The Right Man For Revenge

by Dan Ames

  “I always considered Nate my brother. I hope he felt the same about me,” Tallon said. And then waited.

  “Nate has a sister up in Seattle,” the older man said. He let out a long breath. “She called him and asked for help. He went out there and when he came back, he wasn’t the same. Something was wrong. And then that was it.”

  Tallon’s first thought was, why didn’t he call me?

  It was a selfish reaction.

  “Nate’s sister. Is she okay now?”

  The old man looked up from the area rug he’d been studying.

  “That’s just it. No one can find her.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The morgue was located in Coupeville, the seat of Island County, just a stone’s throw from Pine Beach.

  Jardine had verified Pauling’s identity and background before she agreed to take her to the morgue, which was housed in a long, low-slung building that reminded Pauling of an elementary school.

  Except this one had drawers for dead bodies, instead of pencils and erasers.

  Chief Jardine vouched for her at the various security checkpoints and eventually, they made their way to the basement where a gurney was brought in to a viewing room.

  “This one’s going to be tricky,” Jardine said. “You won’t be able to do any kind of facial recognition, if you know what I mean. We couldn’t even get dental records.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Pauling asked.

  “No surviving family members, so if you can at least recognize the body, that would be a good thing,” Chief Jardine said. “At least it would be a place for us to start.”

  “How am I supposed to identify him if there’s nothing of him…left?”

  Jardine shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe there were birthmarks? Scars? Some identifying marks on his body?”

  Pauling was tempted to make a joke but it never really formulated in her mind. It had to do with the fact that she was intimately familiar with Jack Reacher’s body. Had actually pictured it many, many times in her mind since their last time together. Maybe too many times.

  “I can try,” she said.

  A man in a white lab coat pulled the sheet from an incredible specimen of the male body. A huge upper body with broad shoulders and chest, long, thick arms, down to a relatively narrow waist with big, strong legs.

  The sheet was kept over what remained of the body above the neck.

  From where she was standing, Pauling could see the chest and pec area. She knew Jack Reacher had various scars on his body. She had run her fingers, and maybe even her lips, along their patterns some time ago.

  Pauling studied the body before her with great care. Jardine didn’t say a word. The man in the lab coat just waited. Somewhere, a voice shouted outside the room and then it was silent again.

  “May I take a closer look?” Pauling finally asked.

  Chief Jardine gestured toward the body. “Be my guest.”

  Pauling walked closer to the body. Studied the legs. The waist. The flat stomach. The incredible chest and shoulders. The arms were enormous.

  The dimensions seemed right.

  She studied the scars.

  Closed her eyes, tried to picture what she remembered of Reacher.

  And then she opened them.

  “It’s him,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tallon was angry.

  And hurt.

  But they were emotions on which he rarely ever dwelled.

  And this was no exception.

  The fact that Figueroa, his de facto brother, hadn’t told him about the illness was one thing. That, he could understand, to a degree. Illness, especially something like cancer, sometimes caused people to retreat into themselves. So Figueroa hadn’t called him to let him know about his condition.

  But Figueroa’s sister was missing?

  And he hadn’t called Tallon to enlist his help?

  Why not?

  What could have possibly prevented him from doing so?

  As he packed, he found solace in the act of compartmentalizing objects, and he transferred that approach to his emotions.

  Having spent the vast majority of his adult life in the military, Tallon’s way of living made packing for trips on short notice a matter of routine.

  Within hours of his return from the Figueroa household in Minnesota, he had his SUV loaded with gear and supplies for the drive to Whidbey Island.

  He could have simply hopped a plane from Minneapolis and flown directly to Seattle, but something told him it would be a good idea to bring along the kinds of resources that are prohibited on airlines.

  Arming the compound was the most time-consuming task. It wasn’t as simple as punching in a code on an alarm panel by the garage door. Tallon had special compartments and storage areas in the house that required extra steps to secure. Once he finished those, he activated the motion-detection system linked to a series of hidden cameras. The images were available for him to view on his smartphone, if he so desired.

  Finally, loaded with food, water, clothes and a small but effective selection of weapons carefully stashed in a special section of his SUV, Tallon set out for Seattle.

  It would be a lonely drive for much of the time. He would skirt Death Valley before eventually connecting with I-5 in northern California and from there, it would be a relatively straight shot through Oregon to Whidbey Island.

  Plenty of time for him to think through what he’d learned in Minnesota.

  It was a puzzle.

  And not a good kind of mystery. His friend was dead and before his death, had been dealing with a problem. A problem he felt hadn’t required Michael Tallon’s assistance.

  The road rose as it neared the mountains and Tallon felt the reassurance as his vehicle’s beefy engine surged ahead, even sped up as the incline increased.

  It was mid-morning and the sun was up, the sky was a clear blue, and in the distance Tallon could see a hawk circling far overhead.

  As he drove he cycled through a variety of scenarios, trying to better understand what kind of trouble Figueroa’s sister might have been in, and how he would have approached it.

  There just wasn’t enough information for him to put any credence into his ideas. There was a good chance he would get there and it would turn out to be nothing. Maybe the sister had met some guy Figueroa hadn’t approved of, and now she’d run off with him. End of story. Or maybe the sister had been surprised by a trip to Europe and hadn’t had time to let everyone know.

  Stranger things had happened.

  If it did turn out to be a simple case of miscommunication, it would mean Tallon made an eleven-hour drive for no good reason.

  Except driving down lonesome highways was something he enjoyed. He relished the open space. The lack of confinement. The anonymity.

  Besides, it was his duty to find Figueroa’s sister and make sure she was okay. Even though his friend hadn’t asked him to.

  Figueroa would have done the same for him.

  The miles and hours flew by. Traffic remained sparse.

  Soon, he was blazing through Oregon, then navigating his way up the Washington coast before finally hitting some urban congestion around Seattle. But it was well after rush-hour and he made short work of it.

  He’d settled on a reasonably-priced hotel and self-parked the SUV. He brought his gear up to his room and checked his phone.

  There was one unopened email.

  He checked the sender.

  Figueroa?

  Impossible.

  He opened it.

  There was one word.

  Sica.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There wasn’t much to choose from in Pine Beach for lodging. Pauling had secretly hoped she would be on her way back to Seattle right then, but it was a no-go. After the scene in the morgue, she wanted to stay.

  And drink.

  She wasn’t normally a drinker, but suddenly she wanted to feel the warm buzz from a couple glasses of win
e. Or maybe a good, strong martini.

  In any event, she found an overpriced but quaint hotel on the water and checked into her room, showered, and changed into jeans and a fleece pullover. Down by the bar there was a fireplace with a pair of leather chairs and a rough-hewn table. She ordered a dirty martini at the bar, sunk into the chair and when her drink was handed to her, she drank half of it in one long pull.

  The fire was fake. A gas flame with artificial logs looking like a discarded prop from a B movie.

  Oh well.

  Why have a real fireplace in a location like this? Where would you get firewood? It’s not like the area was surrounded by towering pine trees or anything.

  Sarcasm wasn’t the place to go, Pauling thought to herself. Besides, it was kind of pointless when it was an audience of one.

  Pauling took another drink of the martini and thought about what she’d seen. Not good. Not good at all. It had taken a very powerful rifle to do that kind of damage and create such difficulty in being able to identify the body.

  The sight of that body, Pauling thought. She gave an imperceptible shake of her head, thought about her past with Jack Reacher.

  They were good memories but in light of this situation, they felt like bad thoughts.

  The last of her martini went down the hatch and Pauling popped the olive into her mouth. It had been stuffed with blue cheese.

  It was good, but she couldn’t have another one.

  The server noticed her and Pauling asked for a glass of chardonnay.

  Chief Jardine had seemed to be satisfied with her identification of Reacher. They’d exchanged business cards and Pauling was honest in telling her she was going to stay put for the night and probably leave in the morning.

  Pauling wondered what it was like to be a female police chief in a place like this. It had the look of a town that would be filled with rugged lumberjacks on the weekends. Plaid shirts. Lots of facial hair. Plenty of drunk-and-disorderlies.

  Rough-hewn folks who probably liked to get rough on the weekends.

  Then again, Jardine seemed like she could take care of herself. A hard woman who looked like she’d seen her share of challenges and stared them down until they turned tail.

  It had been that way for Pauling in the Bureau.

  Most of her colleagues had been decent men, but there was always an old-school personality somewhere, sometimes even lurking in someone very young. Attitudes toward women were learned early. It took a lot of life experience to change those beliefs. She almost wished Jardine was here to compare notes.

  Her chardonnay arrived and Pauling sipped, feeling the first effects of the martini. It was like putting on something made of silk. Smooth. Comforting. Luxurious even.

  As Pauling watched the fake flames flashing in between the artificial logs, she thought about illusion.

  Deception.

  And trickery.

  Yes, Chief Jardine had been satisfied with Pauling’s assessment in the morgue.

  Which was fine, Pauling thought.

  Even though it had been complete bullshit.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sica?

  Sica was dead.

  Tallon stared at his screen. It made no sense.

  Figueroa was dead, too. Who was sending emails from his account? And why?

  Tallon needed to get his blood pumping and clear his head from the long car trip and from sitting too long. It dulled the senses.

  He needed to clear the cobwebs.

  He unpacked, found his swimming trunks and went down to the hotel swimming pool where he swam laps for forty-five minutes, until the water was practically worked into a froth. He toweled off, went into the hotel’s small fitness center and pumped iron until the moisture from the pool had evaporated and was replaced with sweat.

  Back in his room, he showered and threw on a pair of athletic shorts and a T-shirt and sat down in front of his computer.

  During his workout, he’d let the situation marinate in his mind. He had formulated and tossed aside several different plans of action, until he’d settled on what he was about to do.

  Tallon opened his laptop and connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and sent three emails, pounding them out on his keyboard like machine gun fire.

  The first went to the pathologist who performed Figueroa’s autopsy, requesting a copy of his report. He fudged a little, implying he’d been hired by the family to look into the matter. Not true. But not totally untrue, either.

  The second was to a friend of his who ran a sideline business hacking into other people’s computers. He forwarded the email he’d just sent to the pathologist, and asked his friend if the answer was negative, could he get the report for him anyway.

  The third email was to Figueroa.

  Or, more accurately, to whomever was using his email account.

  He kept it short and simple.

  You’re not Figueroa. Who are you?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When her eyes began to half-close with fatigue, Pauling signed out of her tab and left the bar area. She passed through a small dining area set up to take advantage of the view of the harbor.

  Nautical themes were everywhere, with paintings of old clippers and even a wall tapestry made with fish nets and an anchor.

  Pauling skipped the elevator and used the thickly carpeted steps. The hotel was only three stories and she climbed the stairs easily, thinking about her plan for the next day. She had a lot to do, and wanted to get an early start.

  Down the hallway, she passed a hotel employee probably doing turn-down services. A couple of the rooms had used room service trays sitting outside, holding water glasses and silver dish covers, usually with a used napkin placed on top and discarded condiment jars.

  Pauling got to her room, used her key card and opened the door.

  A girl was sitting on the edge of the bed. She jumped to her feet and Pauling instinctively reached for her gun, but realized she wasn’t carrying one.

  “No, it’s ok!” the girl said. “I just need your help.”

  She was young, her eyes were wild with fear.

  Pauling stepped into the room, but held the door open, and glanced around the entryway into the rest of her room. The bathroom was empty as was the rest of the space.

  The two of them were alone.

  Pauling crossed quickly to her bag and made sure her gun was still there.

  It was.

  “Who are you and how did you get into my room?” Pauling kept her voice steady. But she hated surprises.

  “My name is Maria,” the girl said.

  Pauling guessed she was in her late teens. Skinny, with big expressive eyes. Clearly Hispanic heritage, with dark black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “My cousin works here as a maid,” the girl said. She sat back on the edge of the bed. Her hands were in her lap and she was wringing the life out of them. “You used to be the police, right? Now you help people?”

  “How do you know anything about me?” Pauling asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a small town. Is it true? Do you help people?”

  Pauling was tempted to lie.

  “My brother is missing,” the girl said. “I can’t go to the police.”

  “I know the police here,” Pauling said. “They’re very good. I can’t help you or do any better than they’re doing.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard about you,” the girl persisted. “You worked for the FBI, right?”

  “Jesus,” Pauling said. “This town isn’t that small. How do you know all this and exactly why can’t you go to the police?”

  “My brother was in Seattle,” the girl said, ignoring Pauling’s direct questions. “Whoever took him or killed him did it in Seattle. The local cops here won’t do anything. They’d be like little people in that big city. Or they’d end up like that guy they found out on the road. By the woods.”

  The young woman had a way of talking that told Paul
ing she wasn’t a native English speaker. An odd cadence. She also had a thin, sallow appearance. Either a drug user, or malnourished for a different reason.

  Pauling was still considering her comment about the dead man out by the woods, when the girl reached into her pocket.

  Pauling had her gun in hand and the girl nearly screamed.

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. From her pocket she withdrew a photo.

  “Here. Here’s a picture of him. My brother.”

  The girl handed her a small photo, worn but still in good condition. Pauling took it and looked.

  There were two men.

  The man on the right must have been the girl’s brother. Not only because he looked like her, but Pauling knew the man on the left.

  Michael Tallon.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sleep refused to grant Tallon’s request. It hovered on the edge of his periphery but remained firmly out of his grasp and left him staring at the ceiling, thinking about Figueroa and the mysterious emails.

  When his phone buzzed on the nightstand next to him, he was relieved. Tallon glanced at the screen, smiled and answered.

  “Lauren Pauling,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.” And then he added. “I’m in bed.”

  “What a coincidence,” she responded. “I’m in bed, too. And I’m thinking about you.”

  Tallon didn’t believe her, but he liked her answer.

  “Really?” he said, recognizing that it wasn’t standard operating procedure for Pauling to flirt. She tended to be a little more direct.

  Tallon could picture her, and the sound of her voice always made him happy. Or at least, made him feel better. It was that kind of great voice possessed by jazz singers who frequently light up.

  “Yes,” Pauling said. “What’s new with you since our last case?”

  He chuckled softly. That was an understatement. Their last case had been a doozy.