The Sentinel

THIRTY

Rusty Rutherford emerged from his apartment on Monday morning, exactly two weeks after he got fired.

He wasn’t normally the type of guy who dawdled in his local coffee shop. He went to the same one every day. Purely for the caffeine. He didn’t go in search of conversation. He wasn’t interested in finding new company. He stood quietly in line. Placed his order. Collected his drink as soon as it was ready. And left. Even after the week he spent with Jack Reacher it proved a difficult habit to break.

The adjustment process wasn’t made any easier by the response he received from the other patrons. Everyone was pleased to see him. He felt like a magnet with the right polarity. The surrounding customers crowded in closer than usual. By the time he reached the counter he had exchanged kind words with a dozen other people. And he had seen how the barista dealt with the two men in front of him when they stepped up to order. She had slammed their cups on the counter. Slopped coffee into the saucers then slid them forward, spilling even more. But she smiled at Rusty when it was his turn, and asked if he wanted his regular.

‘House blend, medium, no room for milk, right?’ she said.

‘Right,’ Rusty said. ‘To go.’

‘It’s on the house,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow?’

The same time Rusty Rutherford was leaving the coffee shop, Jack Reacher was standing at the side of the street. He was half a block from the town’s only set of traffic lights, which were working perfectly. He watched Rutherford set off, heading east. Not hurrying. Not dawdling. Just drifting along in his own little bubble. Following a familiar route. Comfortable with his surroundings. Heading home. Where he belonged.

A car drew up alongside Reacher and stopped. It was new and shiny and bland. A rental. Driven by the insurance guy Reacher had met the week before. He was still wearing his plain, dark-coloured suit. But he no longer seemed panic-stricken. More like he was on top of the world.

‘Need a ride?’ the guy said.

‘Where are you going?’ Reacher said.

‘Nashville. Meeting at the office. Giving a presentation about how I negotiated the ransom down forty per cent, and still got the town’s systems back up and running. All apart from some archive thing, but whatever. History. Who cares?’

Reacher thought for a moment. He had just left Nashville, and he had a rule. Never go back. It rarely ends well. But he had been making a few exceptions recently. They had all worked out OK. And if he made another one now he could go to a club.

Catch a band.

Make sure they got paid.