by Dan Ames
“First of all, you’re highly intelligent.” He smiled at her. “Top of your class. Every Ivy League school wanted you. Second, you have an impressive background with some experience dealing with the military. Reacher’s resumé speaks for itself in that regard.”
He looked out the window at the lake. An eagle flew low looking for a fish. It careened back upward. No sign of prey.
“You’re the right gender as well,” he said. “This place is about as male-dominated as you can get. If I only sent a man in there, it would become a bullshit testosterone macho contest. You can infiltrate much more effectively than some swinging dick like Reacher. The fact that you’re beautiful will only help matters. The two of you will make a perfect tag-team.”
To anyone else, it would have sounded sexist, but Pauling understood the man before her. His mind didn’t work that way. He was all about strategy and aggression. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Reacher is already there, doing his thing. As far as your role, I’ve worked out an arrangement with the Bird Conservatory, thanks in part to their regret over what happened to my daughter,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It probably doesn’t hurt either that I made a huge contribution to their fund awhile back.”
Pauling sighed.
Nathan Jones was a force of nature.
He gestured toward the backpack and held up the envelope.
“Here’s everything you’ll need,” he said. “A copy of the bullshit police report. Travel arrangements. Plane tickets. Dossiers on some of the individuals you’ll meet. Phone numbers. Contact lists. Email addresses.”
He put the envelope back into the pack.
“There’s also a satellite phone, preprogrammed with my number and Blake Chandler’s number. Blake is my computer guy.”
Nathan Jones continued. “There’s even a specially programmed laptop which has some uplink capabilities, courtesy of Blake. He’ll be in touch with you if you need anything. There’s also twenty grand in cash. Use it if you need it. And I will pay you for your time, double your normal fee. No matter how long it takes. Does that work for you?”
Pauling really hadn’t planned on taking the case. She was overworked already. But the idea of working with Reacher again was too good to pass up.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Great. Read through everything. We can fly you out there as soon as you’re ready.”
He got to his feet. Spoke softly, his voice trembling.
“Find out who killed my girl.”
Chapter Five
The tiny log cabin located on Acorn Lake was just a few miles from Nathan Jones’s sizeable domain. The cabin had been rented for her, just for the meeting with Nathan Jones.
Now, Pauling pulled the Land Rover into the gravel driveway, parked, got out and unlocked the cabin’s front door. She walked inside and set the backpack Nathan had given her down on the couch.
The cabin consisted of one room that contained an open kitchen, a living area with a wood burning fireplace, a small dining table, and a loft with a bed. The only other room was the bathroom just off of the kitchen. The walls were knotty pine. The giant picture window facing the lake provided all of the cabin’s decoration.
Pauling went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay. She poured herself a glass, dug out the envelope from the backpack and walked out onto the cabin’s front porch. Two weathered Adirondack chairs sat facing the lake. She took the one nearest the door, sat down and set the folder in her lap.
She took a drink of wine and studied Acorn Lake.
It was much smaller than Barrel Lake. The water wasn’t as clear and there were more widespread weed beds. Trees towered along the lake, dropping their acorns into the water, giving the lake its name. They also caused the water to turn darker.
It was hard not to feel compassion for Nathan Jones and a a wave of sadness for his daughter.
She also felt an eagerness and excitement to see Reacher again. Had he changed? What was going on that he needed her help? And did he really need her help or did he just want to see her again?
As she gazed out at the lake, saw the sky turning from blue to dark red at its edges, she thought about the situation.
Pauling looked down at the envelope in her lap, opened it and pulled out the thick sheaf of papers.
The travel documents were first, with airplane tickets and a hotel reservation in Los Angeles. She glanced at the dates. Yes indeed, he wanted her leaving as soon as possible.
Pauling put the travel papers back in the envelope.
Next, she skimmed the contact list and the instructions for using both the sat phone and the laptop.
The dossiers she didn’t even glance at. Those she could read later.
The police report was only two pages long. A clear case of drowning. It appeared as if no other detective work had been attempted.
Finally, she pulled out a leather journal. When she opened it, a photograph fell out. A note was attached that told her it was Paige Jones, a year ago, standing at the top of an old wooden tower that had been built to look out over a sinkhole in the state forest a dozen or so miles from Barrel Lake.
Paige had been a beautiful girl. Dark hair, startling blue eyes, and an enigmatic smile.
She opened the journal and saw another note. It was Paige’s journal.
It wasn’t a diary, but rather notes from the field on habitat and wildlife. There was no date on either inside cover.
Pauling put the journal back in the envelope and studied the mirrored surface of the lake.
The sun was setting, and a tangerine sky was now sporting subtle shades of purple. It would disappear behind the trees in less than a half hour.
Pauling gently nudged backward and the sound of the rocking chair creaking on the wooden porch seemed obscenely loud.
Another eagle, maybe the same one from Barrel Lake, appeared over the treetops and dove toward the surface of the water.
This time, it dove sharply and its claws tore through the water.
When it surged upward, it had a fish in its talons.
It reminded her of Jack Reacher, and a saying her old boss often used.
A true hunter never stops hunting.
Chapter Six
It was early morning, before school, when her Dad gave her a big hug and a kiss. He was going on another one of his business trips. This time, it was to New York. He’d been there before. The last time he’d gone he’d come back with a snow globe that had a miniature Statue of Liberty inside.
Pauling had put it on her little desk in her room.
The next day, she was at school when the teachers began acting strangely.
Classes were stopped. Teachers whispered to one another.
They let the kids out early and Pauling practically skipped home.
But when she saw her Mom she knew something was wrong.
Tears were streaming down her face.
The television was on in the living room.
Pauling’s father had died in the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center.
And later, when she was in college at the top of her class with a stellar command of languages and saw that an FBI agent was coming to campus, she thought of that day.
Not long after, she went to the campus library and read every book she could get her hands on about the FBI. Even though the CIA was primarily leading the charge on terrorism overseas, the FBI took care of domestic issues. For Pauling, the FBI held great appeal.
So she studied everything she could about the FBI. She read the good books and she read the bad books.
Eventually she picked up the phone and made the call.
And after a short two-week vacation upon graduation from college, she joined the FBI.
Chapter Seven
She wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Nathan Jones. He’d probably made a large part of his fortune by being able to read people. And as good as Pauling’s poker face was, when she’d learned that Reacher needed her hel
p, she was already in.
“Blake will pick you up at six a.m. sharp,” Nathan said. “Plenty of time since your flight doesn’t leave until nine-thirty. He’ll return your rental car later.”
Pauling had glanced at the itinerary and knew that from the small airport in northern Wisconsin she would fly to Milwaukee and then from there to Los Angeles.
“I have to be honest with you,” Pauling explained. “I don’t feel there’s a high probability of success on this.”
His response was immediate. “Something like this you don’t play the odds,” he said. “You make them. I have a sense of how you like to work, Pauling, and my guess is it’s a lot like mine.”
Pauling wasn’t so sure of that herself, but she had to admit that Nathan Jones was no doubt a highly driven person. And she’d been labeled with that term from time to time herself.
“Every wall you run into you see as a temporary obstruction,” Nathan continued. “Your first instinct is to go right through it. If that doesn’t work, you find a way around. But then you go back and remove it anyway, just in case you have to come back that way.”
Pauling smiled at the compliment. It made a sort of sense to her and it was a statement she couldn’t disagree with.
“Walls and bridges, sometimes they have to be destroyed,” she said.
“Now you’re really sounding like me,” Nathan said with no small amount of satisfaction. “Good luck and stay in touch. Make your first progress report whenever you feel like you have something you want to share. This is your show, not mine.”
It was her hope to find out everything she could within two weeks at the most. If she hadn’t learned anything by then, Pauling figured spending even more time there wouldn’t accomplish much.
At least, that was her goal. Maybe she could do it in two days and be back.
A lot of it depended on Jack Reacher.
A light rain had begun to make its way across the lake and now it was pattering against the cabin walls. Pauling built a fire in the fireplace, the last one she would probably enjoy for awhile and sat down on the couch.
Suddenly, she had an intense desire to talk to someone. Anyone. Pauling looked at her phone. There were a few people she could call, including her sister, but she decided against it.
Instead, Pauling dug out Paige’s journal from the backpack and opened it.
She read through the first few pages which consisted of notes regarding ground cover and a bunch of long, complicated names in Latin. Maybe once she was on the island she could talk to someone who would be able to interpret for her.
On the fourth page, there was a beautiful drawing of a bird. It was perched on a thorny branch. Next to it, there was the body of a mouse.
The mouse had been impaled on one of the tree’s thorns.
Beneath the drawing, Paige had written three words.
The Butcher Bird.
Chapter Eight
In the morning, Blake arrived and Pauling threw her things into the SUV. She climbed into the passenger seat.
“I grabbed you a coffee,” he said. “Black, right?”
“Thanks, yes,” she said. “Where did you get it? Isn’t the nearest Starbucks about a hundred miles away?”
“I picked it up at the mini-mart at the edge of town. It’s not great, but not bad, either. I was going to get you some jerky too and maybe a baseball cap with a drawing of a hunter standing over a deer with the caption the buck stops here.”
Pauling blew on the coffee and took a sip. Not bad. Nice and strong the way she liked it.
Blake pulled out onto the dirt road, eventually making it to the rural highway where he was able to notch the speed up significantly.
“By the way, I meant to compliment you on your poker face,” Pauling said. “We fished together all day and you never once mentioned Nathan’s plan.”
A sheepish expression came across Blake’s face. “Honestly, I didn’t know his plan and he didn’t really tell me. It was more of a technical request. But once he started asking me to do specific things with documents, phone numbers, addresses and email addresses I started to guess it was going to involve you.”
“I’m just giving you shit, Blake.” She felt bad making him explain himself.
“Oh,” he said, looking relieved. “You know Nathan. No one wants to get on his bad side.”
There was an awkward silence between them.
“You’re not asking where I’m going and what I’m doing because you don’t want to know, right?” she guessed.
Blake drummed his thin, pale fingers on the steering wheel. Pauling guessed he’d been spending a lot more time in his office on the computers than in the boat fishing.
“It wouldn’t take a genius to guess it has something to do with Paige. But exactly what you’re doing and how you’re going to get involved in it, well–“
“Do you want to know?”
“You tell me,” he answered. “I don’t want to know if I’m not supposed to know.”
“Okay,” Pauling said. “To put an end to this goofy conversation, I’m going to say it’s on a need-to-know basis and right now, you don’t need to know exactly what I’m doing. But I believe you’re going to be a resource for me. Did Nathan at least explain that?”
“Yeah, he kind of mentioned it. Again, in a general sense.”
“Okay, we’re in agreement then,” Pauling said. “Although depending on what I find, the level of your involvement could change quickly. How’s that?”
“Fine with me,” Blake said. “I’ve been in the dark most of my life. I like it there.”
Pauling laughed. She loved Blake and how self-deprecating he always was. It was refreshing from the host of alpha males she had always been forced to deal with.
They talked a lot about former high school friends and what they were doing as the rain abated and a few tentative shafts of sunlight appeared in the horizon. The landscape changed from thick trees to gently rolling hills and eventually they found the airport.
It was a single building with a few parked cars in front. Behind the building, they could see the runway and an airplane that appeared to be idling.
“I think that’s Nathan’s private plane,” Blake said.
Pauling got out of the Explorer and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder. Blake retrieved the one rolling suitcase she was bringing.
That was it.
“Be careful,” Blake said.
“I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”
Blake hugged her.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Chapter Nine
The flight was going to be so short Pauling didn’t bother breaking open her backpack to do any more investigating. Nathan’s private plane was going to take her to Milwaukee, and from there, she would catch a commercial flight to Los Angeles.
So she simply enjoyed the scenery on the small plane, felt some of the despondency that had begun to sink in now fall away as the aircraft lifted off.
Beneath her, Wisconsin’s green rolling hills flattened out into traditional quadrants of farm fields. Occasionally, a stand of trees had been planted to serve as windbreaks.
It seemed they had barely leveled off before the pilot announced they were beginning their descent.
The plane touched down and she was escorted across the tarmac and back into a terminal where a commercial flight was boarding for Los Angeles.
She took a quick detour to get a bottle of water and a bag of nut mix.
Pauling preferred to stand while waiting for the plane to board and soon she was in the first-class line and then promptly showed her seat.
No one sat next to her and the fight attendant asked her if she wanted a drink. She was about to say no, then changed her mind and asked for a Bloody Mary. Why not?
Eventually, the boarding doors closed with first class still half-empty, even after the few upgrades had taken place. The seat next to Pauling was still empty and she moved her backpack from the foot space in front of h
er and plopped it into the seat next to her.
Pauling sipped her Bloody Mary, which tasted surprisingly good and closed her eyes. She thought about trying to sleep but she was too well-rested.
Pauling opened the backpack, pushed aside Paige’s journal and instead took out the file with background information on San Clemente Island. Whatever researcher Nathan had hired to provide background for her had done a very good job. The information was presented in a very neat and orderly fashion.
San Clemente Island sat sixty-eight miles off the coast of California and was part of the Channel Islands. It was twenty-one miles long and nearly five miles wide.
Native American remains dated to at least ten thousand years ago, and the island had been named by a Spanish explorer who’d discovered it on Saint Clement’s Feast Day, hence San Clemente.
The United States military acquired the island in the 1930s, mainly as a ship-to-shore firing range. Training continued on the island to this day.
Tell me about the birds, Pauling thought as she skimmed through more of the island’s vital statistics.
Finally, she got to the part she’d been looking for.
In the midst of the biggest live firing range the military owned, an endangered bird lived. The Shrike of San Clemente. At one point, it had become one of the rarest birds in the world with only fourteen living individuals left.
When it was put on the endangered species list, the Bird Conservatory among others rushed in and began efforts to protect it. The military was immediately forced to cease some of its more “disruptive” activities and now worked in tandem with the naturalists to protect the bird.
Probably after some bad public relations, Pauling figured.
She read the last page and slipped the papers back into their folder and the folder went into the backpack.
She closed her eyes.
Imagine that. A rare bird in the middle of a live firing range on an island populated by what sounded like plenty of Special Operations soldiers.