No Plan B

Chapter 19

Twelve hundred miles away, in Winson, Mississippi, it was time for Curtis Riverdale to get busy.

Riverdale was an anomaly within the Minerva corporation. An outlier. He was unusual because he was in his post when the prison got taken over. Minerva’s standard procedure was to sideline the existing warden when a new site was bought. Shift him into some kind of impotent, figurehead position. Wait for the boredom and humiliation to eat away at him until he found a job somewhere else. And if he tried to stick it out, fire him, hot on the heels of a third of his staff.

The process had gotten under way as usual. A bunch of new guards had been drafted in. Proven Minerva people from the company’s other facilities. Tailor made to slot in place of the guys who’d just been discarded. The new warden was installed at the same time. A tall, skinny forty-year-old who dressed like a banker and spoke like a radio host. He did all the usual new-boss things to prove he could walk and talk at the same time. But he didn’t settle in Winson. He kept getting sick. He spent more time in the hospital than at work. After six months he couldn’t take it anymore. He quit. And during the new guy’s many absences Riverdale took the opportunity to step back up. He proved himself invaluable. Adaptable. Discreet. Able to fit into Minerva’s mode of operation in a way Hix had never seen in a warden his company had inherited.

Some correctional corporations treat the business of incarceration as if they were supermarkets. They take a kind of pile-them-high, sell-them-cheap approach. But Minerva wasn’t like that. Right from the start Hix and Brockman had a different view of what they did. They saw themselves as being more like prospectors in the Old West. Their goal was the same. To sort the gold from the dirt. Only they didn’t use shovels and buckets and sieves. They had a system. One they had devised themselves. They had refined it. Improved it. And they used it to sift through the constant stream of inmates sent by the states they had contracts with.

The process started with the freshly convicted. The new fish. Lawyers evaluated their cases. Accountants reviewed their finances. Genealogists traced their family trees. Then aptitude tests were administered. Inmates with certain skills and talents were identified. Psychologists were brought in to assess their personalities. The suitable ones were selected. The rest were sent to the doctors along with the other prisoners. A whole bunch of screening procedures were carried out. Treatments were prescribed wherever necessary. And after each individual was fully scrutinized and categorized, it was decided which facility to send them to.

The first category of prisoner had the potential for their convictions to be quashed, either for PR or for profit. They were distributed evenly throughout Minerva’s sites. The second had no special potential. This was the largest group by far. The corporation’s bread and butter. Dull, but necessary. Most of its members went to Minerva’s older prisons but some were brought to Winson for appearance’s sake. The third category was smaller. More interesting. All its members came to Winson. And the fourth category was smaller still. It wasn’t interesting, exactly. But it was lucrative. Often there was only one person in it on any given day. Sometimes there were two. Sometimes there were none at all.

That afternoon there was a single prisoner in the fourth category. He was housed all alone in Unit S1. The segregation unit that was still selectively operational. So that was where Riverdale started his rounds. He had arrangements to make. Personnel to organize. Processing. Packaging. Distribution. There was a whole complex operation to keep on the rails.

That was assuming everything went according to plan on Friday. If not the place would be mothballed. Indefinitely. And a lot of Minerva staff would find themselves on their way to other prisons. Where they would wind up on the other side of the bars.

Jack Reacher left Gerrardsville, Colorado, on foot, the same way he had arrived two days earlier.

As he walked Reacher thought about the best way to get to his destination. Winson, Mississippi. He had never heard of the place before he saw it printed on Angela St. Vrain’s driver’s license. He had been planning on a detour to Gerrardsville’s library to learn more about it but while they were still on the bench in Wiles Park Detective Harewood had taken out his phone. Pulled up a map. Of sorts. An indistinct multicolored tangle of roads and other features on a small, scratched screen. But enough to show Reacher the general location of the town. It was on the very edge of the state, no more than a dot, nestled into a C-shaped curve on the east bank of the Mississippi River.

Finding his way to Winson would not be a problem. Reacher was more worried about how long the journey would take. He had two dead bodies on his mind. At least one killer was on the loose. With at least one accomplice. On a trail that was getting colder by the minute. He had plenty of energy. He had cash in his pocket. But not much time.

The mountains were to his right, sawing away at the clear blue sky. The sun was turning pink and starting to dip down toward their highest peaks. It was still warm but Reacher’s shadow was growing longer, dancing and skipping across the rough, bleached blacktop at his side. The air was still. It was quiet. No cars had gone by since he had crossed the town boundary. No vans. No trucks. Normally Reacher would have enjoyed the solitude. But not today. It only added to his growing impatience.

Reacher picked up his pace and after thirty seconds he heard a sound behind him. A truck’s motor. A large diesel, rattling and clattering like a freight train. He looked around and saw a pickup barreling toward him. It was red. It had black glass and lots of chrome. Reacher had seen it before. He stopped walking, stepped to the edge of the road, and let it catch up to him.

The truck braked abruptly to a halt, rocked on its springs for a moment, then the passenger window buzzed down. Hannah Hampton was in the driver’s seat. Her right hand was on the steering wheel. She smiled and looked at Reacher and said, “Open the door.”

Reacher worked the handle and swung the door as far as its hinges allowed it to go.

The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face. She brought her left hand up from the gap between her thigh and the driver’s door. She was holding a gun. A short, squat, black pistol. It was an inch wide with a three-inch barrel. Less than six inches, total length. A SIG P365, Reacher thought. He had never fired one. Never even handled one. The whole subcompact thing had gotten popular after his time in the army was over, fueled by the concealed-carry craze. But he had read about that particular model. He knew it was no joke.

Hannah pointed the gun at the center of Reacher’s chest and said, “Stay there. Stand still.”

A repeat customer. The Holy Grail of any business. Not someone to be questioned or doubted or turned away.

Lev Emerson was counting on the guys he was after to be running their organization like a business. Albeit not a regular one. He didn’t know its name. It didn’t advertise. It didn’t have a logo, as far as he was aware. No website. No bank details for online payments. No app. No social media presence. Just a front man. And a ship. The last, floating resort of the desperate. The place people had to go when they couldn’t get what they needed anywhere else.

Emerson had paid the front man in cash the last time he had gotten involved. The only time. To get his son, Kyle, onto the ship. Kyle had certainly been desperate. But he hadn’t got what he needed. He got something that killed him, instead.

Emerson had paid a lot of cash, the last time. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Any kind of further involvement with these guys would be a mistake. But if the front man took the bait, he would be the one making the error. That was for damn sure. Him. The people he worked for. And, most important, the people who supplied them. The ultimate source of the poison that had killed Kyle. Because Emerson didn’t want to just cut off a limb. He wanted to slay the whole beast. To incinerate every cell in its body.

If the front man took the bait.

Emerson took a breath and hit Send. His laptop made a whoosh sound. His message disappeared from its screen. He pictured it as a stream of ones and zeros, bouncing around the internet. Pinging from one untraceable server to another, all around the world. Maybe reaching its destination. Maybe not. Maybe being read. Maybe not. Maybe convincing the front man. Appealing to his greed. Bypassing any hint of suspicion about why such a recent customer should be getting back in the market.

Or maybe not.

Jack Reacher had lost count of the number of people who had pointed guns at him over the years. Often the person with their finger on the trigger was angry. Sometimes they were scared. Or determined. Or elated. Or relieved. Occasionally they were calm and professional. But Hannah Hampton had an expression on her face that Reacher had never seen in that kind of situation before. She looked embarrassed.

She said, “I’m sorry. Ninety-nine percent of me thinks I’m wrong. That I’m crazy. But I have to know for sure.”

Reacher said, “Know what?”

“Why you showed up at Sam’s door.”

“I told you why.”

“You told me a story. How do I know it’s true?”

“You talked to Detective Harewood. He confirmed it.”

Hannah shook her head. “He confirmed what you were doing. Looking into Angela’s murder. Not why.”

“I’m helping him out.”

“Why?”

“Angela was murdered. So was Sam. Someone should do something about that.”

“Yes. The detective should. It’s his job. And he has the whole police department to back him up. Why does he need your help?”

“He’s facing some … institutional obstacles.”

“Such as?”

“That doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is whether you want Sam’s killer to go free. If you don’t, you need to put the gun down.”

“What if it’s not that simple?”

“It is that simple.”

Hannah paused, but she didn’t lower the gun. “Here’s my problem. There’s a little voice at the back of my head and it won’t shut up. It keeps saying, you were the only one who knew Angela was murdered. You were the only one who knew Sam didn’t have a heart attack. You were the only one who suggested Angela sent Sam some secret evidence. You were the only one who went looking for it.”

“That’s why Harewood needs my help.”

“Unless there’s another explanation.”

“There isn’t.”

“If you had found the evidence at Sam’s apartment, or in his mailbox, what would you have done?”

“Given it to Harewood.”

“But would you, though? That’s the real question.”

“You think I was trying to get it for myself?”

“That’s a possibility. You have to admit it. You have no legal standing here. No official role.”

“So you also think I killed Angela? And Sam? That’s the bottom line, right?”

Reacher kept his eyes on Hannah’s trigger finger. Her knuckle gleamed white. But it didn’t flex. Not yet.

Hannah said, “You know an awful lot about how Angela and Sam died. And why.”

“I don’t know nearly enough about that. But what I have learned, I’ve told Harewood. Because I am helping him. Call him. Ask if that’s true.”

“If you’re helping, why are you leaving town? Did you find the evidence?” Hannah looked at Reacher. It dawned on her that he had no bag. No case. No bulging pockets. “Did you destroy it?”

“No.”

“So why are you leaving?”

“Because I didn’t find it. I need to look somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Winson, Mississippi.”

“Where Angela lived?”

“Where she worked. Where she found the problem that led to all this.”

Hannah was silent for a moment. “You’re going to find out who killed Sam?”

“I’m going to try.”

“You promise?”

“You have my word.”

“Does that mean anything?”

Reacher nodded.

Hannah said, “If you find the guy who killed Sam? What will you do?”

“Give him the chance to surrender.”

“And if he doesn’t take it?”

“That’ll be his problem.”

Hannah lowered the gun. “OK. I believe you. I think. And I do want Sam’s killer caught. So, how can I help?”

“You can give me a ride to Denver. There’s a Greyhound station there.”

Lev Emerson’s message did make its way to the front man. It reached him almost immediately. And it found him in a trusting frame of mind. Or a greedy one. Emerson wasn’t sure which. And he didn’t care either way. Because the guy replied. No hesitation. No delay. It was nothing fancy. Just a time. A location. And a date.

Emerson sent his confirmation. The meeting was locked in. For the following day. At 10:00 a.m.

Emerson looked across the table at Graeber. He said, “Fetch a barrel. A big one. We have some mixing to do.”