Reckoning Road_A Get Jack Reacher Short Story

by Scott Blade

  Tattoos weren’t meant for others even though they were displayed to others, to external eyes. They were meant for the wearer, that’s what I thought. Like clothes. You go out. You shop around. And you pick clothes you like. And you wear them. Sometimes they could be to impress others. And sometimes they could be meant for certain occasions. But that was where tattoos differed. They were for all occasions—even ones they weren’t meant to be in. That was the point of tattoos. They weren’t for someone else, not the good ones. Tattoos were for the wearer.

  She looked back at me and said, “Hi there.” It was in that kind of hometown accent that had a hint of genuine concern.

  I smiled back at her and said, “Hello.”

  “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.”

  I nodded and walked over to a back corner booth. Sat down. Back to the wall.

  She walked over to me after a moment with a menu in her hand that was about as simple as could be. It had one printed side. Eight by ten.

  I laid it down in front of me and looked down at it.

  She asked, “Anything I can get you, honey?”

  “You got fresh coffee here?”

  She said, “I wouldn’t say it was fresh. But it’s good. Best in town. Better than the coffee shop.”

  I found that hard to believe, but I took her word for it.

  “I’ll take a cup, please.”

  The waitress with the tattoo went back behind the counter and walked over to her coworker and made some comment. He looked at me and then returned to his dilemma of trying to figure out whose check was whose or whatever his problem of the moment was.

  After a moment, the waitress with the tattoo returned to my table with a piping hot cup of coffee. She placed it down in front of me.

  She said, “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  I said, “I’ve never been here before.”

  She said, “So what brings you in?”

  I said, “I’m just passing through.”

  She said, “Not a lot of people come through here unless they’re lost.”

  I said, “Surely, people stop here late at night. After a long night of driving. Tired. Probably ready to sleep.”

  “Sometimes. But that’s mostly because they think they’re lost. The next town is much bigger, and Albuquerque isn’t that much further. Most people stop and ask if they’re lost, and then they get directions and drive away.”

  I stayed quiet.

  She said, “Of course, when I was a kid, that happened a lot more. Nowadays everyone has Google Maps. But a lot of older people still stop. They don’t like to use their cell phones. Or they forget about them. Or they don’t know what they can do.”

  I said, “So you’ve lived here a long time?”

  She said, “Since I was a little girl. Don’t remember much before that.”

  I looked her over quickly. She was birdlike in a way. Long arms. Long legs. Small waist.

  In the place where I thought a nametag should’ve been, there was nothing.

  I said, “So what do people call you?”

  She looked down at where her nametag was supposed to be. Habit I guessed. And she made a face like she had forgotten it. I wasn’t sure if it was real or fake like she didn’t want me to report her to her boss for her deliberately leaving her nametag off.

  She said, “The name’s Kara.”

  She smiled and then she turned and walked back to the counter. Back to work.

  Chapter 7

  I WASN’T SURE WHAT TO THINK AT FIRST because there was no way that this Kara was the Kara that John Martin was talking about. She was too young. A witness who had seen a crime twenty years ago would surely be at least in her forties by this point. But her name was Kara, and she was a waitress at the only diner in forty square miles.

  Then, as Kara walked away, I realized how tired I must’ve been to not have seen the obvious. This Kara was the daughter of the witness, also named Kara. Had to be. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  I studied the room again. The counter was a long, off-white thing that was very clean but fading from age. Soon it would lose all traces of having once been white at all. There were five chairs at the counter. One had a black garbage bag covering it as if to signal that the chair was out of order. Probably broken or perhaps too torn up to leave out for people to see.

  The two guys sitting at the counter weren’t seated together although they were only one empty chair apart and occasionally spoke to each other. Both were middle-aged guys, drinking coffee. No food or plates or silverware in front of them.

  One guy faced the kitchen, his back to me. The other was diagonal across from the first, around the corner. Both wore trucker hats and were most likely truck drivers. Acquaintances, not friends. They probably knew each other from the road. Maybe they even had similar routes. Maybe they both stopped here every so often at the same time like a friendly meeting with a colleague. And in the back of the parking lot, I had seen one big truck without a rig attached. Perhaps it belonged to one of them and the other had parked his truck somewhere else. Like down the street at one of the closed businesses. Maybe he had a trailer on the back of his and couldn’t fit it into the diner’s parking lot.

  Whatever the case was, these two guys were not my suspects.

  The other patrons in the diner were finally paying their checks. The young black guy had gotten it all straightened out and was at the register, tending to his customers.

  Afterward, they all piled out of the front entrance like it had been feeding time for everyone, but now it was time to go.

  The black guy looked relieved and went over to Kara and talked for a moment out of earshot, and then he walked back through the kitchen. He returned after a moment, wearing a windbreaker, and he had a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He went out of the front door and nodded at Kara once more and disappeared around the side of the building.

  The only people left in the diner were me, Kara, the cook, the two truck drivers, and maybe a dishwasher or manager in the back, or both.

  Kara talked with the two truck drivers for a moment, and then she came over to my booth. She leaned on the tabletop with one hand, not really putting her weight on it. She held an old brown service tray down by her side.

  She said, “So honey, where ya headed?”

  I said, “Nowhere in particular.”

  Kara said, “Are you lost?”

  I said, “No. Just not really going anywhere. No plans. Just going.”

  Kara tilted her head and her eyes looked down at my empty coffee mug.

  She said, “Wow! You really like coffee.”

  I said, “Yeah. It’s my drug of choice.”

  She smiled and said, “Wish I could say the same.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what she meant because it could’ve been a joke or it might’ve been literal. In which case, did she mean she was a recovering addict? And if so, recovering from what? It could’ve just been a reference to smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol or stealing things.

  She walked away for a minute, stopped again by the two truckers at the counter to check on them. Then she walked over to the coffeepot that sat on a burner and picked it up and returned to my table.

  She said, “There’s plenty of coffee, so don’t be shy.”

  She refilled my cup and rested the pot on my table and propped one knee on the empty seat across from me like she’d probably done a million times with a million other strangers. A waitress’s way of both being extra friendly and working harder for tips.

  And I hadn’t really talked to anyone in days, so I didn’t mind. Plus, I needed to watch over her. Not really my job, and it wasn’t like I had promised John Martin anything, but who else was going to do it?

  I could hang out and wait at least until Moreno figured out where I was and sent a deputy here. At that point, I supposed it wouldn’t be my problem anymore.

  I decided not to tell Kara anything about John Martin.

  “So what do you do?” she asked.<
br />
  I said, “You’re pretty much looking at it.”

  She said, “What do you mean?”

  “I drink coffee. That’s about all.”

  “What? You just drink coffee all day?”

  “Not all day. I sleep some of the time.”

  She smiled and said, “That seems unlikely if all you do all the time is drink coffee.”

  I stayed quiet.

  She said, “What’s your name?”

  “Cameron.”

  “What’s your last name, Cameron?”

  “That is my last name. First name’s Jack.”

  “Jack Cameron?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t go by Jack?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t. Go by Cameron. Always have.”

  “I like the name Jack. But Cameron’s cool, too.”

  She said, “So what do you do really? For money?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  She said, “No job?”

  I said, “Nope.”

  “How do you pay for things?”

  “I have some savings.”

  “That must be nice. So what, you just go wherever you want and live off your savings?”

  I nodded.

  She asked, “What’ll you do when you run out?” I stayed quiet and she said, “Will you run out?”

  I said, “Of course. Someday. But I don’t really think about it. Guess I should, though.”

  She smiled and said, “Well, Jack Cameron. Will you please take me with you? I’d love to get out of this dump.”

  I said, “Why don’t you?”

  She looked sad for a second, and she said, “I might. I couldn’t because of my mom. Not before anyway.”

  “Where’s she?”

  Kara paused a beat and said, “She passed away about two weeks ago.”

  I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  A silence fell between us, and a bit of awkwardness set in. Kara reared back and looked at the parking lot. I craned my head and looked in the same direction.

  A black Ford Explorer, newer model, pulled in slow and chary like an undercover surveillance cop on his very first day of the job. It stuck out and seemed more of an outsider than I was.

  “Regulars?”

  She said, “Never seen that vehicle before.”

  She turned back, smiled at me, picked up her coffeepot, and returned to the counter. She waited there, fiddling with the various machines like she was busy, like millions of service industry employees did everyday across the world.

  Kara stayed behind the counter, waiting for the driver of the Ford Explorer to get out and enter the restaurant like a new customer. But that never happened.

  Chapter 8

  THE BLACK WAITER returned from behind the building where he must’ve been smoking cigarettes. He walked up to the front of the diner. I saw him from the window, but before he returned inside, a man rolled down the passenger window of the Ford Explorer and called him over.

  I watched the waiter turn back to the guy and walk over to the Explorer.

  The vehicle had its interior lights off, but the rear lamps remained on and low. Exhaust clouded up and pooled behind the vehicle.

  The waiter stopped five feet from the SUV like he was suddenly afraid to step any closer.

  Kara watched with impatient eyes like she had gone through the trouble of returning to her default waitress position to welcome these guys in and they weren’t even coming inside.

  The truck drivers continued to speak in low murmurs to each other, and I drank more of my coffee.

  Kara had a look on her face like she was saying to herself, What in the hell is taking so long?

  The black waiter turned and looked back at the diner and then back to the guy in the Ford Explorer. He nodded like he was answering more questions. Finally, the guy in the Explorer rolled his window up, and the waiter turned, shrugged, and came back inside.

  He stopped at the door and looked at me like he was surprised to see me. Then he walked over to the counter and spoke to Kara.

  She said, “What’s that all about? They coming in or what?”

  The waiter said, “Not sure. They asked if we were busy. How many people were in here and stuff.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “They asked about you.”

  Kara said, “What? Why?”

  “They just asked if you were working. Never said why. Guess they want you to wait on them.”

  Kara said, “Be here all night. Like usual.”

  The waiter said, “I know. I told ’em.”

  “Guess they’re waiting for someone.”

  The waiter nodded. He looked around the diner, made a particular gesture about how empty the place was.

  Kara looked at him and said, “Suppose you wanna go home?”

  The waiter nodded and said, “If that’s okay?”

  “Sure. Get your side-work done!”

  “I did it already!”

  Kara said, “Fine. Then get out of here.”

  The waiter smiled and went behind the counter. He walked over to the register and started to print out paper receipts. The machine was ancient in terms of cash registers. He had to pound on keys and wait for a printer that was just as old to print up the receipts. He stayed there printing for twelve minutes, and then he took the heap of printed receipts over to an empty spot on the countertop. He sat down and started counting up check totals. He used his cell phone as a calculator and wrote down the totals on an old yellow pad.

  I watched his facial expressions as he mouthed “carry the one” silently.

  After he was done adding things up, he pulled out wads of rolled-up cash money. He set it all down on the countertop.

  One of the truckers lifted his head and looked at it.

  He said, “Whoa! You buying coffee tonight?”

  The waiter said, “It’s not all mine. Most of it belongs to the house.”

  The trucker nodded and said nothing.

  The waiter continued his calculations, and after another seven minutes, he was satisfied. He piled the dollars into two piles. One was large and the other much smaller. I assumed that the small one was his tips because he looked disappointed.

  After he gathered up the money, he handed the large pile to Kara, said goodnight to everyone, except for me, and left.

  I followed the waiter’s departure as he walked out the front door, back out to the parking lot, and past the black Ford Explorer. The Explorer’s engine ran idle with the interior lights still off.

  I tried not to stare. In case they could see into the diner, I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was going to sit there all night, which I was willing to do. In fact, a strategy that had crossed my mind already was to outwait them. If the sheriff’s deputies showed up first, then they could take over guard duty. I could leave the scene without even being noticed.

  Problem with that was that it might work tonight, and Kara would be okay tomorrow, but what about the day after? Or the day after that?

  I couldn’t guard her forever. These guys might just move on when they saw the cops and wait for another day. Kara wasn’t going anywhere, and I was sure they knew that.

  I decided to wait and see what the cops would do. Certainly, they’d come to the diner and question her. That would be the next step after John Martin explained to them what happened.

  If he ever woke up to explain.

  Chapter 9

  I WAITED FOR NEARLY TWO HOURS before I gave up on the idea of the police showing up or on John Martin taking over guard duty. In that time, I drank one and a half pots of coffee.

  Kara had talked to me for a long time. I think it was because I was the only person left in the joint. Occasionally, she looked back to the parking lot to see if the Explorer was still there. And every time, she commented on it. It started to worry her. I recommended that she call the cops if she was so worried, but she didn’t.

>   I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  I said, “Gotta pay phone?”

  “No phone. But you can use my cell phone.”

  “It’s local.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a cell phone. As long you’re calling in the US, it’s free.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t use cell phones very much. I didn’t even have a cell phone bill. I had never had one. So I wasn’t too familiar with the structure of current calling plans in America.

  She unlocked the screen and handed me the phone and walked off to give me some privacy, but she didn’t go too far. No one is trusting of someone using their cell phone. Was different when I was a kid. If a stranger wanted to use your house phone, it was generally accepted. People never guarded their house phones like they might get stolen, but cell phones were different. I imagined the hefty price tags of smartphones were a big part of it.

  I looked at the screen and pulled up the phone icon. I googled the nearest hospital and memorized the number. I returned to the dial pad and dialed it.

  The phone rang and whirred, and an operator or a nurse or a receptionist with a thick Mexican accent but with great pronunciation answered.

  “Hello, Cedar Corner emergency room?”

  I said, “Yes. My father was admitted earlier. I wanted to check and see how he’s doing.”

  She said, “What’s your dad’s name?”

  I said, “John Martin.”

  She paused a beat, and then I heard some keystrokes on the other end of the line. She didn’t go to retrieve a doctor or anything, which was a good sign.

  She came back on the line and said, “He’s stable.”

  “Has he woken up yet?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid he’s under heavy sedation. They had to do an emergency operation on him. He came out okay, but he’s not out of the woods yet. We’re keeping him here till he’s good enough to move to Albuquerque Memorial. Hopefully, in the morning.”

  I said, “Has the sheriff been there yet?”

  “There’s a deputy here now. Don’t worry. They’ve posted a guard with him all night. No one’s going to get to your dad.”