Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

Marty was sitting bolt upright when Reacher got back to the car. He was stiff, proprietorial. Attempting to reclaim a little dignity. Reacher climbed in on the passenger side and gave him his keys and phones and gun.

‘Did you find the place?’ Marty unlocked the handcuffs.

‘I did,’ Reacher said. ‘Now drive.’

‘Where?’ Marty fired up the engine. ‘Please say the highway.’

‘To the gas station. Half a mile, like you said.’

Marty tensed up. ‘Is that safe?’

‘Completely. There’s no one there.’

‘Then why are we going?’

‘Because I’ve decided to cut you a break.’

‘How? What are you going to do?’

‘Cuff you to something solid then borrow your car. I’ll leave the keys at the courthouse.’

‘You’re going to send the police to get me?’

‘No. The guy on the phone is sending someone. He thinks they’ll be collecting me.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘The guy called on your burner phone a minute ago. There’s some snafu at his end, causing a delay. Tell his guys you tried to cuff me like he told you to, but I must not have been as unconscious as you thought. I got the jump on you, and cuffed you instead.’

‘They’ll never believe me.’

‘I could knock you out if that would help?’

Marty paused like he was seriously considering it.

‘How about this?’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll cuff you with your arms so high up behind your back there’s no way you could have done it yourself. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it should save your ass.’

Marty didn’t answer. He just pulled the car on to the old gas station’s forecourt and trudged to the kiosk in silence. Reacher followed him inside.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Marty winced as Reacher tightened the cuffs. ‘I tried helping someone once. Look at the trouble it got me in.’

‘I’ve been in trouble before,’ Reacher said. ‘I survived. And right now I have bigger fish to fry.’

Reacher’s general approach to driving was to find someone else to do it. He was capable of operating a vehicle, in a technical sense. The army had provided thorough training. He’d never killed anyone with a car. At least, not by accident. He’d never had any collisions. Not unintentional ones. His problem was mainly one of temperament. Good driving called for a balance of action and reaction, speed and restraint, measurement and control. A middle ground, stable and sustained. Reacher, on the other hand, was built for extremes. His default was to move extremely slowly or extremely fast. One moment he could appear languid, lazy, almost comatose. The next he could erupt into a frenzy of action, furious, relentless, for as long as necessary, then relapse into serene stillness until the next threat presented itself. But that morning, having shackled the only other person in the vicinity to a water pipe, he was out of alternatives. There were no buses passing by. No cars to hitch a ride in. And even if there had been, there was the issue of speed.

Another situation , the guy on the burner phone had said. More urgent.

The same guy who had ordered his lackeys to report any sightings of Rutherford.

The same guy whose victims showed up dismembered in suitcases.

Reacher ran back to the car, opened the door, and squeezed in behind the wheel. He hit the button to start the engine, nudged the lever into Drive, and leaned on the gas. He fastened his seat belt with one hand and pulled hard on the wheel with the other. The car slewed around in a tight loop and rejoined the road in a flurry of gravel. He was heading north. Back to town. Moving as fast as he dared. Smooth enough on the straight sections. A little ragged through the curves. Fields and plants and dark green foliage a blur on either side until the road narrowed and the houses began. He jinked right and left through the residential streets. Passed the courthouse. Played chicken with a blood-red Camaro at the intersection with the broken signals. Won. And pulled up outside the coffee shop. His tyres squealed. People stared. He was parked in an illegal spot but Reacher wasn’t worried. One way or another he wouldn’t be there long.

Reacher yanked open the door and surveyed the inside of the café. The barista was taking her time serving a couple of men in suits. Four more people were waiting in line. Two men. Two women. A pair of teenagers were in the sole booth at the back, pressed together, whispering. Three of the other tables were occupied. One by a man with grey hair, wrinkled and stooped over his cup. One by a woman in her twenties, tapping away at the keys of a slim silver computer. The other by a guy with long straight hair, staring at the wall and moving his hands like he was playing an imaginary set of drums.

No sign of Rutherford.

Reacher took a step into the room. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

Silence descended and everyone turned to look at him. Everyone apart from the drummer.

‘I’m looking for Rusty Rutherford,’ Reacher said. ‘Everyone know who that is?’

Heads nodded. Voices muttered and mumbled, all in the affirmative.

‘Has he been in today? Or has anyone seen him anywhere else?’

Heads shook. Voices muttered and mumbled, all in the negative.

‘Anyone know where he lives?’

Heads shook.

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘If you do see Rutherford, I need you to give him a message. Tell him Jack Reacher says to go home. Or to the police station. Whichever is closer. Without delay. And wait for me to make contact. Can you do that?’

Heads nodded. But not with much enthusiasm.

Reacher drove three blocks and dumped Marty’s car outside the diner. Inside, only one booth was occupied. It was beneath a picture of a pink Cadillac. A retired couple, old enough to have owned the real thing, were sitting side by side. They were having a relaxed breakfast. Steak and eggs for him. A short stack with some kind of fruit topping for her. And coffee for both of them. Plenty of it. The waitress had left the whole pot.

There was no one at the centre tables. No one using the pay phone on the wall at the rear of the room. No one visible in the kitchen.

No sign of Rutherford.

Reacher took a step closer to the old couple’s booth.

‘Sorry to interrupt your morning, folks,’ he said. ‘Do either of you know Rusty Rutherford?’

‘We know him,’ the man said, after a moment.

The woman jabbed her elbow into her husband’s ribs.

‘Well, we know who he is,’ the man added. ‘It’s not like he’s a friend or anything. Can’t say we’ve ever even exchanged words, thinking about it.’

‘He’s an idiot, is what he is,’ the woman said. ‘Why are you asking about him?’

‘I need to find him,’ Reacher said.

‘To kick his ass?’

‘That’s not top of my list, no.’

‘It should be.’ The woman dropped her fork on to her plate. ‘You should definitely kick his ass. Kick it good. He deserves it. He’s an imbecile.’

‘Maybe he deserves it,’ Reacher said. ‘Maybe he doesn’t. Either way I need to find him. And fast. If you see him, will you give him a message from me?’

The man eventually nodded so Reacher told him what he wanted passed on to Rutherford, then turned when he caught movement from the corner of the room. It was a waitress emerging from the kitchen. The first one he’d met the night before.

‘You’re not here to cause trouble again, are you?’ she said.

‘Again?’ Reacher said. ‘I didn’t cause trouble before.’

The waitress gave him a hard stare, then collected the coffee pot from the old couple’s table. ‘All right, then. Table for one? Sit where you like. I’ll get you a mug.’

‘I’m not staying,’ Reacher said. ‘I’m looking for Rutherford. The guy I was with last night.’