Lee Child - 61 Hours

Reacher said, ‘Nothing.’

Holland sat down.

‘So say it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go there now.’

‘Three questions,’ Reacher said. ‘Why did the lawyer stop on the road with such total confidence? Why did Peterson stop in the lot? And why was he killed tonight of all nights?’

‘Answers?’

‘Because the lawyer felt safe to do so. Because Peterson felt safe to do so. And because you announced the meth bust on the police department radio net.’

Holland nodded.

‘The shooter is one of us,’ he said. ‘He’s a cop.’

Five minutes to midnight.

Four hours to go.

HOLLAND AND REACHER HASHED IT OUT BETWEEN THEM, LIKE people do, searching for weaknesses in a theory, finding none, and thereby strengthening it to the point of certainty. A bent cop already in town explained why the watch for incoming strangers had proved fruitless. A bent cop in a car, flashing his lights, maybe patting the air with a gloved hand out a window, explained why a cautious lawyer would come to a dead stop on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. A bent cop, hearing Holland’s triumphant radio message earlier that night, explained why Peterson had died so soon afterwards. The guy would have realized the need for action before morning. Start of business tomorrow he’ll be calling the DEA in Washington with the details, Holland had said. A no-brainer. And a bent cop parked in a lot, maybe waving urgently, explained why Peterson had come straight to his side, completely unsuspecting, completely unready.

And a bent cop hauled unwillingly away by the siren and the crisis plan explained why Janet Salter had lived through the prison riot, all five hours of it.

Holland said, ‘It’s my fault. What I said on the radio got Andrew killed.’

‘I might have done the same,’ Reacher said. ‘In fact, sometimes I did do the same.’

‘I was trying to help him.’

‘Unintended consequences. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘How can I not?’

‘Why did he even go there? He wasn’t on duty. He wasn’t just passing by, because it wasn’t on his way home.’

‘He was always on duty, in his head, at least. And it could have been on his way home. More or less. I mean, it was a very minor detour. Two extra minutes, maybe. And that was Andrew, through and through. Always willing to give a little extra to the cause. Always ready to try one last thing, check one last place.’

Reacher said nothing.

Holland said, ‘I’m assuming the Mexican is behind all of this. The one we keep hearing about.’

Reacher said, ‘Plato.’

Holland asked, ‘How long ago do you suppose he turned our guy around?’

‘A year,’ Reacher said. ‘This whole business seems to be a year old.’

‘Was it money?’

‘Most things are.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A new guy, I’m guessing. I hardly know them. Not enough to trust any of them, anyway. The department is a mess. Which is my fault too, I guess. I couldn’t keep up.’

Reacher said nothing.

Holland asked, ‘Where do we start?’

‘Tell me about Kapler.’

‘He had problems in Miami. Nothing was proved against him. But there were rumours. It was Miami, and there was drug money around.’

‘Terrific.’

‘They were just rumours.’

‘You should look at him. And Lowell. What happened to him a year ago? You should look at this guy Montgomery, too. People who are all alone when they discover crimes are sometimes the same people that committed them.’

‘Should I bring them in?’

‘Safest thing to do would be to bring everyone in. The whole damn department. Sit them down right here in this room, and you’d know for sure your guy was right in front of you.’

Holland said, ‘Can I do that?’

‘Sure you can.’

‘Should I do it?’

Reacher said nothing. Any cop’s most basic question: Suppose we’re wrong?

Holland said, ‘The crew at Mrs Salter’s must be OK. They didn’t go anywhere tonight. Did they? They weren’t waiting in abandoned lots. They have alibis. Each other, and you.’

‘True.’

‘So I could leave them in place.’

‘But you should warn them first,’ Reacher said. ‘If our guy senses the net is tightening, he might make one last attempt.’

‘They’d nail him.’

‘Not if you don’t warn them first. A fellow cop comes to their door, what are they going to do? Shoot first and ask questions later?’

‘They’d nail him afterwards.’

‘Which would be too late.’

‘It would be a suicide mission.’

‘Maybe he’s ready for one. He must know he’s going to get nailed sooner or later. He must know he’s dead whatever happens. He’s between a rock and a hard place. Two homicides or three, either way he’s going to fry.’

‘He might not come in at all. He might disobey my order.’

‘Then he’ll identify himself for you. He’ll paint a target on his own back. He’ll save you the trouble.’

‘So should I do it? Should I call them in?’

‘I would,’ Reacher said. ‘It’s any police department’s basic duty. Get criminals off the streets.’

Holland made the calls. First came seven individual conversations, with the four women and the three men stationed with Mrs Salter. The subtext was awkward. One of your fellow officers is a killer. Trust no one except yourselves. Then he made a general all-points call on the radio net and ordered all other officers, whoever they were, wherever they were, whatever they were doing, on duty or not, to report to base exactly thirty minutes from then. Which Reacher thought was a minor tactical error. Better to have required their immediate presence. Which might not have gotten them there any faster in practice, but to set even a short deadline gave the bad guy the sense he still had time and space to act, to finish his work, and in ideal conditions of chaos and confusion, too, with cops running around all over the place. It was going to be a risky half-hour.

Holland put the microphone back on its rest, and picked up the phone again. He said, ‘Kim Peterson hasn’t been informed yet.’

Reacher said, ‘Don’t do it by phone. That’s not right.’

‘I know. I’m calling the front desk. Because I want you to do it. The desk guy can drive you. He can pick you up again in an hour. An hour should do it.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I don’t have time to do it myself. I’ll be busy here.’

‘I don’t have standing,’ Reacher said. ‘I’m just a stranger passing through.’

‘You met her,’ Holland said. ‘You spent a night in her house.’

‘It’s your job, not mine.’

‘I’m sure you’ve done it before.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘I’m sure you were good at it.’

‘Not very.’

‘You have to do it,’ Holland said. ‘I just can’t, OK? Don’t make me, OK?’

Plato spent an hour in seat 1A, front of the cabin, left hand side, and then he got restless. Air travel at night bored him. By day there was a view, even from seven miles up. Mostly empty and brown, to be sure, but with enough roads and houses and towns to remind him there were new customers down there, just waiting to be recruited and served. But at night he couldn’t see them. There was nothing except darkness and strings of distant lights.

He got up and walked down the aisle, past his men, past the last first class seat, into the empty space where economy class had been. He looked at the equipment on the floor. His men had checked it. He checked it again, because he was Plato and they weren’t.

Food, water, all uninteresting. Seven coats, seven hats, seven pairs of gloves. All new, all adequate. The coats were big puffy things filled with goose feathers. North Face, a popular make, all black. Six were medium, and one was a boy’s size. The sub-machine guns were H &K MP5Ks. Short, stubby, futuristic, lethal. His favourite. There were seven small backpacks, each containing spare magazines and flashlights.