Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

‘OK. We’ll leave Goodyear aside for a moment. Who did you make this separate arrangement with?’

‘This is where things get difficult. I can’t tell you. Not because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know. He’s just a voice on the phone.’

‘So it’s a man, not a woman?’

‘Correct.’

‘So an unknown man calls you out of the blue and asks you to be an accessory to what? Kidnapping? Murder? And you say, sure, OK?’

‘It’s not that simple. It goes back to when I was a cop. I tried to do a guy a favour one time when I thought he’d gotten a bad break. I looked the other way on something and that was a mistake because as soon as he was off the hook he demanded more favours so as not to tell what I’d done. It went on for years. That’s why I quit the department in the end. I thought I’d be no use to him any more, so he’d leave me alone. But I was wrong. He made me deliver a package here. Collect some money there. Things like that. I thought it would never end. Then one day the guy died. He got run down crossing the street. By a drunk driver. I know it’s wrong to be happy about the death of another human being but I couldn’t help it. I was over the moon. I thought I was finally free. That I had my life back. It lasted a week. Then one evening the phone rang. A voice I’d never heard before said he’d inherited certain files from the dead guy and that unless I wanted them to be handed over to the police the previous arrangement would continue. He said it would be nothing too heavy. Just a little favour every now and again.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Honestly? I didn’t know. He did sound kind of serious. But I was tired and I was desperate so I decided to gamble. I told him, no dice. Leave me alone, or go ahead and do your worst. Which I guess he did. The next morning there was a knock on the door. By the time I got there someone had left a pair of packages. Same size. Same shape. They were numbered one and two. I opened number one first. Inside it was a man’s … private parts. All of them, if you know what I mean. I spent the next two hours in the bathroom. Then I opened the second box. It was empty apart from a piece of paper. There was handwriting on it. Some kind of old-school flowing script. It said if you want your manhood to end up in one of these, do nothing. Otherwise answer the phone at nine p.m. and follow the instructions to the letter.’

‘You answered the phone?’

‘Hell, yes. Wouldn’t you?’

‘What did they make you do?’

‘A dump job. Four suitcases.’

‘The rest of the guy from the box?’

‘That would be my guess. But I didn’t look inside.’

‘OK. So. Back to the present. How did this mystery guy know that Goodyear asked you to run me out of town? Goodyear must be in his pocket, too.’

‘No. It was me. The guy put out an order to report any sightings of Rutherford. Or anything to do with him. Goodyear told me Rutherford was involved in these brawls you were in. I figured that connected you. Better err on the side of caution, right? So I called it in.’

‘Does he have other people watching out for Rutherford?’

‘I don’t know for a fact. But this is no small-time guy. I bet he has a whole network working for him.’

‘What does he want with Rutherford?’

‘You think I’d ask him something like that? Does he sound like the kind of guy it would be a good idea to antagonize?’

‘He sounds like exactly the kind.’

‘That’s probably why you’re the one being driven out of town and I’m the one driving.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Take it however you want. So, what happens next? I guess you want the car. Fine. Take it. Just do one thing for me. I need to make it look like you escaped. If he thinks I let you go, I’m dead meat. Worse than dead meat. So I need you to hurt me. And I need you to make it look convincing. I know you put three men in the hospital last night, so don’t hold back.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to take your car. Not yet anyway. I’m going to recce on foot first and then make a plan.’

‘Recce what? The highway’s to the north, like you said. Go now. Put your foot down. Get out of the state before they find me.’

‘I have no interest in getting to the highway. That was Goodyear’s idea. I have unfinished business, and evidently some of it is at the gas station. People have gone to a lot of trouble to catch up with me. It would be rude not to show.’

‘Staying here is a bad idea. Remember box number one? That’s the kind of thing they’re capable of. And the suitcases. I don’t want my next job to be scattering parts of you all across the county. And I don’t want someone else scattering parts of me. So the best thing would be–’

‘Pass me the gun.’

‘It’s not loaded. I told you.’

‘Give it to me anyway.’

Marty retrieved the gun from the floor and passed it back. It was a neat little .22. A Smith & Wesson 2213. Reacher checked it over. It was lacking oil. And the magazine was lacking bullets. Marty had been telling the truth.

‘And your phone,’ Reacher said.

Marty disconnected his handset from a holder on the dashboard.

‘Now your burner phone.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Don’t waste my time. There’s no way you’re communicating with a guy who arranges murders using a traceable phone.’

Marty pulled a small folding phone out of his pocket.

‘And your keys.’

Marty sighed and passed Reacher a thing the size of a matchbox with four buttons and a logo. A bunch of other keys was attached. Most looked like they were for regular locks. But one was much smaller. Reacher held it up.

‘For your handcuffs?’

Marty nodded.

‘Lock yourself to the steering wheel. One wrist is fine.’

Marty did as he was told.

‘OK.’ Reacher opened his door. ‘Stay here. Relax. I’ll be back in a while.’

Reacher set out walking and after twenty yards he came to the entrance to a field on the right-hand side of the road. There wasn’t much growing. He guessed that tobacco had once been cultivated there, but that was more from half-remembered lessons in schools in distant parts of the world than from any familiarity with the stubby brown plants straggling across the surface of the crumbly red soil. He picked his way to the opposite side, which was bordered by a stand of thin trees, squeezed through a gap, and continued parallel to the road.

After a quarter of a mile Reacher saw the rear of a pair of buildings. The nearer one was wider and taller. Foot-square patches of white paint were flaking off its pitted concrete surface. A pillar maybe a yard square sprouted from the far side, more than doubling the height of the roof. A set of large red capital letters was still attached and the backs of the S, T, U, D and E were visible before the rest of the name was obscured by the wall. The second structure was smaller. It was little more than a kiosk at the side of a roofed-in forecourt. There were no gas pumps any more. Reacher guessed they’d been removed and gussied up and sold in arty stores in affluent towns. He’d seen one in a gallery window one time, on sale for more money than a car could cost. A sign of the times, he thought. Like the shuttered gas station itself. Once booming, nurtured by its car-dealer neighbour. Then a lonely fight for survival, clinging on as the flow of people ebbed and weakened and slowed and finally dried up altogether. The road would be a hopeless place to do business now. That was for sure. No vehicles had passed by since Reacher entered the field. There were only two others in sight anywhere. Tucked in behind the larger building. A Suburban and a Toyota. Black and blue. The same as the previous day. The question was, had they carried the same number of people?