Lee Child's Jack Reacher Books 1-6

by Lee Child

  “Water pumps,” Carmen said. “For irrigating the fields. There was agriculture here, in the old days. Back then, gasoline was cheaper than water, so those things ran all day and all night. Now there’s no water left, and gas has gotten too expensive.”

  The land fell away on every side, covered with dry brush. On the far horizon southwest of the endless road, there might have been mountains a hundred miles away. Or it might have been a trick of the heat.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “If we don’t stop we could pick Ellie up from school, and I’d really like to do that. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

  “Whatever you want,” Reacher said.

  She accelerated until the big Cadillac was doing eighty and wallowing heavily over the undulations in the road. He straightened in his seat and tightened his belt against the reel. She glanced across at him.

  “Do you believe me yet?” she asked.

  He glanced back at her. He had spent thirteen years as an investigator, and his natural instinct was to believe nothing at all.

  “What happened a year and a half ago?” he asked. “Why did he stop?”

  She adjusted her grip on the wheel. Opened her palms, stretched her fingers, closed them tight again on the rim.

  “He went to prison,” she said.

  “For beating up on you?”

  “In Texas?” she said. She laughed, just a yelp, like a short cry of pain. “Now I know you’re new here.”

  He said nothing. Just watched Texas reel in through the windshield ahead of him, hot and brassy and yellow.

  “It just doesn’t happen,” she said. “In Texas a gentleman would never raise his hand to a woman. Everybody knows that. Especially not a white gentleman whose family has been here over a hundred years. So if a greaseball whore wife dared to claim a thing like that, they’d lock her up, probably in a rubber room.”

  The day her life changed forever.

  “So what did he do?”

  “He evaded federal taxes,” she said. “He made a lot of money trading oil leases and selling drilling equipment down in Mexico. He neglected to tell the IRS about it. In fact, he neglected to tell the IRS about anything. One day they caught him.”

  “They put you in jail for that?”

  She made a face. “Actually, they try hard not to. A first-time thing like that, they were willing to let him pay, you know, make proposals and so forth. A clean breast and a pay-back plan is what they’re looking for. But Sloop was way too stubborn for that. He made them dig everything out for themselves. He was hiding things right up to the trial. He refused to pay anything. He even disputed that he owed them anything, which was ridiculous. And all the money was hidden behind family trusts, so they couldn’t just take it. It made them mad, I think.”

  “So they prosecuted?”

  She nodded at the wheel.

  “With a vengeance,” she said. “A federal case. You know that expression? Making a federal case out of something? Now I see why people say that. Biggest fuss you ever saw. A real contest, the local good old boys against the Treasury Department. Sloop’s lawyer is his best friend from high school, and his other best friend from high school is the DA in Pecos County, and he was advising them on strategy and stuff like that, but the IRS just rolled right over all of them. It was a massacre. He got three-to-five years. The judge set the minimum at thirty months in jail. And cut me a break.”

  Reacher said nothing. She accelerated past a truck, the first vehicle they had seen in more than twenty miles.

  “I was so happy,” she said. “I’ll never forget it. A white-collar thing like that, after the verdict came in they just told him to present himself at the federal prison the next morning. They didn’t drag him away in handcuffs or anything. He came home and packed a little suitcase. We had a big family meal, stayed up kind of late. Went upstairs, and that was the last time he hit me. Next morning, his friends drove him up to the jail, someplace near Abilene. A Club Fed is what they call it. Minimum security. It’s supposed to be comfortable. I heard you can play tennis there.”

  “Do you visit him?”

  She shook her head.

  “I pretend he’s dead,” she said.

  She went quiet, and the car sped on toward the haze on the horizon. There were mountains visible to the southwest, unimaginably distant.

  “The Trans-Pecos,” she said. “Watch for the light to change color. It’s very beautiful.”

  He looked ahead, but the light was so bright it had no color at all.

  “Minimum thirty months is two and a half years,” she said. “I thought it safest to bet on the minimum. He’s probably behaving himself in there.”

  Reacher nodded. “Probably.”

  “So, two and a half years,” she said. “I wasted the first one and a half.”

  “You’ve still got twelve months. That’s plenty of time for anything.”

  She was quiet again.

  “Talk me through it,” she said. “We have to agree on what needs to be done. That’s important. That way, you’re seeing it exactly the same way I am.”

  He said nothing.

  “Help me,” she said. “Please. Just theoretically for now, if you want.”

  He shrugged. Then he thought about it, from her point of view. From his, it was too easy. Disappearing and living invisibly was second nature to him.

  “You need to get away,” he said. “An abusive marriage, that’s all a person can do, I guess. So, a place to live, and an income. That’s what you need.”

  “Doesn’t sound much, when you say it.”

  “Any big city,” he said. “They have shelters. All kinds of organizations.”

  “What about Ellie?”

  “The shelters have baby-sitters,” he said. “They’ll look after her while you’re working. There are lots of kids in those places. She’d have friends. And after a little while you could get a place of your own.”

  “What job could I get?”

  “Anything,” he said. “You can read and write. You went to college.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “On a plane, on a train, in a bus. Two one-way tickets.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “None at all?”

  She shook her head. “What little I had ran out a week ago.”

  He looked away.

  “What?” she said.

  “You dress pretty sharp for a person with no money.”

  “Mail order,” she said. “I have to get approval from Sloop’s lawyer. He signs the checks. So I’ve got clothes. But what I haven’t got is cash.”

  “You could sell the diamond.”

  “I tried to,” she said. “It’s a fake. He told me it was real, but it’s stainless steel and cubic zirconium. The jeweler laughed at me. It’s worth maybe thirty bucks.”

  He paused a beat.

  “There must be money in the house,” he said. “You could steal some.”

  She went quiet again, another fast mile south.

  “Then I’m a double fugitive,” she said. “You’re forgetting about Ellie’s legal status. And that’s the whole problem. Always has been. Because she’s Sloop’s child, too. If I transport her across a state line without his consent, then I’m a kidnapper. They’ll put her picture on milk cartons, and they’ll find me, and they’ll take her away from me, and I’ll go to jail. They’re very strict about it. Taking children out of a failed marriage is the number one reason for kidnapping today. The lawyers all warned me. They all say I need Sloop’s agreement. And I’m not going to get it, am I? How can I even go up there and ask him if he’d consent to me disappearing forever with his baby? Someplace he’ll never find either of us?”

  “So don’t cross the state line. Stay in Texas. Go to Dallas.”

  “I’m not staying in Texas,” she said.

  She said it with finality. Reacher said nothing back.

  “It’s not easy,” she said. “His mother watches me, on his behalf. That’s why I didn�
��t go ahead and sell the ring, even though I could have used the thirty bucks. She’d notice, and it would put her on her guard. She’d know what I’m planning. She’s smart. So if one day money is missing and Ellie is missing, I might get a few hours start before she calls the sheriff and the sheriff calls the FBI. But a few hours isn’t too much help, because Texas is real big, and buses are real slow. I wouldn’t make it out.”

  “Got to be some way,” he said.

  She glanced back at her briefcase on the rear seat. The legal paperwork.

  “There are lots of ways,” she said. “Procedures, provisions, wards of the court, all kinds of things. But lawyers are slow, and very expensive, and I don’t have any money. There are pro-bono people who do it for free, but they’re always very busy. It’s a mess. A big, complicated mess.”

  “I guess it is,” he said.

  “But it should be possible in a year,” she said. “A year’s a long time, right?”

  “So?”

  “So I need you to forgive me for wasting the first year and a half. I need you to understand why. It was all so daunting, I kept putting it off. I was safe. I said to myself, plenty of time to go. You just agreed, twelve months is plenty of time for anything. So even if I was starting cold, right now, I could be excused for that, right? Nobody could say I’d left it too late, could they?”

  There was a polite beep from somewhere deep inside the dashboard. A little orange light started flashing in the stylized shape of a gas pump, right next to the speedometer.

  “Low fuel,” she said.

  “There’s Exxon up ahead,” he said. “I saw a billboard. Maybe fifteen miles.”

  “I need Mobil,” she said. “There’s a card for Mobil in the glove box. I don’t have any way of paying at Exxon.”

  “You don’t even have money for gas?”

  She shook her head. “I ran out. Now I’m charging it all to my mother-in-law’s Mobil account. She won’t get the bill for a month.”

  She steered one-handed and groped behind her for her pocketbook. Dragged it forward and dumped it on his lap.

  “Check it out,” she said.

  He sat there, with the bag on his knees.

  “I can’t be poking through a lady’s pocketbook,” he said.

  “I want you to,” she said. “I need you to understand.”

  He paused a beat and snapped it open and a soft aroma came up at him. Perfume and makeup. There was a hairbrush, tangled with long black hairs. A nail clipper. And a thin wallet.

  “Check it out,” she said again.

  There was a worn dollar bill in the money section. That was all. A solitary buck. No credit cards. A Texas driver’s license, with a startled picture of her on it. There was a plastic window with a photograph of a little girl behind it. She was slightly chubby, with perfect pink skin. Shiny blond hair and bright lively eyes. A radiant smile filled with tiny square teeth.

  “Ellie,” she said.

  “She’s very cute.”

  “She is, isn’t she?”

  “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “In the car,” she said. “Motels are forty bucks.”

  “Mine was nearer twenty,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “Anything over a dollar, I haven’t got it,” she said. “So it’s the car for me. It’s comfortable enough. Then I wait for the breakfast rush and wash up in some diner’s restroom, when they’re too busy to notice.”

  “What about eating?”

  “I don’t eat.”

  She was slowing down, maybe trying to preserve the rest of her gas.

  “I’ll pay for it,” Reacher said. “You’re giving me a ride.”

  There was another billboard, on the right shoulder. Exxon, ten miles.

  “O.K.,” she said. “I’ll let you pay. But only so I can get back to Ellie.”

  She accelerated again, confident the tank would last ten miles. Less than a gallon, Reacher figured, even with a big old engine like that. Even driving fast. He sat back and watched the horizon reel in. Then he suddenly realized what he should do.

  “Stop the car,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, O.K.?”

  She glanced at him, puzzled, but she pulled over on the ragged shoulder. Left it with two wheels on the blacktop, the engine running, the air blasting.

  “Now wait,” he said.

  They waited in the cold until the truck she had passed came through.

  “Now sit still,” he said.

  He unclipped his seat belt and squinted down and tore the pocket off his shirt. Cheap material, weak stitching, it came away with no trouble at all.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  “What? What are you doing?”

  “Tell me exactly what you’re wearing.”

  She blushed. Fidgeted nervously.

  “This dress,” she said. “And underwear. And shoes.”

  “Show me your shoes.”

  She paused a second, and then leaned down and worked her shoes off. Passed them across to him, one at a time. He checked them carefully. Nothing in them. He passed them back. Then he leaned forward and unbuttoned his shirt. Took it off. Passed it to her.

  “I’m getting out now,” he said. “I’m going to turn my back. Take all your clothes off and put the shirt on. Leave your clothes on the seat and then get out, too.”

  “Why?”

  “You want me to help you, just do it. All of them, O.K.?”

  He got out of the car and walked away. Turned around and stared down the road, back the way they had come. It was very hot. He could feel the sun burning the skin on his shoulders. Then he heard the car door open. He turned back and saw her climbing out, barefoot, wearing his shirt. It was huge on her. She was hopping from foot to foot because the road was burning her feet.

  “You can keep your shoes,” he called.

  She leaned in and picked them up and put them on.

  “Now walk away and wait,” he called.

  She paused again, and then moved ten feet away. He stepped back to the car. Her clothes were neatly folded on her seat. He ignored them. Reached back and searched her pocketbook again, and then the briefcase. Nothing there. He turned back to the clothes and shook them out. They were warm from her body. The dress, a bra, underpants. Nothing hidden in them. He laid them on the roof of the car and searched the rest of it.

  It took him twenty minutes. He covered it completely. Under the hood, the whole of the interior, under the carpets, in the seats, under the seats, in the trunk, under the fenders, everywhere. He found nothing at all, and he was absolutely prepared to bet his life no civilian could conceal anything from him in an automobile.

  “O.K.,” he called. “Get dressed now. Same routine.”

  He waited with his back turned until he heard her behind him. She was holding his shirt. He took it from her and put it back on.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Now I’ll help you,” he said. “Because now I believe you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you really don’t have any money,” he said. “No credit cards, either. Not in your wallet, and not hidden anyplace else. And nobody travels three hundred miles from home, not overnight, with absolutely no money. Not unless they’ve got some real big problems. And a person with real big problems deserves some kind of help.”

  She said nothing. Just ducked her head slightly, like she was accepting a compliment. Or offering one. They climbed back in the car and shut the doors. Sat for a minute in the cool air, and then she maneuvered back onto the road again.

  “So, you’ve got a year,” he said. “That’s plenty of time. A year from now, you could be a million miles away. New start, new life. Is that what you want me for? To help you get away?”

  She said nothing for a couple of minutes. A couple of miles. The road rolled down a slight hill, and then up again. There were buildings in the far distance, on the next crest. Probably the gas station. Maybe
a tow-truck operation next to it.

  “Right now just agree with me,” she said. “A year is enough. So it’s O.K. to have waited.”

  “Sure,” he said. “A year is enough. It’s O.K. to have waited.”

  She said nothing more. Just drove straight ahead for the gas station, like her life depended on it.

  The first establishment was a junkyard. There was a long low shed made out of corrugated tin, with the front wall all covered with old hubcaps. Behind it was an acre of wrecked cars. They were piled five or six deep, with the older models at the bottom, like geological strata. Beyond the low shed was the turn for the gas station. It was old enough to have pumps with pointers instead of figures, and four public rest rooms instead of two. Old enough that a taciturn guy came out into the heat and filled your car for you.

  The Cadillac took more than twenty gallons, which cost Reacher the price of a motel room. He passed the bills through his window and waved away a dollar in change. He figured the guy should have it. The outside temperature reading on the dash showed one hundred and eleven degrees. No wonder the guy didn’t talk. Then he found himself wondering whether it was because the guy didn’t like to see a beaner driving a white man around in a Cadillac.

  “Gracias, señor,” Carmen said. “Thank you.”

  “Pleasure,” he said. “De nada, señorita.”

  “You speak Spanish?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I served all over, so I can say a few words in a lot of languages. But that’s all. Except French. I speak French pretty well. My mother was French.”

  “From Louisiana or Canada?”

  “From Paris, France.”

  “So you’re half-foreign,” she said.

  “Sometimes I feel a lot more than half.”

  She smiled like she didn’t believe him and eased back to the road. The gas needle jumped up to F, which seemed to reassure her. She got the car straight in her lane and accelerated back to a cruise.

  “But you should call me señora,” she said. “Not señorita. I’m a married woman.”