No Plan B

Chapter 41

Reacher counted thirty-nine people outside the prison, aside from Hannah and himself.

He knew why eleven of them were there. Jed Starmer had come to see his dad get released. The two camera operators and six security guards were getting paid. Bruno Hix, who had introduced himself as Minerva’s founder and CEO, was enjoying the sound of his own voice. And Damon Brockman, who also claimed to be a founder, was standing on the stage, looking smug. Reacher was less sure about the other twenty-eight. He couldn’t understand what kind of carrot or stick would make it worth the waste of their time.

Things livened up a little with just over ten minutes on the clock. Hix had been waffling about percentages and quoting philosophers, one minute waving his arms like he worked in an auction house, the next standing stiff and still like someone was shoving a stick up his ass. Then he stopped talking mid-statistic. An old pickup truck trundled into sight behind the crowd. Six people were perched in its load bed. The driver honked his horn and the nearest spectators moved out of the way. For a moment it looked set to make a run at the barrier. Reacher moved alongside Jed Starmer in case there was trouble. Then the truck stopped. The six guys jumped down. They produced placards that were covered with slogans about justice and profit. One showed a cartoon with Lady Justice’s scales weighed down with dollar bills. A guy raised a bullhorn. He started yelling demands that the prison close. The crowd didn’t like that. The mood turned ugly. Jeering broke out. The protestors were getting shoved and jostled. The security guards ran over to the fence, nightsticks drawn.

Hix jumped down from the stage, microphone in hand, and strode across to the fence. He said, “Stop. Let the people speak.”

The guy with the bullhorn took the microphone. He was silent for a moment, then mumbled his way through a litany of complaints and accusations.

Hix nodded and pulled a series of concerned expressions, then he took the microphone back and the sound immediately became clear and louder. He said, “My young friends, I’m glad you came here today. I’m glad–” Hix locked eyes with Reacher and suddenly he couldn’t find his voice. He stuttered and spluttered for a moment, then tore his gaze away. “I’m glad you care about fairness and humanity. If you were outside another correctional corporation’s facility, there’s a very good chance you’d be right. But here, I’m glad to say, you’re wrong. Minerva cares for the health of those who reside within our walls. Minerva cares for safety. For education. For unlocking potential. And” – Hix turned and dashed back to the stage – “we care about righting wrongs wherever we find them. But don’t just take my word for it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Anton Begovic.”

A flap in the tent that was covering the prison entrance opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing a dark suit and a tie and his hair looked freshly cut. He stood for a moment, blinking in the sunlight. Then Brockman, who had done nothing up to that point, jumped down, took the guy’s arm, and helped him onto the stage.

The guy took the microphone and stepped forward. “Thank you all for being here. Thank you, Mr. Hix. Thank you, Mr. Brockman. And most of all, thank you to the Minerva corporation and everyone who is associated with it. When others wanted to lock me up, they fought to set me free. I am truly grateful, and I swear with you all as my witnesses that I will make the most of every second that has been given back to me.”

The guy waved, then Hix and Brockman shepherded him off the other side of the stage and into the BMW.

Jed ducked and tried to scramble under the barrier.

Reacher grabbed him, pulled him back, and wrapped an arm around his chest.

Jed wriggled and squirmed. “Let me go. I need to get to my dad. He’s not messed up. You guys are wrong.”

“I can’t let you go, Jed,” Reacher said. “Because that man is not your dad.”

Lev Emerson had stood at the entrance to the workshop just north of Vicksburg and watched the flames curl and flutter. He had watched the body twitch and twist. Brighter and faster then softer and gentler until the corner with the chains hanging from the ceiling was dull and limp and ordinary once more. He crossed the courtyard to where Graeber was waiting after stowing the barrel and checking his mapping apps for an abandoned paper mill near the town of Winson.

They drove in convoy, Graeber in front in the shiny black van that was expected at the paper mill, Emerson behind in his shabby white workhorse. They took a short jog east then settled in on a steady southbound heading until they hit the outskirts of Jackson. Then Graeber pulled into a gas station. When they were both done topping off their tanks Graeber pointed to a diner at the side of the site. It was nothing fancy. Just a long, low brick building with a flat roof and a neon sign promising good food.

“What do you think?” Graeber said. “Want to grab a bite? Some coffee? We have plenty of time.”

Emerson looked the place over. There were a dozen open parking spots outside its windows. It would be no problem to keep an eye on the white van. He said, “Sure. Why not?”

The inside of the diner was as simple and functional as the outside. There were ten four-tops, split into two lines of five. Plain furniture. A gray linoleum floor, scratched in places. A serving counter with two coffee machines. A clock on the wall. A framed map of the state. And a TV. A large one. It was the only newish thing in the place. It was tuned to a local news channel. The sound was off, but words summarizing the action were scrolling across a plain band at the bottom of the screen.

Emerson was facing the windows. He was glancing at a menu, wondering what to eat, then Graeber grabbed his forearm.

Graeber said, “The TV. Look.”

The screen was filled with the scene from outside the prison in Winson. A guy in a suit with a brand-new haircut was standing on a stage, speaking into a microphone. The text said, Exoneree Anton Begovic released from custody following successful appeal, thanks to Minerva Corporation. Minerva CEO Bruno Hix said…

“Begovic?” Emerson pulled out the stolen phone, opened it to Carpenter’s picture, and held it up.

Graeber said, “Or Carpenter. It’s the same guy. No doubt about it.”

The camera followed the guy in the suit as a couple of other men guided him into a waiting BMW. The car eased forward, slowly, because of the crowd.

Emerson said, “Look at the plate – MC1. Contact Fassbender. He owes us a favor. Tell him to find out who owns that car. Like, yesterday.”

An accounting thing, Angela had told Sam. Reacher had expected something complicated. Something that would require training and qualifications to unravel. But it turned out to be the simplest discrepancy in the book. One too many. One prisoner. One breakfast. One lunch. One dinner…

Jed jumped into the back of the VW and said, “How can you be so sure that wasn’t my dad? You’ve never met him.”

“I saw his photo from the day he was arrested.”

“People change,” Hannah said. She pulled an exaggerated, fake shiver. “If you saw a picture of me from sixteen years ago…”

Reacher said, “Part of the real Anton Begovic’s ear is missing. Ears don’t grow back. That’s why the photo in the envelope in Angela’s purse was so critical. Without it we would never have known the wrong guy just got released.”

Hannah sped up a little. “Who did get released?”

“Someone who needed a new ID. We’ll find out, if we can catch up to Hix.”

“What if Hix doesn’t go home?”

“I think he will. He wasn’t expecting us to be at the ceremony, so he wasn’t expecting to run. He’ll either hole up or grab some supplies for the road.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’ll call Detective Harewood. Have him bring in the FBI.”

Jed said, “Stop talking about this Hix guy. I don’t care about him. I only care about my dad.”

“We need to find Hix so we can find out what happened to your dad.”

“What happened? Nothing happened. He’s in prison. Still locked up.”

Reacher didn’t reply. Neither did Hannah.

Jed said, “Where else could he be? The wrong guy came out. My dad must still be inside.”

Reacher said, “The wrong guy came out. That’s all we know for sure.”

“The guy took my dad’s name.” Jed started to cry. “You can’t have two people with the same name. My dad’s dead. Isn’t he? That’s what you’re not saying. He’s dead and I never even got to meet him.”

Hannah cruised slowly past the big white house. The BMW was back in the same spot as it had been that morning.

“Thank goodness. He’s there.” Hannah pulled over to the grass verge at the side of the road. “But what can we do now? You can’t buzz the intercom and ask Hix to let you in. I bet the gates are too strong to smash through. They probably have sensors that go off if you climb them. There’s broken glass cemented on the top of the walls. And I bet there are sensors in the ground on the other side.”

“Back up, close to the wall.” Reacher took a gun from the pillowcase. The desert tan SIG P320 he’d captured from the second pair of guys at the truck stop on I-20. “Jed, look in the bottom drawer. I need five blankets. And the cushion from the couch.”

Reacher tied two of the blankets corner to diagonal corner to maximize their combined length. He rolled them to form a makeshift rope, coiled it, and slung it around his neck. Then he tied the other three blankets together the same way. He secured one end to the VW’s rear fender and climbed onto its roof. Hannah passed him the cushion. He set it down on the glass that was fixed into the top of the wall. He laid the blanket over the cushion and lowered it slowly to make sure it didn’t touch the ground on the far side. He stepped onto the wall and stood with his feet on the narrow strip of brick without any shards. Checked that the blankets hung down far enough to grab if he needed to climb back out. Then he looked around. There was a clear band of grass, four feet wide, at the base of the wall. That’s where the sensors would be buried. Beyond the grass, running the length of the property, there was a swathe of trees twenty feet deep. Reacher aimed for a gap between two of the thinner ones. He jumped, threw himself forward, rolled, and pushed himself up into a crouch. He listened. There were no alarms. No bells. No dogs.

Reacher straightened up and moved behind the tree line until he got to a point where he could approach the house on a diagonal, toward one corner. That way there would be no windows directly facing him. He crawled forward until he was at the limit of his cover. Then he lay for five minutes, completely still, observing.

There was a sound, behind him and to the left. A twig snapping. Reacher hustled back then got up and ran toward the source of the noise. He rounded a tree. And found a man. He was sitting at the base of the trunk, hugging his knees to his chest. He peered up at Reacher and whispered, “Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”

Reacher kept his voice low. “I’m not going to hurt you. Who are you?”

The guy straightened a little and when Reacher could see more of him he thought he looked like a young Che Guevara. The guy said, “My name’s Maurice. You?”

“Reacher. What are you doing here?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“You work for Hix? Or anyone at Minerva?”

“Hell, no.”

“You going to call the police, or do anything stupid?”

“The police are the last people I’d call. And could I do anything more stupid than get stuck in this damn yard?”

“OK, then. Nice meeting you.” Reacher turned and started back toward the house.

“Wait. Hix is home. So’s his number two. And some other guy.”

Reacher ignored him and kept moving.

Maurice scurried after Reacher. “Wait. Please. I have to ask you. Are you working on a story? Because if you are–”

Reacher said, “Are you a journalist?”

Maurice nodded.

“I’m not. I’m not going to steal your thunder. So stay here. Lie low. Keep quiet. Don’t attract any attention. Somebody’s life is at stake.”

“Somebody’s? Lots of people’s.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’re here because of the drugs, right? That’s why you’re going after Hix. What happened? Did you lose a family member? A friend? In a Minerva prison?”

Reacher grabbed Maurice’s arm and dragged him back, deeper into the trees. “Tell me what you know. All of it. Now. The nutshell version.”

“It’s like this. Minerva’s an octopus, right? An evil one. On the surface all progressive and enlightened. But the truth? Tentacles everywhere. They cherry-pick inmates. Put them to work. All kinds of ways. Including refining drugs. They do it in their disused segregation units. Supply their own populations. Which is why their death rate is so high. They deny it, but it’s true. And they’ve expanded. They supply other markets now, too.”

Drugs made sense, Reacher thought. All prisons have a problem with them. Maybe Minerva saw it as an opportunity. It could be big business. And guys involved in that trade are the kind who find themselves needing new identities from time to time. He said, “Where’s your proof?”

“Death rates. I’ve got that documented. Nothing else. Yet.”

“I’m going to visit with Hix, right now. The subject may come up. Anything concrete I find, it’s all yours.”