Gone Forever_A Get Jack Reacher Novel

by Scott Blade

  The three brothers or cousins or whatever they were stared at me. The one behind the victim let his jaw drop.

  Black, long strands of hair fell across my face. They probably could only see my eyes and no other facial features, just the darkness around my face.

  I spoke first.

  I said, “Guys. I’m trying to sleep next door. You aren’t being very neighborly.”

  The one called Junior spoke with a stutter in his voice. Maybe from fear.

  He said, “You should mind ya business. So…ju…just go back into ya own ro...ro...room and we just forget we saw ya.”

  The three guys paused liked they were waiting for me to reply.

  I didn’t.

  The one called Daryl said, “Now you listen, fella. We don’t have a beef with you. You just go on back to your room and we’ll forget, like Junior here says.”

  I sized the three of them up in less than a second. Then I spent five more seconds looking them up and down, making it obvious that I was doing it.

  I said, “Fellas, it looks to me like you’re not wanted in this man’s room.”

  I turned my head and looked at the door frame, briefly. It was splintered. One of them had kicked it in. Then I stared back at them in a slow kind of stare with violent thoughts shining out of my eyes.

  I said, “You broke into this man’s room. Attacked him. You are trying to kidnap him. And all of that would have gone fine, but you made one fatal mistake, a colossal mistake.”

  Finally, Jeb spoke in a sarcastic, idiotic tone. He asked, “Yeah? What?”

  I said, “You woke me. I don’t like to be woken up. Not by three inbred idiots like you.”

  “What ya gonna dew ‘bout it?” Junior asked.

  He started to step away from the others, lowering his bat. He was making room for a swing. Their second mistake.

  The room was small. I stood in the doorway. Not even all the way in. Just in the doorway. From Junior’s position he would have to reach over with his left hand, grab the handle of the bat to reinforce the swing, and then pivot with one foot and step forward with his left. Next he’d have to swing the bat with full force and swing it high.

  If he managed not to hit Daryl on the upswing, then I’d still have the three to four seconds that it would take for him to execute the move correctly because he’d have to check back and make sure the Daryl was clear of the swing. Three to four seconds was a long time in a fight. It was time that I would take advantage of. In less than a second all I had to do was step back and out of the doorway. Back into the night.

  Not even a second after I processed the thought, Junior acted. His brother Daryl had seen what he was trying to do.

  I saw Daryl give him a nod like a signal that said, “Go for it!”

  Junior reached over, grabbed the bat with both hands, pivoted, and swung. Daryl ducked back and fell onto the bed so that the swing would miss him, which it did.

  In the last bit of the second that it took for Junior to swing his bat at my head, I stepped back. The bat collided with the inside of the doorframe. Hard.

  Two feet away, the window, set low on the wall, shattered. Cheap glass crumpled away like dust.

  Imagine swinging a Louisville slugger as hard as you can, without pausing or stopping, at a telephone pole. The force from the resistance of the thick telephone pole would ripple through the bat and fracture or even break the bones in your wrists and arms and fingers. That was exactly what happened to Junior.

  I heard the bones in his hands and wrists crack. There were multiple sounds of cracking. His wrist bones shattered. He wouldn’t be swinging that bat for a long time. That was for damn sure.

  His fingers dangled from his hands and the bat fell to the ground.

  Like a glooming killer, I stepped into the room.

  Junior dropped to the floor and started wailing through his 99% toothless mouth. He sounded like a dying animal.

  His right hand was better than his left. He reached over and cupped his left.

  He cried like a baby.

  Daryl looked up at me and reacted. He lunged at me, swinging a right hook my way, but I had long arms with a long reach.

  I swung a right uppercut. I was faster than him and my reach was farther, much farther. Where he had to lunge at me, I could stand my ground and reach him.

  My right fist caught him right center in the nose, crushing it. His right hook grazed my left shoulder and did zero damage. It was like a mosquito bite, less than a mosquito bite, more like pocket lint.

  I pulled my punch back and watched as he fell back onto the ground. He grabbed at his nose and screamed when he touched it.

  Blood gushed from his nostrils in a long, flowing river and his nose was bent away from his face like a clock hand pointing to a quarter after the hour.

  I wasn’t sure if the short, wiry guy that they were attacking had really had a broken nose, but Daryl’s nose was broken, that I knew for sure. No doubt. He was lucky that it was still attached to his face. He was lucky that shards of it hadn’t gone into his brain and killed him. Perhaps the only reason that it hadn’t was because he had a tiny brain, if there was one there at all.

  I stared back over at Jeb—the last man standing.

  I grinned.

  He held tight onto the short, wiry guy. He was practically using him as a human shield, like I was pointing a gun at him.

  I stepped closer.

  “What do you say? Jeb? You want a shot at me?”

  He started trembling. I knew this because the short, wiry guy that he held onto was trembling.

  Jeb peered over the guy’s shoulder at me. He begged, “Don’t hurt me, please!”

  I said, “Here, Jeb. I’m going to give you the chance to make up for your boys here.”

  I knelt down and picked up the bat. I leaned it against my shoulder like a batter lining up for a good swing.

  Then I said, “I’d say that so far it looks like strike two for you.”

  I pointed the bat down at Daryl. He and Junior were both rolling around on the floor holding their broken appendages, only Junior did something stupid. Truly stupid. Like a dumb animal. He tried to get back up. He must’ve known that I could see him because I was staring down at him.

  I swung the bat in a quick backswing, not full force, not even close, but far from a light tap. I hit Daryl square in the mouth as he was trying to get up on one knee. That was the moment that I knew how important that one tooth had been to him because he screamed in agony when it came flying out of his mouth from the force of the blow.

  The bat hit him right in the mouth and broke the one tooth off. His head whipped back and he fell back on his ass, but the first thing that happened was his screaming.

  Jeb looked on in horror. The screaming died down to a whimper and then I pointed the bat back at Jeb. I flipped it in the air and caught the tip in my right hand. The handle stretched out to him.

  I said, “Take it. Go for strike three.”

  Jeb stared at the bat like it was a trap.

  “I’m unarmed. You could be the hero.”

  Jeb walked slowly backward like he was trying to retreat, only there was nowhere for him to go. I blocked the entrance.

  I stepped forward and over Daryl.

  Jeb said, “No. No. I don’t want to. Please just go.”

  “Take the bat.”

  He stayed quiet.

  He looked down at Daryl. I knew that Daryl, who was behind me now, was trying to get up.

  These guys just don’t learn, I thought.

  I flipped the bat again in the air and caught the handle and then I pivoted around like I was taking a golf swing and clubbed Daryl right in the nose with the thick end of the bat.

  I didn’t do it like I was hitting a long drive and not like hitting a baseball. I hit him like I was putting, hard enough to break whatever cartilage and bone that remained in his nose, but not enough to kill him. I didn’t want to drag a dead body out of there.

  He screamed almost like n
o other scream that I had heard before. Almost.

  In the same fluid motion I spun back around and faced Jeb and his hostage.

  I pointed the bat at him again, stretched way out, one-handed.

  I said, “No one is going to help you. Let this guy go and drag your boys out of here or I’ll take this bat and make it strike three. Okay, Jeb?”

  His attention came sharply into focus when I said his name. So I said it again, “Jeb, if you choose option B, I will hurt you worse than I did them. Much worse.

  “What’s it going to be?”

  He shook his head, violently. He said, “Let me go. I promise we’ll get out of here.”

  “Good choice. I knew that you were the smart one.”

  It took Jeb three minutes and 41 seconds to help his two fallen comrades back to their truck. Not bad.

  I watched as they piled into an F-150. It was brand new. They fired up the engine and sped away, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

  The truck had the Confederate flag stained in the rear window. It was one of the trucks from the redneck compound of mobile homes and that giant flagpole that I had seen earlier. The taillights faded away.

  I walked back into the motel room and stared at the short, wiry guy that they had beaten up.

  I asked, “Are you okay?

  The guy had stuffed tissue paper into his nostrils while looking in the bathroom mirror.

  Without looking at me, he said, “Thank you.”

  “You should go to the clinic. Get that nose looked at. You might need a doctor.”

  He looked at me and smiled. Then he said, “It’s only a nasal fracture with some profuse bleeding. Not a great big deal. And I am a doctor.”

  I nodded. Stayed quiet.

  He walked over to me, kept his head tilted back to stop the bleeding, and then reached his hand out, offering me a handshake.

  Even though his head was tilted back, he still could look straight up and see me. He was about 5’9” tall.

  I towered over him.

  I reached out and took his hand and shook it.

  He said, “My name is Chris Matlind.”

  I could see that the guy was clearly still shaken up, now that I had the chance to really look him over. It was worse than shaken up. He looked terrible. His face was unshaven and unkempt. His hair was unwashed and he kind of smelled. It wasn’t as bad as the stink of the greasy rednecks or the old musty smell from Hank, but it was far from a pleasant scent.

  The room was cluttered.

  Dirty clothes were piled in one of the corners. There were two big suitcases, one black and wide open. It was almost empty of clothes.

  The second one was still neatly closed in the far corner. It was pink with a green flower pattern. I had never seen a more girlie-looking suitcase. I was surprised that a man would have such a thing.

  I said, “My name is Reacher.”

  He glared at me strangely and said, “That’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s my father’s name,” I said, and left it at that.

  He asked, “Did you mean what you told those guys? I mean you made it seem like you were only intervening because they had disturbed you.”

  “They did wake me. But I wasn’t going to let them take you.”

  He nodded.

  I stayed quiet.

  Then he asked, “Aren’t you going to ask what’s going on?”

  I said, “Nope. None of my business.”

  A defeated look came over his face like he needed me to be interested, desperately. So I shrugged and asked, “So, what exactly is going on? Why were those guys trying to take you out of here? You must’ve done something pretty bad for a few fat rednecks to break down your door and try to kidnap you. Do you owe them money or something?”

  “I don’t owe them money.”

  He stopped talking. A look came across his face, a look like he wasn’t sure if he could trust me. Then his eyes swelled up like he was going to burst into tears. I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. His t-shirt was soaked in blood from his nose bleed. I tried not to touch that part of his shirt.

  I said, “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

  He said, “They have my wife…like a hostage.”

  Chapter 11

  I said, “Coffee. Do you drink coffee? I don’t drink coffee personally, but I find it makes for a good way to have a conversation. Over coffee. That’s what normal people do. We’d better get coffee. You got a car?”

  Fearful, Chris said, “No! We mustn’t!”

  “Get coffee? Like I said, I’m not a fan either. But I’m awake. You’re awake. And I saved your ass. So you’re going to explain to me what the hell is going on. Let’s get coffee or water or whatever you want.”

  Matlind said, “No, I mean about the car.”

  I asked, “You don’t have a car?”

  “Yes. Well, I do, but they have it.”

  I asked, “They have it?”

  He nodded.

  He said, “The mechanic has it. It broke down eight days ago.”

  “Is that diner in town open all night?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can’t go there. They’re in on it too.”

  “What? The thing about your wife?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know if it is 24 hours?”

  He said, “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out. I’m tired. I had a long day and you have a story to tell. Don’t worry. No one is going to mess with you as long as I’m here.”

  I left Chris for five minutes and returned to my room. I grabbed my shirt. It was dry enough. I slipped it on and then my socks and shoes. I laced them up and walked out of the room.

  I shut my door, but didn’t bother to lock it. What would be the point? I had nothing left in it. No valuables. No belongings. Nothing. And the room had nothing worth stealing.

  I reentered Matlind’s room and asked, “Ready to go?”

  He stood up from the bed, released his nose, and pulled out the tissues. The bleeding continued, but wasn’t as bad as before.

  I asked, “Is your nose broken?”

  “Yes. It isn’t too bad though. I can’t go to the hospital. They don’t even have one here. There is a clinic. If the local doctor sees me, he’ll insist that I get driven to the nearest hospital and that’s probably in Oxford.

  “I can’t take the chance of being sent away. I have to find my wife.”

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s deal with one problem at a time. First we have to fix your nose.”

  He nodded.

  I asked, “Do you have any medical tape?”

  He shook his head.

  I asked, “Do you have any duct tape?”

  He replied, “In my suitcase. Over there. With my tackle box. I like to fish.”

  I stood up and walked over to the suitcase that he had pointed to. I searched through the opened large black suitcase. Inside there was a small tackle box and a travel-sized fishing rod. I grabbed the tackle box, popped open the lid, and peered in. I saw hooks, fishing lures, and a small roll of duct tape. I reached down and picked up the duct tape and walked over to Matlind.

  I said, “Move your hands away from your face.”

  He followed my instructions. I took a good look. It wasn’t the worst nose break ever, but he was lying about the pain. It must’ve hurt like a train wreck, like he had gotten hit in the face by a steamroller.

  I lied back to him. I said, “It is broken. Not too bad, but I’m going to have to set it. We can use the duct tape to act as a kind of field dressing. It will work just as good as any medical dressing that you’d get in the emergency room.”

  He asked, “How do you know that?”

  I said, “My mom was a Marine and a sheriff and I was in ROTC. Plus I’ve been an unofficial cop my whole life.”

  “Unofficial cop? Like a deputy?”

  “Something like that. Now hold still.”

  He nodded and then he said, “Do it.”

  He breathed in deeply and
held it like that was my signal to go for it.

  I put the roll of tape down on the bed behind him and reached out with both hands. I grabbed, pulled, and snapped his nose back into place. It cracked with the sound of bones jarring together like a box of nails and then the nose snapped back into place.

  Matlind squirmed and tried to escape me. For a moment I think that he had forgotten that I was trying to help him, but then he stood still. He said, “Now the duct tape. I’m ready.”

  Quickly, I peeled a strand of tape off the roll and strapped it to his face. Horizontal. Nice and tight.

  I stepped back and got a good look.

  I said, “That will work fine. Doesn’t look great, but then again any dressing on your face isn’t going to help a guy win any beauty contests.”

  He nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  “Now, let’s get to the diner and talk about your wife.”

  He agreed. He stood up and checked himself in the bathroom mirror, then grabbed a new t-shirt and a fresh button-down shirt and took off his old shirt and exchanged them for the new set.

  Probably couldn’t stand looking at the blood stains.

  We left the motel and walked downtown and back to the diner.

  It was eight minutes past two o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter 12

  The walk to the diner was peaceful. It was a nice night outside. The stars shined bright in the sky, what ancient philosophers, modern poetry graduate students, and mothers everywhere would have described as twinkled. The wind blew softly around us, carrying the sound of rustling leaves in the tree branches overhead.

  In the distance there was the sound of barking dogs. The lake was several blocks away, but the smell of water carried across the breeze.

  Power lines hung overhead and streetlights lit up the sidewalks, not that we needed to use the sidewalks. There wasn’t a car on the street. Not one.

  It was a ghost town.

  I wasn’t familiar with the local liquor laws, but I imagined that this was a dry county after 1 a.m. because Mississippi was full of them. I’m sure that the bars and liquor stores had stopped serving long ago. So no one was out on the town. No reason, unless you wanted to grab a bite to eat at the diner.