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 of 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?”

Shorty looked away.

“I know,” Mark said. “Tough choice. The percentage play would be go for it. Problem is, you would never know what happened to the other person. In their final moments, I mean.”

Burke drove north. The phone died bar by bar. Reacher laid down the law. Burke was to let him out at the mouth of the track, and then go home and stay home, safe and secure. Never to return. Not saying yes and then doubling back and waiting. Not following on foot, just to see what was happening. None of that. Go home, stay home, forget all about it. No argument. No discussion. Not a democracy. That was the deal.

Burke agreed.

Reacher asked him again.

Burke agreed again.

They drove into the trees. It was already full dark under the canopy. Burke used his headlights. The twisted posts showed up five miles later. Right on time. Right where they should be. Burke stopped the car. Reacher got out. Burke drove away. Reacher stood on the road and watched him go. Eventually his tail lights disappeared, way far in the distance. Silence came down. There was thin moonlight on the road, from a gray night sky. Under the trees was darkness. Reacher set out walking. Alone in the dark.

Patty tried the door. She hoped it wouldn’t open. Not yet. They weren’t ready. They were leaning toward staying together. At least at first. As long as they could. But they hadn’t said so out loud. Not yet. They were leaning toward heading west. Directly away from the track. The opposite direction. A longer route out. Counterintuitive. Maybe a good idea. Maybe predictable. They didn’t know. They hadn’t committed. Not yet. They had debated taking a map from the car. In the end they decided not to. It was a compass they needed. They were worried about getting lost in the woods. They might walk in circles forever.

The door was still locked.

Patty stepped back and sat on the bed.

Two minutes later Reacher arrived at the tow truck. Its hard bulk loomed up out of the gloom. The darkness made its paint look black. Its chrome looked dull and gray. He knelt behind it and felt ahead for the fat rubber wire. He found it and logged its position in his mind. He stepped over it. He forced his way along the side of the truck, leading with his shoulder, elbow high, one side of him sliding easy on the waxed and polished paint, the other side of him getting pelted and scratched with twigs and leaves. He came out at the front and felt his way around to the center of the radiator grille. Which was the center of the track. He lined himself up and set out walking. Two miles to go.

They heard the quad-bikes start up. First one, and then another. The distant shriek of a starter motor, the nervous bark of a high-strung engine, the fast and anxious idle. Then a third machine, and a fourth. The noise beat back off the barn wall. Then a fifth and a sixth. Then all of them, growling and rumbling and buzzing, milling about, snicking into gear, accelerating away one by one, across the grass, onto the track, turning right, away from the house, toward the motel.

For a second Shorty wondered who had gotten the bike they had pushed to the road and back.

Patty tried the door.

Still locked.

The bikes formed up into what sounded like single file. They drove through the lot. Shorty turned and watched out the window. A procession. The boardwalk lights were still on. The bikes drove by, left to right, one by one. The riders were all dressed in black. They all had bows slung across their backs. They all had quivers full of arrows. They all had weird one-eyed night-vision goggles strapped to their heads. Some of them were blipping their engines. Some of them were up out of their saddles, raring to go.

They all rode away.

For a second Shorty wondered who had bet on the west.

Patty tried the door.

It opened.