Ли Чайлд - The Midnight Line

‘Like a trade school?’

‘More or less.’

‘Maybe she died in an accident.’

‘Maybe she did,’ Reacher said. Or not in an accident , he thought. There had been Iraq, and there had been Afghanistan. 2005 had been a tough year to graduate. He said, ‘But I would like to know for sure.’

‘Why?’ the guy said again.

‘I can’t tell you exactly.’

‘Is it an honour thing?’

‘I guess it could be.’

‘Trade schools have that?’

‘Some of them.’

‘There was no woman. I bought that ring. With a lot of other stuff.’

‘When?’

‘About a month ago.’

‘From who?’

‘I’m not going to tell you my business. Why should I? It’s all legal. It’s all perfectly legitimate. The state says so. I have a licence and I pass all kinds of inspections.’

‘Then why be shy about it?’

‘It’s private information.’

Reacher said, ‘Suppose I buy the ring?’

‘It’s fifty bucks.’

‘Thirty.’

‘Forty.’

‘Deal,’ Reacher said. ‘So now I’m entitled to know its provenance.’

‘This ain’t Sotheby’s auction house.’

‘Even so.’

The guy paused a beat.

Then he said, ‘It was from a guy who helps out with a charity. People donate things and take the deduction. Mostly old cars and boats. But other things too. The guy gives them an inflated receipt for their tax returns, and then he sells the things he gets wherever he can, for whatever he can, and then he cuts a cheque to the charity. I buy the small stuff from him. I get what I get, and I hope to turn a profit.’

‘So you think someone donated this ring to a charity and took a deduction on their income taxes?’

‘Makes sense, if the original person died. From 2005. Part of the estate.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Reacher said. ‘I think a relative would have kept it.’

‘Depends if the relative was eating well.’

‘You got tough times here?’

‘I’m OK. But I own the pawn shop.’

‘Yet people still donate to good causes.’

‘In exchange for phony receipts. In the end the government eats the tax relief. Welfare by another name.’

Reacher said, ‘Who is the charity guy?’

‘I won’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s none of your business. I mean, who the hell are you?’

‘Just a guy already having a pretty bad day. Not your fault, of course, but if asked to offer advice I would have to say it might prove a dumb idea to make my day worse. You might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.’

‘You threatening me now?’

‘More like the weather report. A public service. Like a tornado warning. Prepare to take cover.’

‘Get out of my store.’

‘Fortunately I no longer have a headache. I got hit in the head, but that’s all better now. A doctor said so. A friend made me go. Two times. She was worried about me.’

The pawn shop guy paused another beat.

Then he said, ‘Exactly what kind of a school was that ring from?’

Reacher said, ‘It was a military academy.’

‘Those are for, excuse me, problem kids. Or disturbed. No offence.’

‘Don’t blame the kids,’ Reacher said. ‘Look at the families. Tell the truth, at our school there were a lot of parents who had killed people.’

‘Really?’

‘More than the average.’

‘So you stick together for ever?’

‘We don’t leave anyone behind.’

‘The guy won’t talk to a stranger.’

‘Does he have a licence and does he pass inspections by the state?’

‘What I’m doing here is legal. My lawyer says so. As long as I honestly believe it. And I do. It’s from a charity. I’ve seen the paperwork. All kinds of people do it. They even have commercials on TV. Cars, mostly. Sometimes boats.’

‘But this particular guy won’t talk to me?’

‘I would be surprised.’

‘Does he have no manners?’

‘I wouldn’t ask him over to a picnic.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Jimmy Rat.’

‘For real?’

‘That’s what he goes by.’

‘Where would I find Mr Rat?’

‘Look for a minimum six Harley-Davidsons. Jimmy will be in whatever bar they’re outside of.’

THE TOWN WAS relatively small. Beyond the sad side was a side maybe five years from going sad. Maybe more. Maybe ten. There was hope. There were some boarded-up enterprises, but not many. Most stores were still doing business, at a leisurely rural pace. Big pick-up trucks rolled through, slowly. There was a billiard hall. Not many street lights. It was getting dark. Something about the architecture made it clear it was dairy country. The shape of the stores looked like old-fashioned milking barns. The same DNA was in there somewhere.

There was a bar in a stand-alone wooden building, with a patch of weedy gravel for parking, and on the gravel were seven Harley-Davidsons, all in a neat line. Possibly not actual Hell’s Angels as such. Possibly one of many other parallel denominations. Bikers were as split as Baptists. All the same, but different. Apparently these particular guys liked black leather tassels and chromium plating. They liked to lay back and ride with their legs spread wide and their feet sticking out in front of them. Possibly a cooling effect. Perhaps necessary. Generally they wore heavy leather vests. And pants, and boots. All black. Hot, in late summer.

The bikes were all painted dark shiny colours, four with orange flames, three with rune-like symbols outlined in silver. The bar was dull with age, and some shingles had slipped. There was an air conditioner in one of the windows, straining to keep up, dripping water in a puddle below. A cop car rolled past, slowly, its tyres hissing on the blacktop. County Police. Probably spent the first half of its watch ginning up municipal revenue with a radar gun out on the highway, now prowling the back streets of the towns in its jurisdiction. Showing the flag. Paying attention to the trouble spots. The cop inside turned his head and gazed at Reacher. The guy was nothing like the pawnbroker. He was all squared away. His face was lean, and his eyes were wise. He was sitting behind the wheel with a ramrod posture, and his haircut was fresh. A whitewall buzz cut. Maybe just a day old. Not more than two.

Reacher stood still and watched him roll away. He heard a motorcycle exhaust in the distance, coming closer, getting louder, heavy as a hammer. An eighth Harley came around the corner, as slow as gravity would allow, a big heavy machine, blatting and popping, the rider laying back with his feet on pegs way out in front. He leaned into a turn and slowed on the gravel. He was wearing a black leather vest over a black T-shirt. He parked last in line. His bike idled like a blacksmith hitting an anvil. Then he shut it down and hauled it up on its stand. Silence came back.

Reacher said, ‘I’m looking for Jimmy Rat.’

The guy glanced at one of the other bikes. Couldn’t help himself. But he said, ‘Don’t know him,’ and walked away, stiff and bow-legged, to the door of the bar. He was pear-shaped, and maybe forty years old. Maybe five-ten, and bulky. He had a sallow tan, like his skin was rubbed with motor oil. He pulled the door and stepped inside.

Reacher stayed where he was. The bike the new guy had glanced at was one of the three with silver runes. It was as huge as all the others, but the footrests and the handlebars were set a little closer to the seat than most. About two inches closer than the new guy’s, for example. Which made Jimmy Rat about five-eight, possibly. Maybe skinny, to go with his name. Maybe armed, with a knife or a gun. Maybe vicious.

Reacher walked to the door of the bar. He pulled it open and stepped inside. The air was dark and hot and smelled of spilled beer. The room was rectangular, with a full-length copper bar on the left, and tables on the right. There was an arch in the rear wall, with a narrow corridor beyond. Restrooms and a pay phone and a fire door. Four windows. A total of six potential exits. The first thing an ex-MP counted.