Border Lines (Reachers Book 2)

by L E Fitzpatrick

  The apartment though was nothing like where she had once lived. It opened to a lounge with a balcony and refreshment area. Off the lounge were three rooms, all doubles, sporting clean beds, and en suite facilities. Rachel dropped her small bag to the floor and openly gawped.

  “This is bloody ridiculous,” Charlie snapped. “Why the hell did you book this place, we would have been fine in a bedsit!”

  But Rachel understood why John had done it – for her. When she first joined the brothers she had nothing and then John began to buy her things. It started with a pair of strong leather shoes. Then came clothes. Sweets. Weapons. Their months together had not been comfortable, but because of his foresight she'd been given as much luxury as he could find. It was important to him that she was spoiled and who was she to argue?

  She kissed his cheek. “I'm not complaining.”

  The apartment meant she would have privacy, which was a godsend. She loved John and Charlie, but to sleep in a room where John wasn't staring at every possible weak spot, or where Charlie wasn't snoring like some congested elephant for just one night would make her year. She collapsed on her bed and started to laugh.

  “Hey!” Charlie called. “We've got work to do!”

  “Bring it in here. I'm not moving from this spot for at least an hour.”

  With that Charlie threw the file at her.

  It was late and they were all tired. Tired of the road and tired of each other. It was impossible to live so close together and not need a break. Charlie took a shower, watching the dirt from his weeks on the road spiral down the drain. He leant on the wall for support, daring himself to bear a little weight on his bad leg now and again. Slowly it was getting stronger. All of him was starting to improve. The pull of the painkillers seemed to have finally past and he found he could cope now with the physical and mental strain. Rachel had got him through most of it and then he'd taken the last few steps himself. But then that's exactly what she said would happen. He had to accept what he had done and he had. It was that final bitter pill that was his last and now he could move forward.

  Like his head, the water began to run clear. There was nowhere to hide from the memories in his clarity. That had been the hardest part of getting sober. Coming home to find his wife tied up, begging for their daughter's life – that was the moment he would churn over while he was on the drugs. He'd relive each cut, each scream over and over, like an agonising eternal stutter. And he cemented himself in those moments, unable to escape the horror of what had happened, nor the guilt for what he had let happen. To cope with the agony, he took more painkillers and resumed his carousel of torture.

  He finally confessed to Rachel that he needed those memories. He didn't want to forgive himself for what happened. His wife was dead, his daughter – worse than dead. All because he allowed himself to be seduced and duped and overcome. The memories were his punishment and he had stupidly forced himself to confront them each waking moment he had.

  That had been the first stage in getting sober – putting that night to one side and thinking about the years before. It didn't make sense to him but these memories, the ones that left him with a sad smile, were the hardest to bear and, with his mind as transparent as water now, they all ran freely through his head at any given time.

  He pressed his head against the shower door, fighting the urge to ignore his wife. He could see her – remember her – tapping at the glass, his shirt barely covering the tops of her thighs. She pointed to her imaginary watch, and he responded with an uncaring smile. He turned and she slipped into the shower herself. She rubbed the soap suds from his back, tracing the scars he had – to do it now would have taken her hours – and then she would rest her head between the blades of his shoulders, contented and at peace.

  “I love you, you idiot,” he would whisper.

  “You're only human,” she would say.

  Charlie sighed. He dipped his head back into the stream of water and switched the shower off.

  Despite the memories and the lingering sadness, the clarity brought something valuable, something he hadn't had for a long time. He was beginning to scheme.

  As he clambered into bed, he stared up at the ceiling, rolling over the names of three men and their motives for opposing Riva Morris. And slowly the familiar cogs of his brain creaked into life and a plan started to form.

  12

  The case was going nowhere. Mark could tell because Adams was humming. The tuneless drone had been going for an hour. It reminded Mark of the generators they used at the work camps. Those machines would hum into the night and Mark would lay on his top bunk, concentrating on the continuous noise and trying to drown out the whimpering from the beds around him. Sometimes in the dark it was just him and the generator – the only constant Mark had. He was forced to move bunks, change sheds, uproot everything week on week, but that sound was always there. And as he sat in their tiny office, staring at the pictures of four dead girls, he concentrated again on the dull pitch – this was home. This was constant.

  Mark chewed on his thumbnail. He watched Adams as he studied the victims' autopsy reports, still hopeful that he would spot something his last eight checks had missed. He picked up Clare Trent's. She was the eldest of the girls, but not a street hooker this time. Clare was an upmarket whore. She worked in Lulu's, dancing more than lying on her back. It was almost a change of pattern for the killer, but her death was exactly like the others, even if her life wasn't. Keira, Lisa, Chelsea, Clare and Hope. Adams would make Mark recite the names each day. They were just spoiled meat for the police force, but to PCU they were becoming something much more. Mark was starting to feel like he knew the girls. He was starting to take the killings personally.

  It was frustrating they still had nothing to go on. The only thing they knew for certain was there would be more. There were no clues, no hope of linking the girls to a single killer. There was a month between Keira and Lisa, a fortnight later Chelsea was killed, a fortnight after Clare, and then only ten days after that Hope. They were getting more frequent and soon the killer would be due to strike again. Mark was being infected by Adams' urgency. He felt himself watching the clock as the hours wasted away and they came up with nothing.

  Adams drummed his nicotine stained fingers against the desk. Most cops wouldn't give these girls a second thought. They were street girls after all. Sure people enjoyed them in the moment, but afterwards these girls just represented the worst of Britain. Only Adams cared. He lamented the ones that had fallen and he worried about the ones that would come after. And because of this Mark found himself staring at those autopsy pictures and rolling the names around in his head religiously. Nobody was beyond redemption – these girls just never got the chance.

  “Sir,” Mark said. His confidence with Adams was growing. Stupid questions were as much a distraction for Adams as an inconvenience and he sure looked like he needed distracting. “Should we find out if there are any other reports of Reachers in the area? Maybe there will be a connection.”

  Adams shook his head, but he wasn't displeased with the suggestion. “We'd be up to our eyeballs. We get about eighty Reacher reports a week, and nearly all of them are bogus. There must be something here, we're just missing it.”

  Adams went back to staring at the lines between the words in his files and Mark took the opportunity to go back to their old case – the Smith brothers. He fished out Rachel's picture and studied it. He had lived with her and not once guessed that she was a Reacher. He still wasn't sure he believed it, even with the evidence in front of him.

  “It could be anyone couldn't it?” he muttered.

  “The Prime Minster could be a Reacher and we wouldn't know.”

  “Would it matter if he were?” Mark said.

  Adams just looked at him, giving nothing away. “What do you mean?”

  “Well if he was, or if you or me were, would it matter? We're the good guys right, being a Reacher wouldn't make a difference.”

  Adams slammed his hands
in excitement on the table, as though Mark had finally got all his sums right. “You're right. You're absolutely right, kid.”

  “I am?”

  “Apart from that bit about the Prime Minster being a good guy. But you're right about the rest. We're looking at this wrong. We're looking for a Reacher and we shouldn't be. We should be looking for a killer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we need to go over the case again. Get your coat we're going to re–interview everyone.”

  13

  Every job was different, but every plan was the same. You had to work out the stages and build them up in the right order. One by one they would form the structure of the scheme, but if one of them happened to be off centre then the whole thing could come crashing down. Charlie was as good as he was because he was a born schemer. He'd robbed banks, houses, offices, even a train supply run. He'd liberated prisoners from work camps, found lost relatives, and tracked down the odd freeloader that tried to make a break for it. With the right team he could make anything happen. That was why he wasn't known as Charlie the thief, or Charlie the bounty hunter – he was just Charlie Smith, the man you call when you need the impossible.

  The start was always the objective – three yes votes. That was the simple part. The complication – three men intent on voting no. And the challenge – six days to change their minds. It was by no means impossible, but that didn't mean it would be easy.

  There were lots of ways to make a man change his mind – threats, bribes, blackmail, even reason. All of which they could use, all of which could fail if used on the wrong man or at the wrong time.

  Charlie pulled out the picture of Colonel Moore, the eldest of the men and to him the most familiar. He knew from personal experience Moore wasn't a man you could threaten. And he definitely couldn't be reasoned with. Charlie had seen that first hand, watching Institute scientists being executed under his supervision. It would need to be blackmail, or bribery, or maybe something more absolute.

  The other two, the editor and the doctor, he knew nothing about. And that led him to their first stage – reconnaissance. Before they did anything they needed to get inside the lives and minds of Harvey O'Connor and Dr Janus Curtis. That would take the most time, so that's where they would start.

  Before he could plan further the hotel door knocked, startling them all. If it was the cops or the Institute they wouldn't have been polite about waiting. If it was the hotel someone would have called out already. It left one person and, as Charlie realised who it was, his brother was already throwing open the door.

  John grabbed Roxy by the collar and heaved him inside. He slammed him against the wall, knocking over a side table with Roxy's flailing legs. Charlie struggled to get up. When he did Rachel had already beaten him to it. She grabbed John's arm, trying to pull him back and failing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” John said, lifting Roxy higher off the ground.

  “I've got something for Charlie,” Roxy croaked, kicking his feet uselessly.

  “John let him go,” Rachel pleaded.

  “After what he's done?”

  “Yes.” Her tone deepened. “Let him go, please John.”

  If she was using her powers, Charlie would have been able to understand it more, but she wasn't. John – in his normal berserker rage – would have thrown a few punches before Charlie would ever be able to talk him down. In ten months Rachel had got a much stronger hold over his brother. Charlie wasn't sure what to make of that.

  Roxy dropped to the floor, spluttering in an ungraceful heap. He still managed to reach into his pocket and pull out a crumpled strip of paper. “Jay's number. He promised to keep it for the next hour. Then he said something about never being able to contact him again, disappearing into the ether blah, blah, blah.” Roxy rested his head back against the wall and tried to breathe.

  Charlie snatched the paper and a wave of excitement got the better of him. “I'll be right back, no killing each other,” he said and staggered to his bedroom.

  Jay had been the go-to guy – one he could rely on and more importantly one he could work with. When Charlie's wife was killed, Jay, like most of Charlie's contacts went to ground. The Institute were sniffing around and nobody wanted to get embroiled in that battle. Charlie didn't blame Jay, or any of the others. He'd dropped off the map himself. And if Jay was still willing to work then he'd be a fool not to get his help.

  He counted the standard four rings. One to prompt, one to get ready, one for the signal scrambler to kick in and a final one to appear nonchalant.

  Jay's nasally voice struck his ear. “Speak.”

  “It's Charlie.”

  “Obviously. We've got six minutes before this line is insecure, talk quickly. What do you need?” It was nice to see he hadn't changed. Charlie wondered if he was the same when taking calls from his mother.

  “I need a copy of everything on the computer of Harvey O'Connor, the Voice's editor, on the sly.”

  Jay started to laugh and Charlie started to count down those precious six minutes. “And you think I can just pull that out of the sky.”

  “Can you?”

  “No. I've tried to hack the Voice before. You can worm your way through the network of the lower channels, but there's no real chain. The whole place is in paranoid lockdown, they're too scared of having their stories snatched to give each other access to more than the basic info on their individual systems. At best I can pull up their archives and a few personal bits from the reporters with a porn addiction and shit computer skills.

  “To access any computer directly you need to be there in front of it. Now it'll be password protected and all that bullshit, but we can bypass crap like that in a few seconds. Of course you then hit problems if it's taking log records, which it probably is.”

  “What the hell is a log record?”

  “Jesus, really? Where the hell have you been this century? It's a record of when people log onto your computer – honestly Charlie you're supposed to be the smart one. The logs are tricky to manipulate; it would take you a while to do it. I could maybe do it in about twenty minutes.”

  “We won't have that kind of time to mess about.”

  “Could just take a dupi.”

  “A dupi?”

  “Fucking hell Charlie, what are you a dinosaur? It's a failsafe program, mainly used in emergencies of secure units. You know – I'm a big fat cat politician and I've just spilt coffee over my sweatshop custom built computer. Let me call the techs – but wait I don't want them to see all the child porn I've been downloading – oh let's dupi it, take a map print of the entire system, passwords, logs, everything, then put it on a new computer so I can continue being a capitalist pervert.”

  Somewhere there was a plan in that statement but Charlie was struggling to piece it together. “So we just copy the system?”

  “Takes about eight minutes max. Copy it over on a dupi hard drive and spend the next week cracking it in the comfort of your front room. No trail. Nobody knows you're breaking in.”

  “It would take you a week to crack it?”

  He laughed hard. “No. It would take John a week. It would take me a day.”

  “Jay?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I'm not getting involved.”

  “This job is big.”

  “I don't care.”

  “Come on Jay, we need you.”

  “Hell no, you're bad news Charlie.”

  “Bullshit, you did your best work with me. One day, crack the computer I'll pay you cash, usual terms and supply you with all the coffee you can drink.”

  “You couldn't house all the coffee I can drink.”

  “Okay, how about I fix it with Roxy to take you round to Lulu's afterwards.”

  “Really, that's what you think will buy me, offering to give me herpes by some washed up old hag?”

  Charlie put his head in his hand. “So you don't want a hooker?”

  “I ne
ver said I didn't want one. Keep this phone open and meet me at that station you left me at that time. If you don't hear from me assume the worst has happened.” With that he hung up.

  “The worst,” Charlie said, “is you missing the bloody train like last time.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket and reached for his crutch. It was too early to feel smug, but he couldn't help himself. With Jay onboard they had nearly every obstacle covered. Well nearly every obstacle.

  It had gone quiet in the next room – which was either really good, or extremely bad. Bracing himself for bad news, he pushed open the door.

  The bold extrovert Roxy had been slapped down – seemingly by his own conscience. He sat quietly, looking ready to bail at any moment. It wasn't great to see, no matter how much he deserved it. Roxy was the kind that always fell on his feet. It looked like he was still falling. Charlie turned to Rachel, noticing his brother was missing from the group.

  “Where's John?”

  “He's being very mature and locked himself in his room,” Rachel replied with a roll of her eyes.

  That wasn't surprising.

  “Did you talk Jay around?” Roxy asked.

  “He couldn't resist. How'd you find us?”

  A faint trace of the old Roxy glistened in his eyes. “That was easy. You were with me so John had to be finding you digs. He would want to show off but not be ripped off. The Plaza is too showy, you guys probably still can't show your faces in the Harlton, which leaves two places and this is the only one that does room service steak club sandwiches, which after years of obsessive stalking I happen to know are his favourite.”

  “Hang around for a bit okay, I'm going to go and see if I can calm him down.”

  John had bolted the door from his side. Charlie knocked and as he expected got no answer. He pressed his hand again the door handle, feeling the vibrations of the object running through his fingers. He found the lock and with a flick of his hands twisted it open. Using his powers was getting easier and easier.