23 Past Tense

by Lee Child

  “How did the kid get killed?”

  “He was beaten to death with a pair of brass knuckles.”

  Reacher paused a beat.

  He said, “Why wasn’t it solved?”

  “There were no witnesses. The victim was an asshole. No one cared. Their only suspect had disappeared without a trace. It was a time of great chaos. Millions and millions of people were on the move. It was right after VJ Day.”

  “August 1945,” Reacher said. “Did the cops have a name for the suspect?”

  “Only a kind of nickname. Secondhand, overheard, all very mysterious. A lot of it was hearsay, from the kind of people who pick things up from casual conversations on the street.”

  “What was the nickname?”

  “It’s why we have to re-open the case. We can’t ignore the link. I’m sure you understand. All we’re going to do is type out a couple new paragraphs.”

  “What was the name?”

  “The birdwatcher.”

  “I see,” Reacher said. “How soon do you need to type out your paragraphs?”

  “Wait,” she said.

  He heard a door, and a step, and the rustle of paper.

  A message.

  He heard a step, and a door, and on the phone she said, “I just got an alert from the license plate computer.”

  She went quiet.

  Then she breathed out.

  “Not what I thought it was,” she said. “No one left town. Not yet. Carrington is still here.”

  “I need you to do something for me,” Reacher said.

  He could still hear the paper. She was reading it.

  “More ancient history?” she said.

  “Current events,” he said. “A professor at the university told me that thirty years ago an old man named Reacher came home to New Hampshire after many years on foreign shores. As far as I know he has been domiciled here ever since. As far as I know he lives with the granddaughter of a relative. I need you to check around the county. I need you to see if you can find him. Maybe he’s registered to vote. Maybe he still has a driver’s license.”

  “I work for the city, not the county.”

  “You found out all about the Reverend Burke. He doesn’t live in the city.”

  He could still hear the paper.

  “I called in favors,” she said. “What is the old man’s first name?”

  “Stan.”

  “That’s your father.”

  “I know.”

  “You told me he was deceased.”

  “I was at the funeral.”

  “The professor is confused.”

  “Probably.”

  “What else could he be?”

  “The funeral was thirty years ago. Which was also when the guy showed up in New Hampshire after a lifetime away.”

  “What?”

  “It was a closed casket. Maybe it was full of rocks. The Marine Corps and the CIA worked together from time to time. I’m sure all kinds of secret squirrelly shit was going on.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You never heard of a thing like that?”

  “It’s like a Hollywood movie.”

  “Based on a true story.”

  “One in a million. I’m sure most CIA stories were very boring. I’m damn sure most Marine Corps stories were.”

  “Agreed,” Reacher said. “One in a million. But that’s my point. The odds are better than zero. Which is why I want you to check. Call it due diligence on my part. I would be failing in my duty. You’re about to re-open a cold case with no statute of limitations, with a one-in-a-million possibility your main suspect is still alive, living in your jurisdiction, and is related to me. I figured I should clarify things beforehand. In case I need to call him. Hey, pops, get a lawyer, you’re about to be arrested. That kind of thing.”

  “That’s crazy,” Amos said again.

  “The odds are better than zero,” Reacher said again.

  “Wait,” she said again.

  He could still hear the paper.

  She said, “This is a weird coincidence.”

  “What is?”

  “Our new software. Mostly it counts who enters and who leaves, using license plate recognition technology. But apparently it’s running a couple extra layers underneath. It’s looking for outstanding warrants, and tickets, and then it’s running a page for general remarks.”

  “And?”

  “The van we saw this morning was illegal.”

  “Which van?”

  “The Persian carpet cleaners.”

  “Illegal how?”

  “It should have been showing dealer plates.”

  “Why?”

  “Because its current owner is a dealer.”

  “Not a carpet cleaner?”

  “They went out of business. The van was repossessed.”

  —

  Patty and Shorty went back to the bathroom, but gave up on it pretty soon. The smashed tile and the powdered wall board made half of it uninhabitable. They drifted back to the bed again and sat side by side, facing away from the window. They didn’t care if the blind was up or down. They didn’t care who was watching. They whispered to each other, short and quiet, nodding and shrugging and shaking their heads, using hand signals, discussing things as fast and as privately as they could. They had revised their basic assumptions. They had refined their mental model. Some things were clearer. Some things were not. They knew more, but understood less. Clearly the six men who had looked in the window were the opposition team. Their task was to win a game of tag. In thirty square miles of forest. Presumably in the dark. Presumably with three of the assholes out in the woods with them, as referees, or umpires, or marshals, for a total of nine quad-bikes, with the fourth and final asshole stuck in the house, watching the cameras and listening to the microphones and doing whatever the hell else they did in there. That was their current prediction.

  Thirty square miles. Six men. In the dark. Yet they were confident of success. They couldn’t afford to fail. The quad-bikes would help. Much faster than running. But still. Thirty square miles was ten thousand football fields. All empty, except a random six, and each of those with just one man.

  In the dark.

  They didn’t get it.

  Then Shorty whispered, “Maybe they have night vision goggles.”

  Which sparked a cascade of gloomy thoughts. They could ride around and around, in an endless giant circle, a mile or two out, one by one, like an endless pinwheel, one or other of them passing any given spot every few minutes. Meanwhile Patty and Shorty would be coming in from the side, at a right angle, like crossing a one-way street. They would be slow. They might be visible for five whole minutes, side to side, beginning to end. Would the pinwheel spin slower than that?

  Or would they simply be followed from their very first step out the door?

  So many questions.

  Including the biggest question of all. What kind of tag would it be? Probably not the schoolyard kind. Not a slap on the shoulder. Not a beanbag. Six men. Thirty square miles. Quad-bikes and night vision. Confident of success.

  Not good.

  Which led to the biggest decision of all. Stick together, or split up? They could go different directions. It would double their chances. More than. If one of them got caught, the other would benefit from the diversion.

  One of them might get away.

  —

  Reacher sat in the Subaru on the wide gravel shoulder. If the organic jute wasn’t true, then nothing was true. Told you so, said the back part of his brain. The tow truck wasn’t there for an abandoned car. Not the way the story was told. Amos said taxis wouldn’t drive out that far. The abandoned car was invented. It was part of a fantastically elaborate bullshit story. Along with the alleged plumbers and electricians, and maintenance, and water, and power.

  The tow truck was a roadblock.

  Burke said, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m wondering where the people were. We saw one guy, but th
ere were four vehicles parked. So overall I’m thinking something weird is happening up there. But then I’m thinking, how bad could it be? It’s a motel. But then I’m thinking, it has a roadblock. And I guess bad things could happen at a motel with a roadblock. Possibly very bad things. But I lose the phone if I go up there. And I want to hear about Carrington. And Elizabeth Castle. It’s my fault they’re together. And I think Amos is going to call me. She wants me back in town. This time she paused before she said no. A significant amount of time. Sooner or later she’s going to ask me.”

  “What could you do there?”

  “I could walk around. They have my description. I’m the real thing. Carrington is a pale imitation. It would take the pressure off him. Now the bad guy would be coming after me.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “He wants to take me back to Boston. He wants to throw me off a building. That would be a long and complicated operation. I don’t see how it could end well for him.”

  “What kind of bad things could happen at a motel with a roadblock?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Reacher said.

  —

  The last of the day was fading, so the outside lights were on, up and down the boardwalk. The six men were starting to lay out their gear. All six doors were open. All six rooms were lit up bright. Guys wandered in and out, as if absentmindedly, holding bits and pieces. There was an element of display involved. Not that there was much latitude for showing off. The rules were tight. Everyone started equal. The playing field was level. Everyone got a randomly issued identical quad-bike. Like a lottery. Everyone used the same night vision. Standard practice. The course owner got to specify the exact device. Mark picked generation two army surplus. Which was the industry consensus, and a plentiful unit. Clothing and footwear were not restricted, but those experiments had been conducted long ago, by different people, and now everyone dressed the same. Nothing in the soft bags was worth a second look.

  The hard cases were a different story. Strange, ungainly, suggestive shapes. Again, not restricted. A personal choice. Or factional, or ideological, or faith based. Anything was permitted. Or any combination. Recurve, reflex, self, long, flat, composite or takedown. Everyone had a favorite and a theory, backed by a little experience and a lot of wishful thinking. Everyone was planning improvements. Everyone was tinkering.

  There were plenty of sideways glances, when the hard cases came out.

  —

  The last of the day was fading, so the view from the gravel shoulder was changing. It was dimming and going gray. In his mind Reacher replaced it with the motel. As they first saw it. The close-up view of what lay ahead. Bright sunshine. The office on the left, the Volvo wagon outside of three, the fake carpet van outside of seven, the small blue import outside of ten, and the long-bed pick-up truck outside of eleven. Plus room five’s lawn chair, slightly out of line.

  Burke said, “What?”

  “It’s a back of the brain thing,” Reacher said. “You prefer the front.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “What do they need, to make a bad thing happen?”

  “Theologically?”

  “In practical terms.”

  “There could be many things.”

  “They need a victim. Can’t do a bad thing without one. Maybe it’s a young girl. For example. She was lured there, and trapped. Maybe they’re going to force her to make a porn movie. The motel is a convenient location. Certainly it’s remote.”

  “You think it’s porn?”

  “I said for example. It could be a lot of different things. But all those things require a victim. Everything has that in common. A victim, on the premises. Somehow captured and held there, immediately available, when the rest of the party gathers.”

  Burke said, “On the premises where?”

  “Room ten was qualitatively different,” Reacher said. “Two separate ways. First the car. The only foreign plate. Also smaller and cheaper and worn out. Therefore probably a young person’s car. Possibly far from home and vulnerable. Secondly the bedroom window. The blind was down. The only one out of twelve.”

  Burke said nothing.

  Reacher said, “I told you, it’s a back of the brain thing.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should go take another look.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Carrington is a grown up. He can take care of himself.”

  “He’s completely in the dark. He knows nothing about any of this.”

  “OK, the cops can take care of him. They don’t want you there anyway. The lady detective is not going to ask. Trust me.”

  Reacher said nothing.

  He dialed Amos’s number.

  It rang four times.

  She said, “Nothing yet.”

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Rush hour is over. Downtown is quiet. We have eyes most places they need to be. And after all, the description is of someone else entirely. This is only a theory. Overall I would say I feel reasonably OK.”

  “On a scale of one to ten?”

  “About a four,” she said.

  “Would it help if I was there?”

  “Honest answer?”

  “On a scale of one to ten.”

  “Is there a number smaller than one?”

  “One is the irreducible number.”

  “Then a one,” she said.

  “What about without the rules and the bullshit?”

  “Still a one,” she said.

  “OK, good luck,” he said. “I’m going out of cell phone range. I’ll check in when I can.”

  Chapter 35

  Once again the TV turned on all by itself. The tinkle, the blue screen, the smeared transition to a man’s face against a black wall. This time it was Mark. Head and shoulders. Waiting. He looked away and asked if something was working. Which evidently was, because they heard the whole exchange. Mark looked back at the camera. At them. Eye to eye. He stared. He waited. He smiled.

  He said, “Guys, we promised a follow-up session, for questions and answers. Just in case something wasn’t clear, when Peter explained it earlier. So here we are.”

  Patty said, “Tell us about the tags.”

  “Come sit on the end of the bed again. We’ll have a full and frank discussion.”

  Patty shuffled around. Shorty followed. Didn’t want to, but he did.

  Mark said, “Patterns of consumption are changing. Aspirational expenditures are no longer limited to bigger and better physical objects. A bigger house, a bigger diamond, a better Monet. Now there’s a new category. People buy experiences. They buy tickets for the moon. They visit the ocean bed. Some of them pay to act out their fantasies. For once in their lives. Some of them are harmless. Some of them are sick. They gather on the internet. They find secret message boards. That’s where we advertise.”

  “What message boards?” Patty said. “Who are these people?”

  “You’ve met Karel,” Mark said. “The other five come from one particular web site. It has a fascinating ambiguity in its name. Very clever underground marketing. Is it describing its members, or is it describing the activity it promotes to its members? Is it a mistake, or is it a nod and a wink? It’s purely a matter of emphasis. There are no grammatical rules to help you.”

  Patty said, “What’s the name of the site?”

  “Bow Hunting People.”

  “What?”

  “Which I hope answers your question about the nature of the tag. The game places no restriction on the type of bow. Except no mechanical draw, and no crossbows, obviously. Probably they’ll use medium-length composite recurves. They’re hoping to be mobile. They learn a lot from the deer hunting world. They’ll use broadhead arrows, probably. Maybe barbed, but that will depend where you are. If they see you early, they might just track you for a spell. Then they’ll shoot to wound. They want you to last all night. They paid a lot o
f money.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Not me,” Mark said. “I’m just catering to the grubby end of the market. Their desires are their own business.”

  “You’re talking about murdering us.”

  “No, I’m talking about giving you the chance to get away from here scot free. I’m your best friend right now. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You can’t afford for us to walk away.”

  “Now you’re just making excuses. Don’t quit before you start. It’s a big world out there. There are only six of them.”

  “Do they have night vision?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And quad-bikes.”

  “Which mean you can hear them coming. Don’t you see? You’re not completely helpless here. Choose your direction carefully, stay alert, listen hard, try to predict from the sound which way the bikes will go, and then slip in behind them after they’re gone. It might be possible. Presumably someone will do it sooner or later. It’s only two miles by the shortest route. As you know. Straight down the track. But I would advise against. Even alongside, in the trees. Too obvious, surely. Someone would be lying in wait.”

  No one answered.

  Mark said, “More advice, if I may. Check your door from time to time. The clock starts ticking as soon as it unlocks. It’s your responsibility to know. No further announcements will be made. When it opens, I suggest you depart immediately. Give it your best shot. Look on the bright side. It’s a big woods. Bowhunters like to get within forty feet. Closer if they can. Shooting arrows in a forest is hard. There are always trees in the way.”

  No one spoke.

  Mark said, “More advice, if I may. Please don’t plan to sit in your room. It might feel smart, but it’s faulty strategy. It never works. As soon as they realize what you’re doing, they’ll move in, until they have you surrounded. You’ll have six guys at your door. They’ll be disappointed. They didn’t get their sport. They’ll take it out on you. They’ll make you last all night, but not in a good way.”

  No one spoke.

  Mark asked, “Did you talk about splitting up and going solo?”