The Reacher Experiment

by Jude Hardin

  Wahlman was hungry. He wanted the pie. But he didn’t want to look like some kind of bum. He sat there and watched Kasey scrape the untouched dessert into the trashcan.

  She pocketed the five, walked back to where Wahlman was sitting and poured him a cup of coffee.

  “Did you know that guy?” Wahlman asked.

  “The guy who left the pie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Never saw him before.”

  “He left in kind of a hurry,” Wahlman said. “Like maybe he was running late for something.”

  “I didn’t really notice.”

  “Did he order anything other than the pie?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “How many refills?”

  “No refills. I offered a couple of times, but—”

  “He paid for the pie and the coffee up front, right? The five dollar bill he left on the counter was a tip.”

  “Why are you so curious about that man?”

  Wahlman was curious because the man had obviously walked into the diner just to kill some time. He’d been staring at a newspaper and waiting for eleven o’clock. Not one minute before. Not one minute after. Eleven. On the dot. Maybe he was supposed to meet someone at that time. But if that was the case, why not leave the diner a few minutes early? Why wait until the last second?

  It was probably nothing. Wahlman knew that. But twenty years as a master at arms in the navy had taught him to notice unusual circumstances. Curiosity and suspicion had saved his life more than once.

  “Why do they call this place The Quick Street Inn?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Kasey shrugged. “I really don’t know,” she said. “That’s just what it’s always been called. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

  She grabbed a pot of coffee and carried it to the back booth. Refilled the three ceramic mugs in front of the three guys sitting there. Asked them if they needed anything else. They didn’t. She carried the coffeepot back behind the counter and set it back on its burner. Poised. Confident. Balanced.

  Wahlman’s food was ready. He could see it on the section of stainless steel countertop beside the flattop. Kasey picked it up and brought it over and set it in front of him. One fried egg, one slice of toasted white bread.

  And two strips of bacon.

  “I didn’t order any bacon,” Wahlman said.

  “I know. I thought you might like some. It was left over from the breakfast rush.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wahlman sprinkled some salt and pepper on his egg. He took a bite of the bacon and a sip of the coffee, and then he buttered his toast.

  “One of the guys sitting over there wants to talk to you,” Kasey said.

  “Which one?” Wahlman asked, not bothering to turn and look toward the booth where the three men were sitting.

  “The one in the red hat.”

  The one on the very back seat, Wahlman thought. The one facing the front of the restaurant. The one Wahlman had pegged as the boss of the little crew as soon as he’d walked into the diner.

  When you see three guys hanging out together, one of them is usually the leader. Maybe not officially, but that’s the way it usually works out. When you see three guys hanging out in a booth in a restaurant, the leader is usually going to be the one who gets a seat all to himself. The one with the highest rank, if they’re in the military. These guys weren’t, but same principle. And when you see three non-military guys in their mid-to-late twenties hanging out in a booth in a restaurant at eleven o’clock on a sunny Friday morning, you have to wonder what the three guys are up to.

  Wahlman picked up his fork and cut into his egg.

  “Did the one in the red hat happen to mention why he wants to talk to me?” he asked.

  “No. He just told me to send you back there so he could have a word with you.”

  “Do you know those guys?”

  “I don’t know their names or anything, but they come in here all the time. Sit in the same booth, drink coffee for a couple of hours, hardly ever order anything to eat.”

  “Good tippers?”

  Kasey laughed. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m going to finish my breakfast,” Wahlman said.

  Kasey poured some more coffee into his cup.

  “So what brings you to Barstow?” she asked.

  “How do you know I don’t live here?”

  “I saw the backpack. Just figured you were—”

  “A lot of people carry backpacks,” Wahlman said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Anyway, you’re right. I don’t live here. I’m looking for work. Any idea where I might be able to find some?”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  Before Wahlman had a chance to answer, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. He set his fork down, turned and saw the man in the red hat standing there chewing on a toothpick. The other two guys were standing a few feet behind him.

  “How’s it going?” the man in the red hat asked.

  “Great,” Wahlman said.

  He picked up his fork and turned back toward his food, hoping that the man in the red hat and the other two guys would mosey on out of the restaurant. They didn’t.

  “You’re not very friendly, are you?” the man in the red hat said.

  “Just trying to finish my breakfast.”

  The man in the red hat reached over and picked up the salt shaker. He screwed the top off and dumped the entire contents onto Wahlman’s plate.

  “There,” he said. “Now you’re finished.”

  Wahlman stared down at the ruined food. Half an egg, one strip of bacon, half a slice of toast. And the yolk. He’d been planning to sop it up with the remaining piece of bread.

  Wahlman was six feet four inches tall, and he weighed two hundred and thirty pounds. Biceps the size of footballs, hands big enough to palm dinner plates. He’d received extensive training in several different fighting disciplines, but all of that invariably went out the window during actual confrontations. When another man was trying to hurt you—or kill you—there was only one technique that mattered: winning. He could have taken the man in the red hat with no problem. One quick pivot on the stool, one quick swing of an elbow. Instant pulverized nose. The other two guys would probably take off running at that point, at the sight of the eyes rolling back and the knees buckling and the blood gushing, but if they didn’t, Wahlman could handle them as well. No problem.

  But he didn’t want to fight these guys. Not here. Not now. Kasey, or the guy back there cooking the food, would undoubtedly call the police, and Wahlman would undoubtedly be arrested and charged with assault and battery. Or manslaughter, if the elbow just happened to crack the nose just right. Wahlman didn’t want to kill anyone, not even the punk in the red hat, and he certainly didn’t want any trouble with the police. As far as he knew, a New Orleans homicide detective was still actively searching for him, in regard to the fatal shooting of a man and a woman in a hotel room, and he knew for sure that someone in the army was still actively searching for him, in regard to being born.

  Best to just lean over and pick up his backpack and walk away.

  Which was what he intended to do.

  Until the man in the red hat reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

  2

  Wahlman swiveled around and stood up and faced the man in the red hat. The man with the knife. He still didn’t want to fight. But if he did, and if the police came, at least it would be an obvious case of self-defense now. He probably wouldn’t be arrested, unless he killed one or more of the guys. Which was always a possibility.

  “You should go on home and drink a beer or something,” Wahlman said.

  “At least I have a home to go to.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “We have enough dirt bags around here already,” the man in the red hat said. “We don’t need another one.”

  “So you’re telling me I need to ge
t out of town? Who are you, the sheriff? Aren’t you going to give me until sundown, like they do in the movies?”

  “You got a smart mouth.”

  The cook appeared from behind the counter then, holding a kitchen knife, the kind you use to chop things with. Onions and whatnot. The shiny stainless steel blade was fat by the handle, and it gradually narrowed to a point at the end. Nine or ten inches long, Wahlman guessed, and heavy enough to cut a watermelon in half with a single downward swing.

  The cook was probably about forty-five years old. Black hair, graying at the temples, long, pulled back into a ponytail. He was taller than the man in the red hat, but not nearly as tall as Wahlman. Probably around six feet. Earrings in both ears, acne scars, faded tattoos on both arms.

  “I don’t want any trouble in here,” he said.

  “We were just leaving,” the man in the red hat said.

  He folded the switchblade and slid it into his pocket, turned and headed toward the exit. The other two guys followed.

  “Wait a minute,” Wahlman said. “You still owe me for the breakfast.”

  “That’s right,” the cook said. “You need to pay him for the food you ruined.”

  The man in the red hat turned around and walked back to where Wahlman was standing.

  “How much do you figure I owe you?” he asked.

  “Ten bucks should cover it.”

  “Ten bucks? There was hardly anything on the plate.”

  “It’s past eleven now. I can’t get the special anymore. Bacon, eggs, toast. Maybe throw in a glass of juice for the emotional stress I endured. And of course I’ll want to leave a nice tip.”

  The man in the red hat took a deep breath, exhaled incredulously from the side of his mouth. He had a black leather wallet in his back pocket with a chain on it that hooked onto one of his belt loops. He fished out a five and five ones, but instead of handing the bills over nicely, he threw them down on the floor near Wahlman’s backpack.

  “Don’t let me catch you out on the street,” the man in the red hat said. “Things might not work out so well for you next time.”

  “Just make sure you bring more money,” Wahlman said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Boots. I’ll need a new pair after I ram one of these up your ass.”

  The man in the red hat pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and flicked it toward the pile of money. Then he turned around and left the restaurant without saying another word.

  “Thanks for not taking those boneheads apart in here,” the cook said. “Whatever you want to eat is on the house.”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t have much of an appetite anymore,” Wahlman said. “But thanks.”

  “Come on back later today. Lunch, dinner, whatever you want. It’s on me.”

  Wahlman picked the money up and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “You own this place?” he asked.

  “Bought it two years ago. Just now starting to turn a profit.”

  “Why is it called The Quick Street Inn?”

  “I don’t know. That was the name of the place when I bought it. I’m not from here, and none of the locals seem to remember it ever being called anything else.”

  “Ever think about changing the name?”

  “Not really. People like what’s familiar. Plus I would have to pay for a new sign.”

  Wahlman nodded. “I appreciate the offer for a free meal,” he said. “But what I really need is a job.”

  “I don’t have any openings right now. What kind of job are you looking for?”

  “The temporary kind. Cash daily. No paperwork.”

  “I’ll check around. If you want to come back later this afternoon, I might have something for you.”

  “Okay. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tom,” Wahlman lied.

  “I’m Greg. Come on back around four or five.”

  Wahlman lifted his backpack, slid it onto his shoulder and exited the diner.

  There was a park bench on the sidewalk outside the pharmacy. The man in the red hat and his two friends were sitting on it. Each of them had a cigarette going. Wahlman decided to walk the other way. He made it past the hardware store, and the barber shop, and then he heard footsteps coming up from behind him at a trot. He looked over his shoulder and saw a crisp blue-and-white-striped dress heading his way. Kasey. He wondered what she was doing. Then he remembered that he never had paid her for the breakfast special.

  He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

  “Sorry,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet, intending to give her the original two dollars he’d come to town with.

  “Don’t worry,” Kasey said. “Greg took care of it.”

  “Oh. I thought—”

  “You thought I was chasing you down to pay your tab?”

  “Yeah. So why are you chasing me down?”

  “I remembered something after you left. I know a guy who’s involved in a research study. I mean, we’re not great friends or anything, but he comes in the restaurant sometimes.”

  “What kind of research study?” Wahlman asked.

  “You can make two hundred dollars a night just for sleeping. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

  “Two hundred dollars a night just for sleeping,” Wahlman repeated. “Are they testing a new drug or something?”

  “I don’t really know all the details, but I can give you the guy’s number if you want to talk to him.”

  “I don’t know. There must be some kind of catch. Why aren’t you doing it?”

  “Because I’m divorced and I have a kid at home and—”

  “Sorry,” Wahlman said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  “Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the guy.”

  Kasey reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. She looked it over, front and back, and then she handed it to Wahlman.

  Dr. William Surrey

  Department of Psychology

  D.U. Coffee University, Barstow, CA

  There was a phone number printed on the bottom of the card, along with Dr. Surrey’s office hours.

  “Do they have a football team?” Wahlman asked.

  “It’s just a small liberal arts college, so—”

  “If they had a football team, they could call them The Tables. The Coffee Tables. Go Tables!”

  “Shut up,” Kasey said, Laughing. “Dr. Surrey wrote his cell number on the back.”

  Wahlman flipped the card over. “Are you sure this wasn’t about something else?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he wants to go out with you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kasey said. “He’s older. In his sixties, probably.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does to me. Anyway, he didn’t act like he was hitting on me or anything. Are you going to call him?”

  “Maybe. I want to talk to Greg later, see if he comes up with anything.”

  “Okay. Well, if you do call Dr. Surrey, tell him Kasey at the diner sent you. He said he would give me ten dollars for every referral. You know, for the ones who actually sign up to participate in the study.”

  “If I call him, I’ll tell him you sent me,” Wahlman said.

  “Great. I hope it works out for you.”

  Kasey folded her arms over her chest. The wind had picked up, and she wasn’t wearing a coat.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?” Wahlman asked.

  “I was just scheduled for the breakfast shift today,” Kasey said. “You were my last customer.”

  “Oh. You want my jacket? You look cold.”

  “I have one in my car. But thanks. I guess I better get going.”

  “Is there a public library around here anywhere?” Wahlman asked.

  “Take a right at the light. The library’s four blocks down on the left.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

>   Kasey lowered her head into the cold breeze and headed back toward the restaurant. There was something heartbreakingly sad about watching her walk away, something Wahlman couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe he would see her again at the restaurant, he thought. Maybe not. He needed to keep moving. He couldn’t stay in Barstow for more than a few days. As soon as he made enough money for another bus ticket, he would have to leave. And if he didn’t make enough money for another bus ticket, he would have to leave anyway. He would have to walk. Or hitchhike. Destination unknown, and not particularly important. As long as it was somewhere else.

  He gazed down the sidewalk and wished things could be different.

  He was about to step off the curb and cross the street when Kasey stopped in front of the barber shop and turned around.

  “I could give you a ride,” she shouted.

  “You could?”

  “Sure. Come on. My car’s parked behind the diner.”

  3

  Annex Two Support Team Manager, All-Source Intelligence Division 1030B.

  That was Major Stielson’s official title.

  His unofficial title was Colonel Dorland’s Stooge.

  He didn’t much care for being Colonel Dorland’s Stooge, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was stuck out here in the Mojave Desert for seventeen more months—unless he failed to carry out the unofficial duties that Colonel Dorland had assigned to him, in which case he would probably be stuck out here for the rest of his life, however brief a period that turned out to be.

  The duties surrounding his official title aside, Major Stielson currently had exactly one job: kill Rock Wahlman.

  Which sounded easy enough, but had turned into a logistical nightmare over the past few months.

  Stielson didn’t know exactly why Wahlman had been targeted, just that he had. A matter of national security, Colonel Dorland had said. No specific details. Which was somewhat annoying, but that was just the way it worked sometimes. Orders were orders. You either followed them, or you risked being court-martialed and sent to Leavenworth. Or worse, where Colonel Dorland was concerned.

  The original plan should have worked. Wahlman should have been eliminated in New Orleans, along with the other target, a long-haul trucker named Darrell Renfro.