Blue Moon

by Lee Child

  “Here?” Abby asked.

  Reacher looked all around. Desolation everywhere. No owners, no occupants, no residents. No innocent doors to get busted down, if the car was spotted nearby. No risk of collateral damage.

  “Works for me,” he said.

  She parked and they got out and she locked up and they walked away. They went back more or less the same way they had come, cutting the corners off some of the widest zigs and zags of their earlier random route, but always keeping track of it. Their surroundings grew cleaner and better maintained. They came to the blocks dedicated to the construction trade. First up in the reverse direction came the lumber yard. There was a guy standing in the scoop between the sidewalk and the gate. Somewhat sentry-like. Maybe there to check loads in and out. Presumably lumber got scammed and stolen like anything else.

  They passed the guy by and walked on, to the plumbing warehouse, the electrical warehouse, and onward, through a tangle of streets. They heard the bass and drums a hundred yards away.

  * * *

  —

  The reports came in fast, but not fast enough. One after the other the members of the inner council got hurried calls on their cell phones. An old white Toyota Corolla with a half-off front fender had been seen driving one block, then another, then another. No rhyme or reason in terms of direction. No obvious destination. Generally it seemed to be headed toward the tumbledown neighborhoods where not even homeless people lived.

  Then came the paydirt call. A reliable guy a hundred yards away saw the car slow, stop, and park. Two people got out. The driver was a small woman with short dark hair. In her twenties or thirties, and dressed all in black. Her passenger was a huge guy, about twice her size. He was older, easily six-five and two-fifty, built like a brick outhouse, and dressed like a refugee. They locked the car and walked away together, and were lost to sight very quickly, after the first corner they turned.

  All that information was shared immediately, by calls and voicemails and texts. Fast, but not fast enough. The message got to the guy at the lumber yard gate about ninety seconds after a small dark-haired woman and a huge ugly guy had walked right past. Close enough to touch. More minutes were spent getting cars together, and then they streamed away in the direction the couple had been walking.

  No result. The small woman and the big man were long gone. They had disappeared somewhere in a crowded residential neighborhood, maybe ten blocks by ten of shabby row houses packed tightly together. Maybe four hundred separate addresses. Plus basements and sublets. Full of deadbeats and weirdoes, who either came and went at all hours, or never went out at all. Hopeless.

  The top boys put a new word out. All eyes open. A small dark-haired woman, younger, and a big ugly guy, older. Report back immediately.

  Chapter 23

  Neither Barton nor Hogan had a gig that night, so they closed down their jam when Reacher and Abby got back, and proposed a chill evening in, maybe with Chinese delivery, maybe a bottle of wine, maybe a little weed, some conversation, some stories, some catch-up. Maybe put some records on. All good, until Abby’s cell phone rang.

  It was Maria Shevick, calling from Aaron Shevick’s phone. She and Abby had exchanged numbers. Just in case. And this felt like a just-in-case situation. Maria said a black Lincoln Town Car was parked outside her house. Two guys in it, watching. They had been there all afternoon. They looked like they were set to stay.

  Abby passed her phone to Reacher.

  He said, “They’re looking for me. Because I mentioned Trulenko. They got worried. Just ignore them.”

  Maria asked, “Suppose they knock on the door?”

  Seventy, stooped, and starving.

  He said, “Let them search the house. Show them whatever they want to look at. They’ll see I’m not there, and they’ll go back to their car, and after that all they’ll need to do is watch the sidewalk. Should be relatively painless.”

  “Very well.”

  “Any news on Meg?”

  “Good and bad,” Maria said.

  “Start with the good,” Reacher said.

  “I think for the first time the doctors truly believe she’s improving. I can hear it in their voices. Not what they say, but the way they say it. Their words are always circumspect. But now they’re excited. They think they’re winning. I can tell.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “They’ll want to confirm it with tests and scans. Which we’ll have to pay for first.”

  “How much?”

  “We don’t know yet. A lot, I’m sure. They have amazing machines now. There have been dramatic advances in soft tissue analysis. It’s all very expensive.”

  “When will they need it?”

  “Obviously half of me wants it to be as soon as possible. And obviously the other half doesn’t.”

  “You should do what is right medically. We’ll figure out the rest as we go along.”

  “We can’t borrow it,” Maria said. “You would have to do it for us, because they think you’re Aaron Shevick. But now, for you, that would be a trap. Because you asked about Trulenko.”

  “Aaron could borrow it under my name. Or any name. They’re new at this game. They have no system for checking. Not yet, anyway. It’s an option. If you need it fast.”

  “You said you could find Trulenko. You said it used to be part of your job.”

  “The question is when,” Reacher said. “I figured I had six chances before the week is over. Now maybe not so many. I need to work on a faster plan.”

  “I apologize for my tone.”

  “No need,” Reacher said.

  “This is all very stressful.”

  “I can only imagine,” Reacher said.

  They hung up and Reacher passed the phone back to Abby.

  Barton said, “This is crazy, man. I’m going to keep on saying it, because it’s going to keep on being true. I know those people. I play their clubs. I’ve seen what they do. One time, there was a piano player they didn’t like. They smashed his fingers with a hammer. The guy never played again. You can’t take them on.”

  Reacher looked at Hogan and asked, “Do you play their clubs?”

  “I’m a drummer,” Hogan said. “I play anywhere they pay me.”

  “Have you seen what they do?”

  “I agree with Frank. These are not pleasant people.”

  “What would the Marine Corps do about them?”

  “Nothing. The pointy-heads would hand them off to the SEALs. Much more glamorous. The Corps wouldn’t get a sniff.”

  “What would the SEALs do?”

  “A lot of planning first. With maps and blueprints. If we’re assuming a hardened bunker of some kind, they would look for emergency exits, or delivery bays, or incursions by ventilation shafts or water pipes or sewers, and places where they could gain access by demolition of walls between adjacent structures. Then they would plan simultaneous assaults from everywhere they could, at least three or four places, with three- or four-man teams in each location. Which would probably get the job done, except it might be hard to keep any single person of interest alive. There would be a lot of crossfire. It would depend on dimensions and visibility.”

  Reacher asked, “What were you, in the Corps?”

  “Infantry,” Hogan said. “Just a plain old jarhead.”

  “Not a bandsman?”

  “That would have been too logical for the Corps.”

  “Were you always a drummer?”

  “I was as a kid. Then I stopped. Then I took it up again in Iraq. Every big base had a kit lying around somewhere. I was advised I would enjoy creating patterns I alone controlled. I was advised I would find it helpful, since I could already play a bit anyway. Also I was advised it would get rid of aggression.”

  “Who advised you?”

  “Some old sawbones. I laug
hed it off at first. But then I found I was really enjoying it again. I realized I should have been doing it all my life. I’ve been playing catch-up ever since. Trying to learn. I missed a few years.”

  “You sounded pretty good to me.”

  “Now you’re blowing smoke. And trying to change the subject. You’re one guy. You’re not a SEAL team.”

  “I’ll figure it out. By definition there must be a dozen better plans than what the navy would come up with. All I need to do is find the guy.”

  “There can’t be many suitable locations,” Abby said again.

  Reacher nodded and went quiet. The conversation bounced around him. The other three seemed to be good friends. They had worked together now and then, in the fluid world of clubs, and music, and dance, and men in suits on the door. They all had stories, some of them funny, and some of them not. They seemed to draw no distinction between the Ukrainians and the Albanians. They seemed to think that working east and west of Center was equally good and bad.

  A kid in a car brought Chinese food. Reacher shared hot and sour soup with Abby and sweet and sour chicken with Barton. They drank wine. He drank coffee. When he finished, he said, “I’m going for a walk.”

  Abby said, “Alone?”

  “Nothing personal.”

  “Where?”

  “West of Center. I need to hurry this up. The Shevicks are about to get hit by another big bill. They can’t wait.”

  “Crazy, man,” Barton said.

  Hogan didn’t speak.

  Reacher got up and stepped out the front door.

  Chapter 24

  Reacher walked west, toward the nighttime glow of the tall downtown buildings. The banks and the insurance companies and the local TV. And the chain hotels. All clustered astride Center Street, all penetrated by one faction or the other, all probably unaware of the fact, at management level, unless the manager was also the mole. Along the way he passed bars and clubs and storefront restaurants. Here and there he saw men in suits on the door. He ignored them. Wrong faction. He was still east of Center. He walked on.

  If he had eyes in the back of his head, he would have seen one of the men in suits think hard for a second, and then send a text.

  He walked on. He crossed Center Street three blocks north of the first tall building, into a neighborhood no different, with bars and clubs and storefront restaurants, some of them with men in suits on the door, just the same, except the suits were different, and the ties were silk, and the faces were paler. This time he watched them all carefully, from the shadows when he could, looking for the kind of guy he wanted. Which was alert, but not too alert, and tough, but not too tough. There were several candidates. In particular three looked good. Two were in wine bars, and one was in some kind of a lounge. Maybe a comedy club.

  Reacher chose the one sitting nearest the street door. A tactical advantage. It was the lounge. The guy was right inside the glass. Reacher walked toward him, three-quarters in his field of vision. The guy noticed the movement. Turned his head. Reacher stopped walking. The guy stared. Reacher moved on again. Straight toward him. The guy remembered. Texts, descriptions, photographs, names. Aaron Shevick. Be on the lookout.

  Reacher stopped again.

  The guy pulled out his phone, and jabbed at it.

  Reacher pulled out his gun, and aimed it. One of the two H&K P7s taken from the guys in the Lincoln. Before it burned up. German police issue. Beautifully engineered. Steely and hard edged. The guy froze. Reacher was three steps away. Just enough time. Tempting. The guy dropped his phone and put his hand up under his armpit to get his own gun.

  Not enough time.

  The guy was right inside the door. Right inside the glass. Reacher got to him before his gun was halfway out, and he pressed the H&K’s muzzle against his right eye, hard enough not to get shaken loose, hard enough to get the guy’s attention, which it did right away, because the guy went immediately quiet and still. With his left hand Reacher picked up his phone, and then took his gun, which was another H&K P7, just like the two he had already. Maybe standard issue west of Center. Maybe a bulk order, at a good price, from some bent German copper.

  With his left hand he put the phone and the gun in his pockets. With his right hand he pressed his own H&K harder on the guy’s eyeball.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said.

  The guy got up off his stool, awkward, all bent backward against the pressure, and he shuffled around and backed out the door, to the sidewalk, where Reacher turned him right, and pushed him six more backward paces, and turned him right again, backward into an alley that smelled like a garbage receptacle and a kitchen door.

  Reacher backed the guy against the wall.

  He said, “How many people saw?”

  The guy said, “Saw what?”

  “You with a gun to your head.”

  “A few, I guess.”

  “How many came to help you out?”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, none of them,” Reacher said. “No one likes you. No one would piss on you if you were on fire. So it’s just you and me now. No one is going to ride to the rescue. Are we clear on that?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where is Max Trulenko?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Someone must.”

  “Not me,” the guy said. “I promise. I swear on my sister’s life.”

  “Where is your sister right now?”

  “Kiev.”

  “Which makes your promise kind of theoretical. Don’t you think? Try again.”

  “On my life,” the guy said.

  “Which is not so theoretical,” Reacher said. He pressed harder with the H&K. Through the steel he felt the guy’s eyeball squash. He felt the jelly.

  The guy gasped and said, “I swear I don’t know where Trulenko is.”

  “But you heard of him.”

  “Of course.”

  “Does he work for Gregory now?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Where?”

  “No one knows,” the guy said. “It’s a big secret.”

  “You sure?”

  “On my mother’s grave.”

  “Which is where?”

  “You got to believe me. Maybe six people know where Trulenko is. I ain’t one of them. Please, sir. I’m just a doorman.”

  Reacher took the gun away. He stepped back. The guy blinked and rubbed his eye and stared through the gloom. Reacher kicked him hard in the nuts, and left him there, doubled over, making all kinds of retching and puking sounds.

  * * *

  —

  Reacher got back to Center Street with no trouble anywhere. His problems started immediately after that. When he was east of Center, which he didn’t understand at all. Wrong faction, surely. But right away he felt eyes on him. He felt people watching him. No benevolence in their gaze. He knew that absolutely. He got a chill on his neck. Some kind of an ancient instinct. A sixth sense. A survival mechanism, baked deep in the back of his brain by evolution. How not to get eaten. Millions of years of practice. His hundred-thousand-times-great-great-grandmother, stiffening, changing course, looking for the trees and the shadows. Living to fight another day. Living to have a kid, who a hundred thousand generations later had a descendant also looking for the shadows, not on the verdant savannah but on the gray nighttime streets, as he slid by lit-up clubs and bars and storefront restaurants.

  It was the men in suits who were watching him. Organized guys. Made men, and the soon-to-be. Why? He didn’t know. Had he upset the Albanians too? He didn’t see how. Mostly he had done them a favor, surely, according to their own crude calculus. They should be giving him a parade.

  He moved on.

  He heard a footstep far behind him.

  He kept on walking. The glow of Cente
r Street was long gone, both literally and figuratively. The streets ahead were narrow and dark, and got shabbier with every step. There were parked cars and alleys and deep doorways. Two out of three street lights were busted. There were no pedestrians.

  His kind of place.

  He stopped walking.

  More than one way not to get eaten. Grandma’s instinct worked for today. A hundred thousand generations later her descendant’s instinct worked for tomorrow, too. And forever. More efficient. Natural selection, right there. He stood in the half gloom for a minute, and then backed away into deep shadow, and listened.

  He heard the diamond scrape of a leather sole on the sidewalk. Maybe forty feet back. Some kind of hastily arranged surveillance. Some guy, suddenly ordered off his stool and out into the night. To follow. But for how long? That was the critical question. All the way home, or only as far as a hastily arranged up-ahead ambush?

  Reacher waited. He heard the leather sole again. Or its opposite number, on the other foot, taking a cautious step, moving forward. He pressed deeper into the shadows. Into a doorway. He leaned up against ribs of carved stone. A fancy entrance. Some long-forgotten enterprise. No doubt rewarding while it lasted.

  He heard the scrape of the shoe again. Now maybe twenty feet back. Making progress. He heard nothing from the other direction. Just city quiet, and old air, and the faint smell of soot and bricks.

  He heard the shoe again. Now ten feet back. Still making progress. He waited. The guy was already within range. But another couple of steps would make the whole thing more comfortable. He sketched out the geometry in his head. He put his hand in his pocket and found the H&K he had used before. Because he knew for sure it worked. Always an advantage.

  Another step. The guy was maybe seven feet away. Not small. The sound of his shoe was a faint, heavy, grinding, spreading crunch. The sound of a big guy, creeping slow.