Don't Know Jack

by Diane Capri

  “He does too.” Defensive and insecure, but defiant.

  Kim considered telling the truth, that Cooper didn’t love anyone. Was never loyal to anyone. Never had been and never would be. But Kim had read Sylvia’s memoirs. She wasn’t the stone cold bitch Gaspar assumed her to be. She was bendable. Fragile. Somewhere under all that experience, the Iowa farm girl remained.

  And Kim knew all about farm girls. She’d been one herself, once upon a time. Impossible to beat your DNA. Couldn’t be done. Even after years of trying. In death, Sylvia’s farm girl DNA would be precisely identifiable. No escape. Only surrender. Kim had to make Sylvia own it.

  Sylvia loved Cooper. And she wanted to believe Cooper loved her. But she was as smart as she said she was. Or at least as cunning. Self-preservation was paramount. She knew the truth. So she’d work it out eventually, precisely the way Kim had planned.

  But how long would Sylvia take to get there? Cooper was close. Kim felt it the same way she felt the temperature in the room.

  She said, “You’ve been betrayed before, Sylvia. You know how it feels. Your heart hurts. Your mind warns you constantly, but you keep going, thinking you’re going to get away, that it’s only fear, that you can break through, you’re really OK. But you know you’re not. You know. Trust your gut, Sylvia. Trust me.”

  No response.

  Kim said, “We’ve got to get out of here before he shows up. We’re sitting here like targets, Sylvia. Are you coming with us or not?”

  She was so focused on Sylvia that Marion Wallace’s voice startled her.

  “You should think about it, Sylvia dear,” Marion said absently, rustling the paper as she turned the page. “I mean, why don’t you go with them? He’s rescued you before. He’ll do it again. And when he does, you’ll know for sure that he loves you and everything these people are telling you is nonsense.”

  Translation: use the emergency plan. Working girls always had one. And these two working girls were smarter than most and they’d been in tight spots before. Sylvia raised her head and looked directly into Marion’s eyes. Something passed between them. A bond forged in earlier times, and leaner struggles. Sylvia nodded slightly.

  “OK,” she said. “Let me get my bag. I’ll hurry.”

  And she headed up the stairs.

  Marion returned her gaze to her newspaper. “Still too trusting, Agent Otto. She might escape.”

  “You told her to come with us. She will.”

  “You overestimate me. People do what they do.”

  But five minutes later Sylvia came back, with her bag.

  ***

  Sylvia hugged Marion and said, “Until we meet again, sweetie.” Then she led Otto and Gaspar through back hallways to a rear exit originally used for deliveries. They came out in a narrow paved alley running parallel with Dumbarton Street. There was dog manure and broken bottles and empty soda cans and trash and pale leggy weeds all over it. There were overfilled dumpsters awaiting pickup. Overhead, a low grey cloud ceiling masked visibility. Winds whipped around corners and through tunnels between buildings. They walked fast, with their hands stuffed into their pockets for warmth.

  They were twenty feet from the end of the alley when Archie Leach stepped out of the shadows.

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  They all stopped dead. Leach was at least six-three and two-fifty. He filled half the alley’s width. An effective barrier. He was scowling hard but not speaking. He was dressed in jeans and boots and jacket.

  Kim said, “What do you want, Leach?”

  Leach moved his right arm and brought a shotgun out from behind his leg. Not the Browning A-5 his brother had used in Eno’s diner. It was a Remington SP-10 instead. He pointed it directly at Gaspar. Kim slowed down into extreme high-alert mode. She saw every detail. She heard individual motes of dust jousting in the wind. She smelled garlic and pumpkin and rotten eggs and cat urine.

  Leach took six deliberate steps forward, never dropping the shotgun’s barrel a fraction. His eyes were on Gaspar. When he was close enough to be heard, he said, “You killed my brother, and I can’t let that go.”

  Gaspar maintained eye contact, and pushed Sylvia out of the way. Kim reached out and pulled her close. But clear of her own right hand. Sylvia was shaking. It felt real enough.

  Gaspar said, “You don’t really believe I killed your brother, and no one else will, either.”

  Leach advanced, gritty steps loud on the asphalt. He said, “You should have opened that car door before Jim ever got there, asshole. You saw Bernie inside. He could have been alive. You might have saved him. You’re an FBI agent. You should have checked him out.”

  That’s crazy, was Kim’s immediate thought. She understood what Roscoe had been trying to tell her. Archie Leach was armed, dangerous, and out of his mind. Kim thought: I could die today. Right here in this alley, among dog shit and weeds and rotting garbage.

  What was Leach waiting for?

  Then she heard footsteps behind her.

  She glanced back.

  Michael Hale was there.

  ***

  Hale had come out of Wallace’s back door into the alley. He was approaching with no hesitation. Could Leach not see him?

  Hale walked right up to them and grabbed Sylvia’s arm.

  And Kim knew.

  The grab, the gloved hand, the silence.

  She’d seen that choreography before.

  Hale had made the same moves the night he took Sylvia from Margrave jail.

  Hale turned back, pulling Sylvia with him.

  Gaspar never took his eyes off Leach. He called out, “Hale? Cooper will kill you, too. You know that, right? He’s killing everyone.”

  Hale kept walking. Sylvia was stumbling alongside him.

  Gaspar called, man to man, “Hale? It’s not too late. You can still save yourself.”

  Hale stopped and turned. Classic moves Kim had practiced a thousand times. So had Gaspar. They were all FBI. They’d all had identical training. All three knew precisely what Hale was about to do.

  What happened next unfolded in Kim’s line of vision like stop-motion animation of an elaborate dance. A race in agonizing slow motion.

  Kim shouted a warning to her partner. Gaspar snatched a quick look back. Kim reached smoothly into her holster as she’d practiced ten thousand times.

  Muscle memory.

  Gaspar was a fraction of a second behind her.

  Kim took cover.

  Hale fired first.

  Four rapid shots, three deliberately high, one not.

  Gaspar went down and rolled behind a dumpster.

  Hale put Sylvia in the line of fire before Kim could get off a shot.

  Archie Leach’s focus on Gaspar made him miss Hale’s moves. Gaspar’s focus on Archie made him pull the trigger on his Glock. A double tap. Two hits in Leach’s right shoulder. The big Remington whipped sideways and upward as Archie fell. The gun fired uselessly into the air. Kim looked back; Hale and Sylvia had disappeared.

  Archie went down. Blood bloomed on his shoulder. On the ground, determined, hurting, slowed, he aimed the shotgun to fire again.

  Gaspar put three bullets in his neck.

  The shotgun clattered on the asphalt. Leach’s giant body went slack. Collapsed. Blood spurted from neck holes. Mouth moved like a fish. No sound. Eyes showed awareness. Became glassy. Pupil reaction stopped while blood bubbled softly a moment more. Then a stopped heart stopped the bubbles.

  Severed wind pipe, Kim thought. Severed jugular. Severed spine at the cervical vertebra. She ran across the alley to find Gaspar laying flat with his eyes closed. Blood was seeping through his shirt on his right side.

  Distant sirens approached.

  Someone had called 911.

  “Carlos?” Kim said. “Are you OK?”

  Gaspar looked up. He winced. He said, “We’ve got to go. If we stay here, there will be more red tape than either of us will ever survive. Help me up.”

  Kim helped him stand. He lean
ed heavily on her shoulder and several times she thought he might fall, but they made it back to the Crown Vic. He laid out on the back seat. She put some distance between them and Archie Leach’s corpse, and then she stopped in a deserted Crystal City parking lot.

  She reached back and found the phantom cell in his pocket.

  She dialed.

  Only one choice.

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  Washington, D.C.

  November 5

  10:35 a.m.

  Cooper answered on the first ring. He asked, “How’s Gaspar?”

  Kim said, “You know about that already?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Gaspar needs a doctor.”

  “No doctor. Deal with it.”

  “How?”

  “You’ve had training. There are drugstores open.”

  “It could be worse than that.”

  “If it is, call me back.”

  It wasn’t worse than that. Kim treated him on the back seat of the Crown Vic. The wound was superficial. A tear in the flesh. Water and antiseptic and drugstore butterfly bandages did the job. He would be fine. Eventually. But he was hurting now.

  He asked, “Hale?”

  She said, “Still at large.”

  “Not for long.”

  “How?”

  “You can figure that out, boss lady.”

  She called Cooper again. Adrenaline had worn off. Shame fueled her now. She was responsible for Gaspar’s injuries. Cooper answered promptly. She gave him the full report without flinching. He said, “Sounds to me like Hale killed Leach. That works, right? And the shooting was righteous. I’ll take care of Hale. Tell Gaspar not to worry. You either.”

  “Not good enough,” Kim said. She didn’t want Cooper to take care of Hale. She would do that herself. As soon as Gaspar was good to go. “You knew it was Hale all along, didn’t you? He manipulated Sylvia. He killed Harry. He bombed the Chevy. You knew. We were all human targets. Now Gaspar is hurt and people are dead.”

  His voice remained low and controlled. He said, “I wish I had that kind of power. Believe me, the world would be a lot different.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Kim said. “I may never believe you again.”

  “Oh, come on. At least go with trust but verify. Good enough to bring down the Soviets. Should be good enough for you.”

  “OK, let’s verify,” Kim said. “You knew Harry was already dead when you sent us to Margrave. True?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who killed him? Hale? Owens? Or Sylvia?”

  He said, “Does it really matter which one delivered the kill shots?”

  Good point, Kim thought. Legally, morally, practically, it made no difference. She said, “Hale and Owens helped Sylvia sterilize the scene, and to steal and launder the Kliners.”

  He sounded disappointed. “I wanted your particular expertise. I expected you to learn who else was involved. Like Archie and Jim Leach, we know now, for sure. Probably others. I’d hoped you would figure that out. You let me down.”

  “You know Reacher. Personally.”

  “Never said I didn’t.”

  “You knew his father.”

  “Again, never denied.”

  “You know where Reacher is.”

  “I wish I did. That’s something else you didn’t achieve.”

  She ignored the rebuke. “You have a significant numbered account balance and a stash of Kliners in a safety deposit box at Empire Bank in Zurich.”

  For the first time, he paused. The silence lasted too long. His tone was quiet.

  He said, “That’s good to know.”

  Half a beat later, she saw it.

  She said, “Finlay hates you.”

  “The feeling is mutual. You’ve met the man once. Be careful. Roscoe doesn’t know him as well as she thinks. The man’s a stone killer.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  She felt the pushback like a physical force. She said, “What about Sylvia?”

  He said, “What about her?”

  “You’ll let Hale use her and then kill her?”

  “I will if you will.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He asked, “Are we done here?”

  “Hell no,” she said. “Where is Hale?”

  “On his way to Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “Reacher, too?”

  “Maybe you should ask your pal Finlay that question.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  He sighed. “So I’ve been told.”

  She said, “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Washington, D.C.

  November 5

  12:15 p.m.

  Gaspar had eased himself behind the Crown Vic’s wheel. He was the number two, and the number two drives. Simple as that. He was on his personal phone, calling home. “I know. I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry. Kiss the girls for me.” He paused to listen to his wife. He said, “Yeah, I love you, too.”

  “Everything OK at home?” Kim asked, as she slipped into the car. She handed back the phantom cell. Until Hale was dealt with to her satisfaction, she had nothing more to say to Cooper.

  “All fine at home,” Gaspar said. “Where to now, boss lady?”

  She recognized his attempt to normalize their relationship again after she’d failed him in the alley. He was more generous than she would have been.

  She said, “Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “For?”

  “Hale and Sylvia.”

  “What about Reacher? Is he with them?”

  “Cooper says he doesn’t know.”

  “You believe that?”

  “No more than you do. He’s sending transportation and instructions.” She could see he was hurting. “Want me to drive?”

  “I told you I’m fine.”

  “Hale won’t deliberately wound you again when we find him. This time, he'll shoot to kill.”

  He shrugged. “What did you tell the boss?”

  “I said you were fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Least I could do, don’t you think?”

  “Why’s that?”

  She looked away.

  He said, “If you’re harboring some crazy ass boss lady alpha female idea that you should have gotten Hale before he got me, then forget all about it. I didn’t see it coming, either.”

  But you weren’t looking. I was.

  Kim blinked it back. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Roscoe.”

  He said, “I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll sleep on the plane. I’ll be right as rain when we get there. Don’t worry.”

  She laughed. “Worry? Who, me?”

  He smiled. “Right. What was I thinking?” He pulled out into the traffic. “What time’s the flight?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  Phoenix, AZ

  November 5

  3:45 p.m. local time

  Facts were facts: Hale had a three hour head start. And Phoenix was her last chance to get him before he left the country. She didn’t want to chase him all around the world.

  But she would if she had to.

  By the time they landed at Phoenix Sky Harbor International she had her plan in place. Gaspar had slept all the way from wheels up to wheels down. He had denied being in pain, but the crevices etched deep in his face revealed the lie. His limp had gotten worse, too. He’d refused to explain the extent of his prior injuries or how Hale’s shots might have interacted with them. He’d waved away her concerns. But the stiff upper lip act wasn’t fooling her. And it was making her feel worse, not better.

  A small nerdy desk jockey agent from the Phoenix FBI field office waited with ground transportation, as Cooper had promised. “Agents Otto and Gaspar? I’m Agent Picard. This way, please.”

  They followed him out to the standard black
SUV. He offered keys.

  Gaspar held out his hand.

  “I’m number two,” he said.

  Picard’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He swallowed, and offered a quick rundown. “This vehicle is special-task-force equipped. Firepower in the back if you need it. Fully wired. Activate if you want backup. I’m assigned to you as long as you need me, but otherwise you’re not being monitored. There are extra phones in the console for quick response teams. There’s a cooler with food and water. The GPS is pre-programmed. Access it with your security code. Anything else you need?”

  “That’ll do it, thanks,” Kim said.

  Picard nodded. “Good luck.” He returned to his own vehicle.

  Gaspar opened the cooler and pulled out two sandwiches and two bottles of water. They settled in. Kim plugged in her smart phone to charge its dead battery. Within seconds, a text came in from Cooper containing a seven letter GPS security code. She entered it into the system. The pre-programed map showed the fastest route to Coolidge Municipal Airport. An hour’s drive time. Fifty eight miles.

  ***

  “We might not be too late,” Gaspar said. “He’s in a private plane. Private planes fly slower and have less fuel on board. The flight would have taken them longer. Maybe required a stop enroute.”

  She’d already figured all that out while he was sleeping, but she liked that he was starting to think strategically again. She said, “Be good if you’re right.”

  “Check for private jets on the way in and which ones landed in the last half hour?”

  She pushed a few buttons on the specialized GPS system and was able to locate airport radar. “Shows flight plans for a helicopter departure. Waiting for inbound passengers. Then nothing else for the remainder of the day.”

  He said, “Helicopter?”

  She nodded. The only thing Kim hated worse than flying was flying in small planes. And the only thing worse than small planes was helicopters. They crashed. Constantly. People survived chopper crashes, but plenty died, too. Survival rates were higher with water crashes. Unhelpful in the Arizona desert.