The Sentinel

TEN

Reacher had heard stories over the years about people coming home, drunk or stoned, and going into the wrong house. Sometimes they were found there later, asleep in a bed or passed out on the floor. Sometimes they got shot by the home’s rightful owner. Sometimes they did the shooting, thinking their own home had been invaded. Reacher had heard plenty of excuses over the course of his career. The idea of a mistaken address was one he’d always found hard to swallow. That changed when he arrived in Holly’s neighbourhood.

He could picture it freshly built. Two miles west of town. One squat rectangular house after another. One rectangular lot after another. All on a succession of right-angle streets. All carved out of the surrounding fields by the flood of money flowing around the state in a wave of postwar development. It would have been easy to mistake one for another when they were freshly minted. Approaching the wrong one would still be a straightforward mistake to make despite the minor variations that had crept in over time. There was a newer roof here, less bleached after fewer years in the ferocious Tennessee sun. An extension there, defying the neighbours’ uniform contours. Some houses had fresher paint. Some had greener lawns. And others had owners who’d abandoned their attempts at decorating and gardening altogether.

Reacher walked up the path leading to the house next to Holly’s, but he wasn’t making a mistake. It was a deliberate move. Because of Holly’s front door. She had the worst kind, from a cop’s perspective. It had no windows so you couldn’t see in from the outside. There was a peephole so anyone on the inside could see out. And it was made out of wood panels. They were thin. Useless for security. They could be kicked through in a second. About as far from a boulder rolled across the entrance to a cave as you could get. But that kind of door did have one advantage for anyone defending the premises. Easy as it would be to open, there’d be no need. They could fire right through it. A shotgun would be the best bet. Not that Reacher expected a waitress to be lurking in the hallway with a full load of double aught. But it’s what you don’t expect that gets you killed.

There was no answer at the neighbour’s door. Reacher rang the bell again and waited. He allowed time for the demands of old legs or young babies. Then when he was reasonably certain the house was unoccupied he made his way down the side of the garage. He selected a section of fence which wasn’t overlooked and where the wood seemed at its strongest and vaulted over into Holly’s back yard.

It looked like someone’s hopes for the space had been high. Once. A long time ago. Approximately half the area was given over to a lawn. Its curved edge followed the shape of a sine wave and it was finished with a border of rustic bricks, set end-on. Only now the mortar between them was cracked and the grass was scorched and dead. In the far corner was the wooden skeleton of an arbour. Reacher guessed it had been conceived as a place to relax. Maybe with a bottle of wine in mind. Maybe with a little romance. Only now the vines that had been trained over it were shrivelled and dry. The trellis was smashed in several places. And the chain holding up the swinging love seat was detached on one side.

The part of the yard that wasn’t grass had been covered with flagstones. They clearly hadn’t seen the business end of a broom for many months. There was also a round metal table, painted green, with an overflowing ashtray and a pair of chairs. They were set near a sliding door. It was made of glass. Much better, Reacher thought.

Reacher stayed close to the wall and moved until he was close enough to look in through the door. He could see one person. A woman. She was wearing a pink robe and sitting at a small table with a mug of coffee in front of her, untouched. She was leaning with her head in her hands and her hair was loose, cascading forward. Reacher tapped on the glass. The woman sat bolt upright. She turned to the door. Reacher got a clear view. It was Holly. Her face was creased with shock. And fear. And she had a giant bruise around her left eye. She tipped her head until her hair covered her face again, then waved Reacher away.

Reacher shook his head.

Holly waved for him go.

Reacher made as if to knock again. He pulled his arm way back. Made it clear that if he did knock, it was going to be loud.

Holly jumped up, hurried to the door, slid it open, pushed Reacher back, and stepped outside. She slid the door shut, trying to be gentle, but made sure it was fully closed.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was a stern hiss. ‘You’ll get me in trouble.’

‘Looks like you managed that without my help,’ Reacher said. ‘Who did that to your face?’

Holly tugged at her hair. ‘No one. I was in a rush getting ready for work yesterday and it was late when I got home and I was tired so I forgot I left my wardrobe door open and I walked right into it. Anyway, my clumsiness is none of your business. What do you want? And why are you in my yard?’

‘I’m here as a representative of the International Fellowship of Luddites. We’re having a recruitment drive and after last night it occurred to me that you would be an ideal candidate.’

Holly’s good eye narrowed and she took half a step back. ‘What’s a Luddite?’

‘Someone who’s opposed to progress. Especially any that comes from new technology. Named after an English guy. Ned Ludd. He broke a bunch of machines back in the eighteenth century.’

‘Are you crazy? I don’t care about some ancient English guy. And I’m not opposed to progress.’

‘Then why don’t you want the town’s computers working again? What other reason could you have for wanting them to stay locked down?’

Holly shook her head. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. I work at the diner. Our computer’s working fine. Why would I care about the town’s?’

‘The bozos you set on me last night certainly cared. I assumed you shared their feelings.’

‘What bozos? Those guys have got nothing to do with me.’

‘Sure they do. They’re your friends. Or your boyfriend’s friends.’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘So your friends, then.’

‘No.’

‘OK, then. Let me ask you this. Before last night do you know how many times I’ve been mistaken for an insurance guy?’

Holly didn’t reply.

‘Zero times,’ Reacher said. ‘In the whole of my life. And then twice in half an hour. First you. Then them. You had a reason. You saw me with the real insurance guy.’

Holly was silent.

‘The bozos had a reason too,’ Reacher said. ‘A different one.’

Holly didn’t respond.

‘They thought I was an insurance guy because you told them I was,’ Reacher said. ‘They didn’t see me getting out of the real guy’s car, and let’s face it, they don’t have the brains to jump to their own conclusions anyway. Even the wrong conclusions. Can we at least agree on that?’

‘I guess,’ Holly said.

‘Everyone in town knows the insurance company is going to pay the ransom and get the computers working. The bozos wanted the insurance company to back off. That means you want the insurance company to back off. Which means you want the computers to stay locked down. Why?’

Holly didn’t answer.

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Let’s approach this from a different direction. When did your boyfriend last get himself arrested?’

Holly’s good eye widened. ‘I told you, I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Yes you do.’

She shook her head and looked at the ground.

‘Do you smoke, Holly?’

She glanced at the ashtray on the table. ‘Sometimes. After work. When I’ve had a hard day.’

‘You wear makeup at work?’

Holly nodded.

‘Then how come none of those cigarette butts have lipstick on them?’

Holly bit her lower lip for a moment. ‘Because of when I smoke them. I come home from work and take off my makeup and put on my pyjamas and my robe and I come out for one ciggie right before bed. It relaxes me. Helps me get off to sleep.’

‘I don’t believe you. I think they’re your boyfriend’s. I think he sits out here in the fresh air, smoking, while you’re working your tail off at the diner to pay for his habit.’

‘No. He doesn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I told you. I don’t have a—’

The door slid open and a man stepped out and shoved Holly aside. He was around six feet two, skinny, with pallid skin speckled with uneven patches of ginger stubble. He had greasy hair tied up in a ponytail which dangled between his shoulder blades. He was wearing lounge pants, baggy and shapeless and covered with cartoon superheroes, and a T-shirt that once might have been white.

‘Stop asking questions.’ The guy stumbled forward. His eyes were barely open as they struggled to adjust to the sunlight. He took another step, picked up one of the metal chairs, and brandished it as if he was trying to tame a lion. ‘Shut your mouth. And leave.’

‘What’s your name?’ Reacher said.

The guy didn’t respond.

‘It’s a simple question. Most people get to grips with their name long before they start kindergarten. Some even learn to write it down. But if you need more time, Holly and I could go inside. She could get me a cup of coffee. We could chat.’

‘My name’s Bob.’

‘Good,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll assume you’re lying, but Bob’s as good a name as any so we’ll go with it. Now, Bob. Do you want to do this out here? I was thinking we could go upstairs. See if any more wardrobe doors have been left open.’

The guy glared at Holly.

‘Although it does look like you could use some sunlight so I’ll do you a deal. Answer one question, truthfully, and I won’t insert any part of that chair into any part of your body.’

The guy didn’t reply.

‘The last time you got arrested,’ Reacher said. ‘When was that?’

No reply.

‘It’s not hard,’ Reacher said. ‘Start with the day of the week. There are only seven to pick from.’

No reply.

‘Are your arms getting tired yet?’ Reacher said. ‘Feel free to put that thing down any time.’

The chair was not a great choice of weapon. It was too light to use as a club, especially against someone Reacher’s size. And it was too unwieldy to stab with. The guy’s best option was to throw it, preferably making it spin, and try to exploit Reacher’s natural instinct to bat it away. His arms might be out of position, just for a moment. His attention might waver, very slightly. The guy might get one chance to land a blow. If he was fast enough.

The guy didn’t throw the chair. He took half a step and jabbed at Reacher’s body with it. He took another half step and jabbed at Reacher’s body again. Then he raised the chair higher and lunged for Reacher’s face. Reacher grabbed the closest leg with his left hand and forced the chair out to the side. The guy clung on. He was pulling as hard as he could, desperate to retrieve it. It was his lance. His shield. His property, and he wasn’t about to give it up. He was heaving with both hands. Which left his head and body completely exposed. Reacher could have kept the tug of war going all afternoon but he had a rule when it came to fights. Finish them. And finish them fast. So he launched a huge scything roundhouse punch with his right hand. His fist hit the side of the guy’s head like a sledgehammer. His feet left the ground and he flew sideways, landing crumpled in the dirt where the grass should have been and sending up a thin plume of dust.

Holly ran to him, crouched down, and felt his neck for a pulse. ‘Is he OK?’ she said. ‘Is he alive?’

‘Probably.’ Reacher replaced the chair next to the table. ‘Physically, anyway. Now go inside. Get dressed. Grab your purse.’

‘Why? Where are you taking me?’

‘Nowhere. You’re going on your own. You need to stay away from the house for a couple of hours. The police will be here soon. After that you can come back. Or not. It’s up to you.’

It took Holly ten minutes to prepare herself to face the world. Reacher used the time to carry the inert guy on to the patio and tie him to the chair he’d just been brandishing. She appeared in the kitchen in a pink flowery sundress, white sneakers, and a denim baseball cap. She glared at Reacher then turned away without saying a word. He looped around the side of the garage and watched her drive away in an old silver Mazda roadster with its roof up. Then he returned to the kitchen and helped himself to the coffee that was left in the pot. He waited another ten minutes in case she doubled back. Then he made his way back to Marty’s car and told Rutherford to drive to the police station.

‘It’s time to level with me, Rusty,’ Reacher said as they took the first right-angle bend. ‘What are you not telling me?’

‘Nothing.’ Rutherford glanced across at Reacher. ‘I mean, like what?’

‘The guys who are after you. We need to figure out what they want. They don’t want to kill you – not yet, anyway – or they would have done it already. They don’t want retribution or they would have sent a couple of low-rent clowns like the ones from last night. Their operation is too sophisticated for that. And too expensive. So they must want something. Something valuable.’

‘I don’t have anything valuable.’

‘What about information? Something only you know.’

‘I don’t know anything. Nothing important anyway.’

‘Maybe you do. It could be something that seemed trivial when you learned it. Something you came across at work but didn’t realize the significance of at the time. You were the town’s IT manager, right? So you must have had access to all the town’s computers. All its data. Didn’t you ever get bored and search through confidential records? Read people’s emails?’

‘Of course I did. Everyone does that.’

‘What kind of secrets did you find?’

‘Nothing interesting.’

‘Anyone having an affair?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone being pressured to vote a particular way?’

‘Nothing about voting.’

‘Anyone taking bribes?’

‘No.’

‘Any money missing?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Rutherford blipped the gas and swung around a garbage truck.

‘Maybe you picked up some information without realizing. The email from the dead journalist, for example. Could there have been any kind of message hidden in it?’

‘No.’ Rutherford slowed as a minivan pulled out of a driveway. ‘There were no attachments. And her messages were just simple questions about property records. From the 1940s or 50s, I think. Nothing I have any knowledge about, anyway.’

‘What about the regular mail? Did you receive anything unusual? At home, or at the office?’

‘No. I get hardly any mail. Beside bills. And junk.’

‘Have you bought anything recently? An old book? A painting? A piece of furniture? A car? Some vintage clothes? Anything a document or a computer disc could be concealed in?’

‘I got some new Blu-rays. But the ones I haven’t watched yet are still sealed up in their wrappers.’

‘Have there been any other coincidences? Like the journalist contacting you, then winding up dead?’

‘I can’t think of any. My life really isn’t very exciting. All I did was work for the town.’

‘I believe you, Rusty. But if I find out you were moonlighting for NASA or the CIA, I’m going to be pissed.’

‘I wish. But can you really see a bunch of rocket scientists or spies knocking on my door? Asking for my help? I told you about my only side project. The one I was working on with my friend. And it’s worthless. It didn’t work. Nobody wants it. Not even me.’