pause, he asked, “We’re sure she was killed with a sniper shot?”

  “The local medical examiner says she was. He showed us what he says is a bullet hole in her skull.”

  Another long pause. “You’ve seen plenty of bullet holes in skulls. Did it look like the real thing to you?”

  I hesitated because, like I told Taylor, the bullet hole meant a premeditated kill of the coldest sort. Which was exactly the kind of thing Reacher could do. But it didn’t sit well with me.

  For one thing, this wasn’t Reacher’s style, was it? Everything I’d seen and heard about him indicated he was a guy who deployed direct physical confrontation instead of hiding in the trees to shoot a woman from a distance and slinking off afterward.

  The most likely answer is usually the right one, though. Unless we could come up with a more likely expert marksman who had roamed freely around Fort Bird, the Boss would default to Reacher. And he’d probably be right.