Gone Forever_A Get Jack Reacher Novel

by Scott Blade

  “Did ya say somedin’?” Hank asked.

  I turned and broke free from my thoughts of the stranger who was my father.

  “Thinking out loud.”

  “I do dat all da time. Well actually I talk ta ole Link here, but he don’t say much back.”

  Hank let out a chuckle and Link looked up after hearing his name.

  “Good boy, Link,” Hank said.

  The dog wagged his tail.

  I gazed out across the Mississippi horizon through the front windshield. The land was mostly flat and filled with tall pine trees with green, leafy tops. I calculated that we were getting close to the off-ramp for Black Rock, which was Hank’s final destination. Mine continued on farther down the road, a long road.

  I stared out above the trees; portentous, dark clouds filled the sky, foreshadowing bad events ahead.

  Great. I was about to lose my ride and be stranded in the rain. It looked like those clouds would turn into a thunderstorm in about 30 minutes.

  It was the month of May and Mississippi was a rainy place in late spring.

  The old guy stared out at the horizon. He squinted his eyes, making a detailed expression on his face and then he said, “Whew wee. Looks like a storm rolling in.”

  I stayed quiet.

  Then he said, “Son, ya should ride wid me ta Jarvis. I’m stayin’ in a nice cabin on da lake while I wait fer Mr. Caman ta arrive.”

  “Caman?” I asked.

  He said, “Da rich fella wid da seaplane. His name is Caman. He won’t be arrivin’ till tomorrow or da day after dat. I’m headed dere early so I can get in some fishin’. I wanted time ta use his cabin. I’ve never stayed dere before, but he said it would be okay. It’s supposed ta be two stories wid four empty bedrooms, so I have plenty of room. You could stop in wid me and stay until da storm passes.

  “I can’t imagine dat he’d object ta dat. He’s a foreign fella, but sounded real nice on da phone.”

  I thought for a moment.

  Then he said, “Link and I’d be happy ta have some company. Dese storms usually only last a night. In da morning dere will be some good fishin’. You could help me reel some in. I got an extra rod.”

  I looked back out at the clouds. A silvery lightning bolt flashed across the underbelly of one of the bigger ones and the thunder crackled a split second later. It echoed with plenty of sound and fury through the sky like a ripple through the water.

  I looked back at Hank and said, “Sounds great.”

  Hank smiled.

  We saw the off-ramp to Black Rock and took it. We drove about two miles through a heavily wooded area. Magnolias grew on both sides of a dusty, old road. Not a rocky road—the drive was smooth enough—but I could tell that it hadn’t been blacktopped in over a decade. The road ended in a fork less than a mile from the southeast corner of the lake, where the lake branched off from the main body and snaked inland for a half mile.

  To the right-hand side and up on a hill there was a sign that read:

  This way to Jarvis Lake Houses

  To the left-hand side of the fork a sign read:

  Black Rock/Jarvis Dam

  Up on the right-hand side past the signs there was what looked like a small compound, like one of those that you see on the news whenever the ATF or the FBI or the DEA is about to raid the premises. It was a series of scruffy mobile homes and crumbling buildings bunched together like a wagon train, with no fence and no signs of life.

  The mobile homes were perched way back away from the street. Past them there was a new-looking white brick house with hunter green shutters built off farther east, toward the trees. It looked like the headquarters for the whole thing. In the back and sloped way down about 40 yards from the house was a large, freshly painted white barn. It was definitely brand new, like a new addition to the compound, with a long, dirt track running up to it from the road. The barn had shiny new motion sensor lights installed high up on the corners that glimmered and reflected sunspots like flashes from a distant handheld camera or a sniper scope.

  The most striking part of the compound was an enormous Confederate flag flying high above the trees, right in an open field, near the track. It was attached to a gigantic steel flagpole. It looked as if the people living here had spent their life savings on it and no money on their mobile homes.

  The flagpole stood massive, even over the magnolias, pine trees, and heavy oaks. The steel was polished to a shine that glimmered with or without sunlight. In a way it was the most majestic flagpole that I had ever seen, including the one at the army base near my hometown back when it was open.

  “Da lake is dammed up on da west side. We’ll be drivin’ across it if we go into town, but we’re headed dis way ta da cabin,” he said, and pointed to the right-hand side.

  I nodded.

  He turned the steering wheel and headed up the hill on a road that was paved, but worse than the track that we drove in on, really falling apart. It had been pushed up and cracked all over the edges by the roots of a patch of big oak trees growing side by side.

  I saw where locals had cut down the limbs of the trees so that they didn’t grow into each other. Only the limbs that faced outward away from the road grew into long, majestic tentacles that reached toward the sky.

  The old gears of the fuel truck whined and clanked as Hank switched them around in order to climb the hill. A small part of the hill shot up steeply like the on-ramp that Hank had picked me up on, but once we climbed over it, the land was basically flat again.

  We drove down a winding lane that hugged the corners and curves of the lake for about five miles and then I saw the water from the road. A razor-thin beach made up of sand and rocks knotted the shoreline. The water reflected the stormy dusk sky. Another lightning bolt crackled overhead, lit up the lake, and was reflected on the water. For that one second and a quarter, the entire lake was bright white until it died back to the dull reflection of the dusky clouds.

  “We’d better hurry up and unload everything as soon as we get there,” I said.

  Hank nodded.

  We arrived at the lake house. It was hidden from the road by a patch of thick trees. Tangled behind the trees in the shrubbery and vines there was a black, iron bar fence, cutting off access to the backyard. But behind the trees there was a walkway next to a small clearing of green grass. Then I laid my eyes upon what Hank had called a cabin, but the truth was is that it was more like a huge lake house. I’m not sure of the distinction, but I imagined a cabin as this tiny place with one bedroom and a fireplace and made of lumber while the house was huge and mostly constructed of brick. Hank had said it was larger, but he should have said that it was massive. It must have been four thousand square feet.

  The building was brick on the front and the rest of the house was made of wood, probably real and probably oak. It looked sturdy like it could withstand hurricane conditions, but I doubted that full-blown hurricane force winds blew this far north, not category five winds. I’ve lived in Mississippi all my life and I can’t recall one making it this far north; the rain had, but not the strong winds. By the time a hurricane blows this far inland, it’s reduced to a tropical storm by the distance and amount of water that it releases over the land between here and the Gulf.

  The old guy pulled the truck up to the side of the house on a small gravel driveway. He threw the gear into neutral and stomped on the emergency brake, locking the vehicle in place. Then he killed the engine.

  He said, “Do ya mind unlockin’ da house fer me? I need ta bring in my gear.”

  I said, “I can carry your stuff in for you.”

  He nodded gratefully and we exited the vehicle.

  Hank held his door open a little longer than I did in order to allow Link to crawl out. The dog’s black-and-white fur blew in the wind as he walked behind his master.

  The storm approached our position fast. The air smelled like wet, stale rain, and a sea smell hung in the breeze as if we were out on the open water.

  I looked
up over the horizon of the lake and saw that the clouds had closed in. I could see a blanket of rain on the other side of the dark lake. It had already started raining on that side, over the town of Black Rock.

  I went to the driver’s side of the fuel truck and opened the door. I pulled Hank’s seat forward and grabbed all the gear that was behind it. I grabbed a suitcase in one hand and the fishing rods and tackle box in the other. Then I closed the door and walked up the gravel driveway to the side door that Hank had left open for me. I entered. The door led into a massive kitchen area with a big island countertop in the middle of the room. There was expensive cabinetry with black chrome handles on everything. There was a gas stovetop. There was a refrigerator built into the wall. The doors were constructed with a new wooden finish and they matched the walls, virtually blending in—a spectacular house.

  Hank said, “Just put dat fishing gear down by da door. I’ll use it tamorrow.”

  I nodded and set them down. Hank came over to me and took his suitcase. It was one of those wheeled suitcases with a handle that popped out of the top, good for airports. He set it down, the little wheels touching the floor like landing gear for a jet. Then he pulled the handle up, extended it to its full length, and walked off with it. The wheels rolled across the tile, clicking as they hit the grout.

  “I’m goin’ ta bed. I’m gettin' up early in da morning so I can get some good fishin’ in. Hopefully da rain will have let up by then. Please join me out on da dock behind da cabin. Dat’s if ya want ta fish,” Hank said in a cheery voice like he was talking to his grandson, which I could have been. He was old enough. I could even have been his great grandson.

  I said, “See you in the morning.”

  Hank said, “Ya can sleep in any of da rooms upstairs dat ya want. I’m going ta sleep downstairs. Back bedroom. Da stairs aren’t good on my knees.”

  Then he yawned a loud old-guy yawn, his open mouth exposing his missing teeth. He turned and left me alone in the kitchen.

  Link barked at me like he was saying goodnight and scurried behind his master. They disappeared down the darkness of a long hallway and into the bowels of the house.

  I took out my mother’s phone and switched it on. The screen lit up with the wallpaper of the two of us smiling. I was probably about 12 years old in that picture

  I opened the phone and scrolled through some of the notes on Jack Reacher that she had left for me. Then I switched back to the picture of him from West Point. I gazed at it for a moment. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what he would look like now: a little grayer, the same height, probably the same weight, maybe a little heavier, and definitely a lot older, like fifty or so.

  In the picture, he had fair hair, cut short. He might have a beard now since he wasn’t in the army anymore. Then again, he might not. He had left the army just before I was born, 18 years ago. They say that you can leave the army, but the army never leaves you. I was fairly certain that the same had rung true about this man.

  Jack Reacher was a hard man to find. He had no cell phone, no Facebook, no LinkedIn, no social media, no email, no mailing address; he had nothing. Most people wouldn’t understand that, but I did. I understood it perfectly. It must be the Reacher blood, but I knew exactly the feeling of being trapped and wanting nothing more than to leave. My whole life I had had the burning desire to get up and go. Forward momentum was the best way to describe this urge. I never felt right unless I was going forward, but my life had been stationary. I grew up and lived my whole life in the back of nowhere in Mississippi and I had never known what else was out there in the world, but I had always wanted to.

  Yesterday, my mother died. I loved her, but now she was gone and there was no reason to stay stationary any longer; nothing kept me from leaving.

  I knew so many kids who grew up in Mississippi with me and they all wanted to leave, but they stayed. I imagined that their parents before them had the same desires growing up here. They grew up trapped, isolated, and wanting more out of life, but then they hit adulthood. Before they knew it they were having their own kids and starting their own families and then they were stuck in Mississippi just like their parents. Not everyone was like that. I knew plenty of people who loved living here, but that’s my perspective. Why stay in a place that has limited resources, limited economy, and limited experiences when you can simply go somewhere else?

  I was a Reacher. It was in my blood to roam. Somewhere out there was my father, a man who knew nothing about me. I wanted to find him.

  I opened my eyes and stared at his picture a little longer. Then I switched off the phone to conserve the battery. I hadn’t thought to bring a charger, so I would have to buy one eventually.

  I walked up the stairs to the second floor of the lake house and entered the first bedroom. I collapsed on top of the bed. I didn’t turn it down or anything because I was beat from a long day. I didn’t even take off my shoes. I just slept on top of the covers.

  Warm sunbeams fell across my face through the window. I opened my eyes sharply and was wide awake. I sat up in bed. I reached over to the nightstand, picked up my cell phone, and switched it on. The battery was still charged. The phone powered on and my mother’s face smiled back at me from the wallpaper. I looked at the time: 6:35 a.m. I left the phone on and slipped it into my pocket. I figured that it was practical to leave it on; no reason to turn it off anymore because I wasn’t answering it anyway. I kept it on silent and left it that way.

  I got up, straightened out the bed from where I had ruffled the comforter by sleeping on it, and then left the room as I had found it.

  I didn’t have to get dressed because I was still in the same clothes that I had worn yesterday. I hadn’t even thought about what I would wear today. I couldn’t just throw these clothes in a washer. If I did that, what would I wear while I waited for them to wash and dry?

  No way could I borrow something from Hank. Forget the fact that his personal style didn’t quite suit me. Just his measurements were a total deterrent from even asking because the guy was maybe 5’6” tall and weighed about 150 pounds soaking wet. He wasn’t going to have clothes that would even fit me. I doubted that he even had a beach towel that was big enough to fit around me. No way. I’d have to wear a bed sheet. That left no choice but to acquire some new clothes. I couldn’t keep walking around in the same dirty clothes all day. Maybe I could get away with it for one more day, but it was the middle of May and I had been walking out in the sun all day yesterday, and I planned on doing more today. I would need fresh, new clothes for that because no driver would stop for me in dirty, smelly clothes. Even if a driver did stop, he would take one whiff of me and hit the gas.

  I wondered if the owner of this house had any clothes stuffed in the closets that I could borrow while mine washed and dried. I walked to the closet, opened it, and peered in. The closet was empty except for some fresh linen for the bed and a couple empty, steel rod hangers that clanked together gently from the rush of air that followed after I opened the door.

  I could’ve checked the other bedrooms. Maybe a previous occupant had left his clothes in one of the closets and they were a size comparable to my own. Instead I shrugged and gave up that idea because I realized I didn’t know what I was going to do even if I found clothes in my size. I couldn’t just take a stranger’s clothes. Even if I was only borrowing them, I could still understand how someone might view that as stealing.

  So I gave up.

  I walked downstairs and found that Hank and Link were gone. The fishing gear was gone as well. They must have gone out on the dock.

  I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was stocked with bottled waters, sodas, and condiments, but there was no food. I wasn’t going to take anyone’s food anyway, but I didn’t think that anyone would mind if I grabbed a bottle of water. There was plenty of it—two cases.

  I picked up a bottle, opened it, and gulped it down in about 60 seconds. I stopped for breath just once. I was parched. Afterward, I looked for the t
rashcan and found it near the corner closest to the sink, hidden in a cupboard that pulled out. I pulled on the handle and the whole thing came rolling out on a cheap-looking white plastic track.

  I crushed the bottle and trashed it. Then I stopped and eyeballed the side door that I had entered through the night before. It was on the far wall just in front of an entrance into another room. I looked at another door at the rear of the house. This one must lead to the backyard. I walked over to it, exited the house, and closed the door behind me.

  Outside, the air was nice. A cool breeze blew off the lake. I stretched my arms out to full length in the morning sunlight. Then I walked farther into the yard and gazed out over the horizon. Closer to my line of sight there was a single tree growing tall near the edge of the property line. There was a long shadow trailing from the roots off in a westward direction. There was a stoned-in grill at the edge of the house on a long cement slab, with steps going down a short hill to the grass. The sky was clear and deep blue and sunny with no storm clouds, or clouds of any kind for that matter. The high trees created a green barrier around the lake like an old fortress wall, thick and reinforced in some places and eroding in others. Rows of low buildings outlined the northwest corner of the lake like a painting of an American landscape.

  That was the small town of Black Rock.

  A good-sized dock, big enough to anchor a seaplane and as new as the house, protruded out over the lake. Hank sat on the tip, loosely holding a fishing rod that extended up and out over his head. The fishing line disappeared far off into the water. He sat, hunched over, on an old cream-colored bucket. The lid appeared to be tightly sealed underneath his small frame. His elbows were planted near the tops of his knees. The end of the fishing rod’s long handle was firmly planted into a large gap between the boards on the dock below him.

  His dog rested behind him. It was curled up like it had been in his truck. I liked dogs. I always had. Dogs were an important part of small-town life.