Lee Child - MatchUp

“Now what?” Johnson whispered.

“Let’s take a look at the small cabin.”

“Could be alarmed.”

“If it is, we run.”

Johnson handed Virgil a piece of cloth.

“What’s that?”

“Bandanna. Cover your face. Like a cowboy outlaw. In case there are cameras.”

“Jesus, Johnson. Just because we’re in Montana.”

But Virgil did it anyway.

He was carrying Johnson’s gun, not because he wanted to, but to keep it away from Johnson. A tire iron was Johnson’s weapon because he didn’t want to go unarmed. Virgil also had his Nikon, with the 14–24 zoom lens, in a day pack.

At the corner of the garage, they sat and waited, watching the house. There were two lights on inside, one in back, one in front, but none on the second story. A satellite dish sat on the roof, but there was no visible light from an operating TV. The lights never flickered, as they would if somebody walked between them and a window, and after five minutes, Virgil whispered, “Let’s go.”

They snuck, bent over, to the cabin, and stopped, crouching, by the corner and out of sight from the house, listening again. Nothing but the sounds from crickets and frogs, along with a bit of wind sighing through the trees rimming the property. Not a peep from within the house. After a while, Johnson said, “Weird.”

“What?”

“No windows on this side. I didn’t see any windows or a door on the back, either. Only windows in this place are on the front.”

“Cover me,” Virgil said.

“With what? A tire iron?”

He laughed. “Okay. Keep an eye out.”

Silently, Virgil crawled past the front of the cabin, staying in shadow, to the first window. He sat still for a moment, then rose up to look through the pane.

Couldn’t see anything.

A minute later was back with Johnson.

“What’d you see?”

“Nothing. It’s a fake window. It’s a board with some curtains painted on it.”

Johnson said, “Cover me.”

“What?”

But Johnson was already headed for the front of the cabin. A minute later, Virgil heard a crackling sound, like wood splintering and then Johnson saying, low voiced, “C’mon.”

Through the still damp weeds and grass Virgil crept the length of a cabin, where he found that Johnson had jimmied the door with the tire iron and had gone inside.

Virgil followed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Let me close the door.”

With that done, Johnson turned on the flashlight app of his iPhone and panned the illumination around the inside of the cabin. There was a bed in one corner with an end table and a couple of rolled-up carpets next to it. Three rolls of seamless paper lay along one wall, and a fourth roll was mounted on a roller behind the bed. Camera stands with umbrellas and soft boxes were crowded across the room along with their power supplies.

Virgil turned on his own cell-phone light, and said, “I need photos of the bed and the walls.”

“The walls. That oughta do it,” Johnson said, looking at the knotty pine planks that crawled up the sides of the room. “They’re like the world’s biggest fingerprints.”

Virgil pulled off his pack, took the camera out, mounted the compact flash, set everything for automatic, and started shooting.

Quickly.

Efficiently.

He shot everything twice, then packed up.

Two minutes later they were gone, and twenty minutes after that they were talking with Pescoli.

THE PHONE RANG JUST AS Regan was getting out of the shower. She wrapped a towel around herself, picked up her phone, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“It’s Virgil. I’ve got the photos.”

“Send ’em.”

“I will. But the connection out here at the ranch, in the bar, is slow. Wi-Fi’s not the latest in technology. We’ll see how it goes. I’ll be sending you nine shots.”

“I’ll move them to the FBI guy.”

“Call me in the morning, when you hear back.”

“First thing,” she said and couldn’t wait.

She threw on her pajamas and waited, pumping milk again, of course. Fortunately, the motel had a minibar fridge.

The last of the photos came in a half hour later. They were, she thought, some of the most boring photographs she’d ever seen. But they were sharp, and exactly what the feds had asked for. She sent them on. After a quick call to Santana explaining that she was staying over and would be home the next day, she charged her phone, turned in, and thought about her family, her job, and the balancing act that was her life.

The feds called at seven o’clock the next morning.

Regan was still asleep and for a second was disoriented, fumbling her phone off the nightstand before answering.

“What time is it?”

Burch, the FBI agent, said, “Nine o’clock.”

“Or seven o’clock, Mountain Time,” she said around a yawn.

She needed coffee.

Then remembered she was still on decaf.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” she said into her cell. “Did you see those photographs?”

“I saw them two hours ago, at seven o’clock Eastern Time, because I get up at dawn.”

“Good for you. What do you think?”

“It’s not what I think. It’s what I know. This is large. We got an ID on the two people in Vegas. We’re not sure we’ve got their real names, but we know them as Carla and Allen Dickerson.”

“I got those names last night from the Weeks kid.”

“We’ve had warrants for the Dickersons for years but haven’t been able to nail them down. We thought they were somewhere in Central America. Anyway, we got their address from the Vegas guys, we’ll be hitting that apartment—it’s a condo, really—in a couple of hours. These are bad, bad people. In fact, the only worse guy I can think of is probably this Drake guy you say you’ve got up there. We’ve got flashes of those knotty pine walls in twenty-three films so far, the worst kind of porn you can imagine, which means he’s probably made a couple hundred of them. We had no idea who was shooting it. We need this guy. Can the Weeks kid identify him?”

“Not only identify him, he’s actually worked for him in a porn film when he was a kid.”

“Ah, shit. There’s a kid who’s going to need some help.”

“Yeah. We got him safe for the time being.”

“So we’re flying in a heavy SWAT team from Denver, but they probably won’t get there until early afternoon,” Burch said. “I’ll be there at the same time; I’m on my way to National right now. The director actually got me a Justice Department jet. We’d like you to wait for us in Butte. That’s as close as we can get to your target, and then guide us up there. We don’t want to spook this Drake guy, but it’d be good if Flowers could check on him. You know, cruise the place. The thing is, we’ve got nobody named Michael Drake on file. We’ve looked at the county clerk’s records up there, and they go back to a post office box with a fake name. If we lose him, we might be losing him for good.”

“Alternatively, I could go up there right now and bust his ass,” she suggested.

“I appreciate that, but one-on-one, too much could go wrong. Like I said, we really don’t want to lose this guy. He’s a genuine, no-shit monster.”

“I’ll call Flowers and tell him.”

“One other thing. I’m sending you an encrypted link to a file here at the bureau. In another e-mail you’ll find a code number to open it. You won’t be able to download it. It’s read only. A selection of clips from the knotty pine films. You ought to know what we’re talking about.”