Chapter 34

Ten minutes later Reacher dialed Amos again. She answered. She sounded out of breath.

He said, “What’s up?”

“False alarm,” she said. “We got a maybe on Carrington. But it was two hours old and nothing came of it. We still can’t find him.”

“Did you find Elizabeth Castle?”

“Her neither.”

“I should come back to town,” Reacher said.

Amos paused a beat.

“No,” she said. “We’re still in the game. The computer is watching the red light cameras. Nothing that came in from the south in the second wave this morning has gone back out again yet. We think Carrington is still in the area.”

“Which is why you need me there. No point coming back after they take him away.”

“No,” she said again.

“What was the maybe?”

“Allegedly he was seen entering the county offices. But no one else remembers him, and he isn’t there now.”

“Was he alone, or with Elizabeth Castle?”

“It was hard to say. It was a busy time of day. Lots of people. Hard to say who was with who.”

“Was it the census archive?”

“No, something else. The county has offices all over town.”

“Did you get a minute for ancient history?”

She paused again.

“It was longer than a minute,” she said.

“What did you find?”

“I need advice before I tell you. From Carter Carrington, ironically.”

“Why?”

“You asked for unsolved cases. I found one. It has no statute of limitations.”

“You found an unsolved homicide?”

“Therefore technically it’s still an open case.”

“When was it?”

“Within the dates you specified.”

“I wasn’t born yet. I can’t be a witness. Certainly I can’t be a perpetrator. Talking to me is no legal hazard.”

“It has implications for you.”

“Who was the victim?”

“You know who the victim was.”

“Do I?”

“Who else could it be?”

“The kid,” Reacher said.

“Correct,” Amos said. “Last seen face down on the sidewalk, late one September evening in 1943. Then later he shows up again, now twenty-two years old, just as much of an asshole as he was before, and he gets killed. The two files were never connected. I guess there was a lot going on back then. It was wartime. Detectives came and went. They didn’t have computers. But today’s rules say the first file makes a material difference to the second file. Which it does, no question. We can’t pretend we haven’t seen it. Therefore we’re obliged to re-open the homicide as a cold case. Just to see where it goes. Before we close it again.”

“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 there 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.”