Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

Reacher left Klostermann’s burner phone on his desk. There were four numbers in its call log. Goodyear’s, which was accounted for. Marty’s, which was a dead end. Literally. But that still left two for the FBI to track down. Two more crooked cops, maybe. Or two more suitcase carriers. Whatever they turned out to be, they needed to be stopped.

He checked that Goodyear was breathing. Then made his way out of the house and across to the red Chevy. He figured he would drive to the truck stop. Leave the car in a parking lot. Walk over to the gas station. To the truck side. And go wherever the first driver willing to take him was heading.

He pulled up to the gate. Waited for it to slide to the side. Drove through. And stopped dead. A car had pulled in front of him. From out of nowhere, it seemed. Certainly not the road ahead. It must have been up on the grass verge, parallel to the wall.

Reacher waited for the car to move. It was small. A late model Honda Civic. A woman was driving. She was wearing plain clothes. Which was why it took Reacher a moment to recognize her. It was Officer Rule.

Rule recognized Reacher at the same moment. She climbed out of the Honda and walked around to Reacher’s door. He rolled down his window.

‘Reacher?’ Rule said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Leaving,’ Reacher said. ‘In fact, I was never here. You?’

Rule was silent for a moment, as if she was trying to decide whether to answer. ‘I followed someone here.’

‘Detective Goodyear?’

Rule nodded.

‘Why?’ Reacher said.

‘I figured something weird was going on. Something wrong.’

‘There was. How did you know?’

Rule shrugged. ‘Call it a cop’s instinct. I saw Goodyear take a call on a cell phone, then hurry into his office. Only it wasn’t his regular phone. We’ve all had to use our own while the department phones have been down, and I know he has an iPhone. The latest kind. But several times now he’s used this other one. It’s old. And he’s often seemed kind of furtive. I’ve always ignored it before. Then I thought, this is it. I have to know what his deal is.’

‘This was at the courthouse, where he took the call?’

‘Right.’

‘So why aren’t you in uniform? And how come you’re using your personal vehicle?’

‘I was at the courthouse to hand in my notice. I quit. I’m sick of the place. I mean, think about it. You’re a stranger. Drifting through town. And you cared more about stopping crime here than our detective. You’ve already helped me more than anyone in the department ever did. I’ve had enough. It’s time for a fresh start somewhere else.’

‘Your letter. Will anyone have read it yet?’

‘I doubt it. Why?’

‘You might want to get it back.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘The town has a vacancy for a new detective.’

‘We only have one detective position. And it’s taken.’

‘Not any more. Goodyear just resigned.’

‘Are you serious? Why?’

‘Call it a personal crisis. So he’ll have to be replaced. They could bring someone in from the outside, I guess. But someone local would be better. Someone who cares about the town. Who has a string of recent arrests to her name. You know anyone like that?’

Rule thought for a moment. ‘Time for me to get back to the courthouse. Make that letter disappear.’ She got halfway around the hood of her car then turned back to Reacher. ‘What about you? Where are you going?’

‘I have no particular place in mind.’

‘How about my place? You know where it is. It’s Friday evening. We could get some carry out. I have some beer. Some wine.’

‘What about your neighbours? They would be bound to see me.’

‘Screw them. What are they going to do? Mess with the town’s soon-to-be only detective?’

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.

How did you find collaborating on The Sentinel ?

LC: Sitting down together to write The Sentinel felt like the final phase of a twenty-five-year process. When I finished the first Reacher book, Killing Floor , I showed it to my wife and daughter, who were loyal and enthusiastic, but neither of them was a natural thriller reader, so next I showed it to Andrew, for what I felt would be an informed opinion. I knew it would have been really tough for him to criticize his big brother’s work, but equally I knew he would if necessary. He’s like that. But fortunately he approved, and from then on Reacher became a kind of family property … almost like another brother. So in the end the collaboration felt pretty easy.

AC: I found the writing hard – Lee sets a very high bar! – but the collaboration part came much more naturally than I’d expected. I haven’t written anything with anyone else for years – decades! – because in the past when I tried I always felt like I was swimming against the tide. I was always out of step with my partners and none of my ideas seemed to mesh with theirs. But with Lee we were in sync from minute one and remained that way throughout.