Lee Child - 61 Hours

‘His fault or hers?

‘Oh, his, I think.’

‘Peterson said he has a sister who looks just like him.’

‘In a way. Much younger than him. More like a niece.’

‘Are you going to stay here, even when it’s a prison town?’

‘Me? I’m far too old to start over somewhere else. What about you?’

‘I couldn’t stay here. It’s too cold.’

‘Eventually you’ll want to stay somewhere.’

‘Hasn’t happened so far.’

‘See how you feel thirty years from now.’

‘That’s a far horizon.’

‘It will come faster than you expect.’

Reacher put his empty mug on a low table. He wasn’t sure whether to stay in the room or to leave her alone to read. He wasn’t sure which she would prefer.

‘Sit,’ she said. ‘I’ll have plenty of time to read after all this fuss is over.’

He sat.

She asked, ‘Are you warm enough?’

He said, ‘I’m fine.’ Which he was. The ancient radiator under the window was putting out plenty of heat. The hot water in the pipes was coursing around the house relentlessly. He could hear it. He could hear the occluded right-angle joint at the top of the stairs, hissing a little louder than the others. He pictured the burner in the basement, roaring, and the pump, running hard. Unlimited heat, available around the clock. Much better than the arrangement in Andrew Peterson’s farmhouse. The old iron wood stove, banked and cooling all night, barely warm by morning.

He stared into space for a second.

He said, ‘Stupid.’

Janet Salter asked him, ‘Who or what?’

‘Me.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to make a phone call.’ He got up and stepped out to the hallway. Spoke to the cop sitting on the bottom stair. Said, ‘I need Andrew Peterson’s home number.’

The cop said, ‘I’m not sure I’m at liberty to give it to you.’

‘Then dial it for me. I won’t look.’

She dialled it for him. Checked that she was getting ring tone, and then handed the receiver to him. Kim Peterson answered. Reacher introduced himself and said, ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak with Andrew.’

‘He just got home.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But it’s important.’

There was a long delay. Maybe Kim had to go drag Peterson out of his den. But he came on the line eventually.

‘Problem?’ he asked. ‘The opposite,’ Reacher said. ‘I know where the key is. For the stone building.’

Five to nine in the evening.

Seven hours to go.

REACHER STAYED ON THE LINE AND PETERSON SPENT A MINUTE talking to himself about what to do next. Like he was thinking out loud. He said, ‘The prison was locked down an hour ago, so the siren is not going to sound. It can’t, really, can it? There’s no opportunity. The guy could come without the siren, I suppose, but in that case we’ll still have plenty of bodies in the way. Four in the house, three on the street. All of them are good people. I made sure of that. So right now it doesn’t really matter whether you’re there or not, does it? You’re superfluous. In a temporary sense. So it’s safe enough for you to come out. Do you agree?’

‘Safe enough,’ Reacher said.

‘I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.’

Reacher went back to the parlour. Janet Salter looked up at him. He told her he was going out, and where, and why. He said, ‘If the cops have to leave, what do you do?’

She said, ‘Lock myself in the basement.’

‘With?’

‘My gun.’

‘When?’

‘Straight away, I suppose.’

‘Correct,’ Reacher said. ‘Straight away, immediately, instantly, no delay at all, before the cops are even out through the door. You lock yourself in, and you stay there until I get back.’

‘With the password.’

‘Correct,’ Reacher said again. ‘And even if the cops don’t actually leave, you go down there if you sense any kind of commotion at all. Any kind of uneasiness, any kind of extra nervousness, any kind of heightened alert, OK?’

‘You think the man might come with the police still in the house?’

‘Hope for the best, plan for the worst. If the cops get a bad feeling, they won’t tell you right away. They won’t want to look stupid afterwards, if it turns out to be nothing. So it’s up to you to figure it out. Trust your gut. Any doubt at all, get the hell down there, fast. A stray bullet can kill you just the same as one that was aimed.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Two hours, maybe.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You will if you do what I say.’

‘I will. I promise. I’ll go down and lock the door and wait for the password.’

Reacher nodded. Said nothing.

Safe enough.

Reacher went out to the hallway and climbed into his giant coat. Checked the pockets for hat and gloves and gun. All present and correct. The telephone rang. The woman from the bottom stair answered it. She handed the receiver to Reacher without a word.

‘Yes?’ he said, expecting Peterson.

The voice from Virginia said, ‘We got a partial cargo manifest.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m going to spend the rest of my life paying off the favour. You know how hard it must have been to find? An irrelevant piece of paper from fifty years ago?’

‘They’ve got clerks, the same as we did. What else have they got to do?’

‘They claim plenty.’

‘Don’t believe them. What’s on the manifest?’

‘Forty tons of war surplus flown in from the old Eighth Air Force bases in the United Kingdom. From the old World War Two bomber fields in East Anglia. They closed a bunch down in the middle fifties. Runways weren’t long enough any more.’

‘Does it specify what kind of surplus?’

‘Yes and no. Generically it says aircrew requirements, and specifically there’s a manufacturer’s name that no one remembers, and a code that no one understands any more.’

‘Not even the Lackland guys?’

‘Not even them. This is ancient history we’re dealing with here.’

‘The way I remember my ancient history, we didn’t bring World War Two surplus back from Europe. We either junked it over there or sold it off over there. Kept the money in the local currencies and used it for Fulbright scholarships. Two birds with one stone. We got rid of a lot of old crap and we spread peace and brotherhood and understanding all at the same time. Through educational exchange.’

‘Those were the days.’

‘What was the code?’

‘N06BA03.’

‘Means nothing to me.’

‘Means nothing to anyone. Could be underwear. Or hats.’

‘We wouldn’t have flown forty tons of underwear or hats all the way back from Europe. No sense in that. Cheaper just to give them away, or burn them.’

‘So maybe it was something we couldn’t give away. Or sell. Or burn. For security reasons. Sidearms, maybe. I think World War Two pilots carried them. In case they were shot down over enemy territory.’

‘What was the manufacturer’s name?’

‘Some outfit called Crown Laboratories.’

‘Say again?’

‘Crown Laboratories.’

Reacher said, ‘Oh, shit.’

‘What?’

‘Forty tons? They have got to be kidding me.’

‘Reacher, what?’

‘I got to go.’

As soon as he saw the leading edge of Peterson’s headlight beams on the street he stepped out the door and crossed the porch and hustled down the driveway. The cold hit him like a hammer. Peterson’s tyres crunched and crackled over the frozen snow. The car pulled up and Reacher climbed in. The heater was blowing lukewarm air. Reacher kept his hat and gloves on. Peterson K-turned and bounced across the ruts and headed back to the main drag. Turned right and drove south, slower than he would in summer, faster than he would in traffic. There was nothing else on the road. Only nine in the evening, but the whole state seemed closed up for the night. People were all huddled inside, and Peterson’s car was the only thing moving across the landscape.