The Sentinel

THREE

The team’s temporary base had been established the week before in a motel eight miles west of town. Traffic was light so theoretically the ground could be covered in twelve minutes without drawing unwelcome attention. But that afternoon the occupants of both vehicles took substantially longer to get back.

The guys from the Suburban made it first. It was easier for them since neither was injured. They started by heading ten miles north. The driver, who went by the name of Vasili, gave it an initial blast to get clear of the arriving police, then slowed to just above the limit until they reached a patch of waste ground behind a dense stand of trees. The place was secluded enough but they knew better than to torch the damaged vehicle. That would be the same as texting a map to the cops and saying Here’s the SUV you’re looking for. And if it could be salvaged the Suburban would still be a valuable asset, so they got to work. Vasili lined up on a concrete post at the end of a fence by the side of the road and slammed back into it. He pulled forward and repeated the manoeuvre then climbed out to check the damage. It was satisfactory, he decided. Deep enough to obscure the dent sustained when they clipped the police car but not so extensive as to give a different cop an excuse to pull them over. He drove around behind the trees and wiped down the interior while his partner, who used the name Anatole, swapped the plates. Then they switched to their secondary vehicle for the final thirteen-mile diagonal stretch.

Natasha was driving the Toyota. She started out going south for six miles. She took it very easy. She had an additional reason to drive slowly. She was worried about two of her companions. The guy Reacher had thrown through the window, Petya, had wound up with an injured shoulder. Natasha wasn’t sure if the damage had been done going in or wriggling out. He had kept quiet at the time but now his face was pale and he groaned every time they hit a bump or a pothole. Ilya, the guy Reacher hit, was still out cold. Natasha was concerned about concussion and didn’t want to cause any additional damage. She wanted both of them back in the game as soon as humanly possible. It was hard not to paint what had happened that afternoon as anything but a failure. With failure comes the danger of replacement. That danger grows if the team is left under strength. And that danger had to be avoided at all costs.

After fifteen minutes they pulled into a lot belonging to a chintzy roadside diner. Natasha switched plates while the other woman, Sonya, helped Petya into their secondary vehicle. Together the two women transferred the unconscious Ilya and sanitized the Toyota’s interior. Then they set out for the motel, looping further west than strictly necessary which stretched the final leg out to twelve miles.

Natasha had taken her time at each stage of the journey. Partly due to thorough training. Partly due to taking pride in doing the job right. But mainly due to how little she was looking forward to the next step in the process. The report. Making the call presented no major difficulty. There was no particular challenge in describing what had happened. She knew that her contact would listen without interruption. He’d save any questions he might have until she’d finished speaking. He’d hang up. And then there would be the wait. For the verdict. Continue. Or stand down. A fighting chance. Or disaster.

The information would flow up the chain of command until a decision was reached. Who that involved or where they were located, Natasha didn’t know. The system was designed that way. For security. Compartmentalization was king in the world she currently inhabited. She suspected there must be a local connection. Someone with their ear to the ground. Who raised the alarm in the first place. Who may or may not still be involved. Who may or may not have a say in the outcome. Identifying him or her would be possible, she supposed. Maybe necessary. Certainly desirable. But that was a problem for the future. Right then all she had to worry about was keeping her team, and therefore herself, in the field.

The lead officer took care of searching Reacher. He was thorough. And slow. Rutherford was in the back of the first car before the officer got as far as Reacher’s waist. He was reclaiming a little authority, Reacher guessed. Showing whose timetable they were working to. Reacher stood still and let him finish. Then the officer stepped to the side and made a call on his cell, while another cop guided Reacher into the back of the second car.

Reacher expected the station house to be outside the main part of town, some place where the real estate was cheaper, so he was surprised when the journey ended after two streets. The cop used his lights to blast through the intersection with the broken signals, took the next left, then swung left again into a lot at the side of a wide sandstone building. It was braced with Greek columns and studded with rows of parallel windows. The officer pulled up next to the car that had been hit by the Suburban and climbed out. A framed sign announced the place as the courthouse, and smaller letters underneath added that it was also home to the treasurer’s department, the town clerk, and the police department. All it was lacking for full efficiency was the jail.

The officer led the way past the porticoed entrance at the front of the building, which was apparently reserved for members of the public who hadn’t been arrested, and continued around to the side. He stopped at a plain metal door, ignored its card reader and unlocked it with a key, then ushered Reacher down a dimly lit flight of cement steps. They emerged at the side of a reception counter. It was glassed in all the way to the ceiling and had a full set of blinds, which were closed. On the opposite side brass handrails lined the stairs that respectable citizens could use on their way to file reports or make enquiries or conduct whatever other kind of legitimate business regular people have.

The officer pressed a buzzer and after a moment a door opened, leading to a booking area. Another cop was waiting at a large wooden table. Behind him there were two desks supporting worn but serviceable computers which were currently switched off, a stack of deep plastic trays in a rainbow of colours, and a pale, droopy potted plant. The walls were covered with posters warning against the dangers of crime and encouraging the public to take responsibility for their own safety. The cop grabbed one of the trays and dropped it on the table near where Reacher was standing.

‘Put your possessions in there.’ He sounded bored. ‘You’ll get them back when you’re released.’

Reacher produced his roll of cash. His toothbrush. His ATM card. And his passport.

‘Is that all?’

‘What else do I need?’ Reacher said.

The cop shrugged and started to count the cash. When he was done he handed Reacher a receipt then led the way along a corridor to a door marked Interrogation Room 2. The interior was lined with sound-muffling tiles. Reacher had seen them before. He knew they served no sonic purpose. They were part of a psychological trick designed to give suspects the illusion that they were in a place where it was safe to spill the dirt on their partners. The floor was smooth concrete and the metal table and chairs were bolted to it. The observation window was made to look like a mirror in the usual way and a panic strip ran around the walls at waist level. Reacher guessed they’d brought him there because they only had one cell area. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him talking to the guy he’d rescued. Too much risk of them lining up their stories. And he knew they’d make him wait. An hour, at least. Maybe two. A standard tactic. Isolation breeds the urge to talk. An urge to talk can become an urge to confess. He’d used the technique himself, countless times. And this wasn’t the first time it had been used against him.

Both chairs were too close to the table to be comfortable so Reacher sat on the floor in the corner opposite the door. The clock in his head told him that an hour thirty-seven had passed by the time the door opened again. Ninety-seven minutes. The largest two-digit prime number. One of his favourites. He took that as a good sign. A less good sign was the smug grin on the face of the man who’d entered the room. He didn’t look a day over thirty and was all curly hair and rounded features. He took the chair with its back to the window and continued to smile.

‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ the man said. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Want to grab a seat? Join me? See if we can’t get this thing squared away?’

Reacher shrugged as if he didn’t care either way then stood, stretched, and wedged himself into the chair on the other side of the table.

‘I’m John Goodyear.’ The man’s grin grew even wider. ‘I’m the detective here?’

‘Jack Reacher.’

‘I know that. But what I don’t know is your deal. Why are you in my town?’

‘I don’t have a deal. I’m in this town by chance.’

‘What kind of chance? You get abducted by aliens and they drop you here at random?’

‘I hitched a ride. With a guy. This happened to be his destination. I’m not staying here. I’m going to grab some food. Some coffee. Then I’ll be gone.’

‘You were planning to stay just long enough to rip off a store, in other words?’

‘What?’

Goodyear produced Reacher’s toothbrush from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘See, I was lying. I do know your deal. You stick this in your pocket and pretend it’s a gun. People aren’t going to fall for it every time, sure, but plenty won’t want to take the chance. Am I right?’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘I am?’ Goodyear smiled. ‘Account for this, then.’ He placed Reacher’s roll of money on the table next to his toothbrush. ‘You have an ATM card but you didn’t get these notes from any bank. They use fresh, crisp ones. These would get stuck and gum up the machine. So, where did you get them?’

‘I earned them.’

‘How?’

‘A new venture of mine. I recently dipped a toe in the music business.’

Goodyear leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘A word to the wise, Reacher. This is the twenty-first century. Police departments have computers now, and those computers are all connected. I’m running your description across Tennessee and nine surrounding states. The results will be in soon. Very soon. In minutes, maybe. The smart thing is to get out ahead of that. Tell me yourself, right now, and I’ll help with your statement. Wait until I have a stack of computer printouts to work with and it’ll be worse for you. Much worse. Who knows what other charges might come to light? Vagrancy wouldn’t be a big surprise, for one.’

‘I didn’t see any lakes on my way into town,’ Reacher said. ‘I guess that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘Why you’re trying to go fishing in here. You have no reason to suspect me of any crime. I travel light. So what? I have done for years. Ever since I left the army. And so we’re straight, you haven’t contacted any other police departments.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘If you had, you’d already have an answer. Let’s face it, I’m a distinctive-looking guy. There’s no one else in Tennessee or anywhere else who matches my description. But that’s beside the point for two reasons. First, because I didn’t hold anywhere up. And second, you couldn’t contact any other departments. Your systems are all down.’

Goodyear’s smile faded. ‘What do you know about our systems? What did Rutherford tell you?’

‘The other guy you wrongly arrested? Nothing. I haven’t exchanged a word with him. I didn’t need to. I have a system of my own.’

‘What system?’

‘Eyeball, human, series one. Come on, detective. It’s obvious. Your officer called in my arrest on his cell phone. The terminal in his car was inoperative. The computers in the booking area were switched off. The security cameras aren’t working. And it’s not just the police department. The traffic signals in town are out. Something weird’s going on. What is it?’

Goodyear shifted in his seat but didn’t respond.

‘OK. Let’s skip the minor stuff and get to the heart of the matter. Why would someone want to kidnap Rutherford? He seemed like a pretty innocuous kind of guy.’

‘Who says anyone tried to kidnap him?’

‘I do.’

‘What would you know about kidnapping?’

‘Enough. I know an ambush when I see one. Rutherford doesn’t. The guy needs protection. You should keep him in custody for his own good and call the FBI. Kidnapping’s their jurisdiction. It wouldn’t create any extra work for you.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ Goodyear’s grin was creeping back. ‘There’s no need to send up the federal balloon just yet. Maybe those guys you tangled with were trying to grab Rutherford. Are you a mind-reader? You don’t know what they were planning to do with him. If they were trying to grab him – and I’m not saying they were because we don’t know – they probably just wanted to take him someplace private where they could have a full and frank exchange of views. Maybe even dole out a good old-fashioned ass-kicking. If I take my detective hat off I can’t say he doesn’t deserve one. Hell, if it was an attempt at payback the whole town would be suspects. I’d need a bigger jailhouse. And even if you’re right, I say no harm, no foul. So why don’t we leave it at that?’

‘Why don’t I write a statement? You give it to the feds. Do your job. Protect and serve, or whatever you say in this state. You don’t need computers to do that.’

‘Why don’t you keep your whacked-out theories to yourself?’

‘Why are you so desperate to sweep this under the rug? What has Rutherford done?’

‘Why are you so desperate to keep it in the spotlight? Not the smartest move from your point of view, Reacher. Keep it up and I may have to take a closer look at your role. I hear you knocked one man out cold. Threw another through a car window. Assaults like that, you could be looking at jail time.’

‘I didn’t assault anyone. The sidewalk was slippery. That’s all. The first guy slid into a wall. The second tripped. He’s lucky the car window was open or he could have gotten a nasty bruise.’

‘All right. Let’s take a step back. You say these guys tried to kidnap Rutherford. Why would they do that?’

‘How would I know? No one will tell me what he’s done.’

‘What’s your connection to him?’

‘We don’t have a connection.’

‘Did he give you this cash?’ Goodyear gestured to the pile on the table.

‘No.’

‘Did he hire you as a bodyguard?’

‘No.’

‘How did he contact you?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Where did you first meet?’

‘We never met. Not before today. I saw him walking into an ambush. I helped him escape. It was a spur of the moment thing.’

‘You’re just a Good Samaritan?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Where did Rutherford go before the coffee shop?’

‘The moon. He has a secret love nest there. I was thinking of renting it but the mirrors on the ceiling are too small.’

‘I advise you to take this process seriously, Mr Reacher.’

‘Why? You’re not.’

Goodyear didn’t answer.

‘If you want me to get serious, give me some paper. I’ll write a statement for the FBI.’

‘I’m not giving you any paper.’

‘Then give me a ride to the highway.’

‘I’m a detective. I don’t give rides.’

‘Then unless you’re charging me with holding up an imaginary store, it sounds like our business here is done. Or I could bring in a lawyer.’

‘There’s no need for a lawyer.’ Goodyear paused. ‘All right. You can go. But take my advice. Don’t stick around. Leave town. Right away. And here’s the most important thing. Have nothing more to do with Rusty Rutherford.’