Lee Child - The Midnight Line

Scorpio said, “You never asked how I found you.”

Reacher said, “Didn’t need to. I already figured it out. From where your boy showed up. Restaurant staff. You slip them a few bucks. They all talk to each other. They all have cell phones. They text. A nice little network. Underpaid and underappreciated. You put the word out. Based on Jimmy Rat’s voicemail. Watch out for Bigfoot to come out of the forest. That’s what Jimmy said, right?”

“I don’t know any Jimmy. Which is my point. I’m going to sit here and deny it all day long. Nothing you can do about it with a cop watching.”

“Maybe she’ll leave.”

“She won’t. She sits there all day. We’ll be gone before she is. Then what are you going to do? Run after us? Which is my other point. Good luck with your night in town. You won’t get a meal anywhere. You won’t get a drink. You won’t get a bed. I got more than one network running.”

“I’m sure you’re a regular Al Capone,” Reacher said. “Except you got the worst piece-of-shit car in the world.”

“Get lost. You’re wasting everyone’s time. Nothing you can do. Not with a cop watching. Code or no code. Which is bullshit anyway. This is America.”

“We could run a test,” Reacher said. “I could punch you in the mouth, and we could time how long she took to get in here.”

The two sentries stepped in closer. No guns. No pushing or shoving. They couldn’t. Nakamura was watching. They put themselves one each side of Scorpio’s lawn chair, a step ahead of it, overlapping it a little. Closing it off. Reacher was facing them, not more than an arm’s length away, in a flat little triangle.

He said, “Is she still watching?”

Scorpio said, “Harder than ever.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“You got the wrong person altogether.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “I get it.” He patted the air, a placatory gesture, as if defeated, as if requesting a time out, or a reset, or a reboot, or whatever else might help him. He said, “What if,” in a speculative way, but he didn’t finish the question. Instead he cupped his hand on his brow, and rubbed, as if easing a headache or searching for a word, and then he raised his other hand, too, and ran his fingers through his hair, back and forth fast, like a mental rinse, and then he moved his hands down and put his fingers flat over his mouth, almost steepled, over pursed lips, a meditative gesture, and then he rubbed his eyes, and then he pressed his fingers hard on his temples, like a person just one thought away from a solution.

All of which got his hands up at eye level, with no one suspecting a thing.

He flicked his right hand out and back real fast, a blur, like a snake’s tongue, his fingers closing into a fist as it went, and he hit the right-hand guy in the face. Not much force behind it. A busted nose, maybe. Nothing more. But nothing more was required. The idea was to freeze the guy for a split second. That was all. While the same right hand on its way back pivoted into a full-blown right hook, with a violent twist at the waist and the shoulders, which hit the left-hand guy smack in the throat. Better than the face. No bones.

The left-hand guy went down like a slammed door.

Meanwhile Reacher was unwinding the twist and turning it into an equal and opposite left hook, and hitting the right-hand guy also in the throat.

Perfectly symmetrical.

Less than three seconds, beginning to end.

Plus style points.

The right-hand guy went down late and slowly, like a street light in an auto wreck. Reacher heard the slap of linoleum, and the thump of bone.

He stood there like nothing had happened.

He said, “Just you and me now.”

Scorpio said nothing.

Reacher said, “Is the cop getting out of her car?”

Scorpio didn’t answer.

Reacher ducked down, left and right, and took guns out of pockets. Both the same. Smith & Wesson Chief’s Specials, both looking older than he was. He put them in his own pockets.

He said, “Is she out of her car yet?”

Scorpio said, “No.”

“Is she on the phone?”

“No.”

“The radio?”

“No.”

“So what’s she doing?”

“Just watching.”

“Remember what I said about running a test?”

Scorpio didn’t answer.

—

Nakamura saw the sentries close ranks in front of Scorpio, who was leaning back in his lawn chair, like some kind of emperor on a throne. Reacher was facing the three of them. Up close. An arm’s length away. There was some verbal back and forth. Two questions, two answers. Short sentences. Brief and to the point. Then Reacher scratched his head. Then he seemed to have some kind of violent physical spasm, and for no apparent reason the sentries fell over.

He had hit them.

She scrabbled for her door release.

She stopped.

That’s good news anyway .

Don’t intervene .

She took a deep breath, and watched.

—

Reacher sat down in the lawn chair next to Scorpio’s. He stretched out and got comfortable and stared straight ahead at an inert Maytag. Scorpio was silent beside him. They looked like two old men at a ball game. The sentries stayed on the floor, breathing, but not easily.

Reacher took the West Point ring from his pocket. He balanced it on his palm. He said, “I need to know who you got this from.”

“I never saw that before,” Scorpio said. “I run a laundromat.”

“What have you got in your pockets?”

“Why?”

“You need to take it all out. I’m going to put you in the tumble dryer. Keys or coins might damage the mechanism.”

Scorpio glanced at a tumble dryer.

Couldn’t help himself.

He said, “I wouldn’t fit.”

“You would,” Reacher said.

“I never saw that ring before.”

“You sold it to Jimmy Rat.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Where I set the temperature dial is up to you. We’ll start on delicates. Then we’ll turn it up. Someone told me it goes all the way to where it can kill a bedbug.”

Scorpio said nothing.

“I understand,” Reacher said. “You’re Mr. Rapid City. You’re the man. You got a bunch of networks running. Which is your problem. Maybe they’re all interconnected. In which case, one question might lead to another. The whole thing might unravel. You can’t afford for that to happen. Hence the stone wall. I get it. Perfectly understandable. Except you need to remember two very important things. Firstly, I don’t care. I’m not a cop. I don’t have another question. And secondly, I’ll put you in the tumble dryer. So you’re between a rock and a hard place here. You need to get creative. You ever read a book?”

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

“About the moon landings.”

“That’s called non-fiction. There’s another kind, called fiction. You make stuff up, perhaps to illuminate a greater central truth. In your case, maybe you could tell me a story about a poor homeless man, maybe from out of town, who came in to launder his clothes, except he had no money, nothing at all except a ring, which you reluctantly traded for a couple of hot-wash cycles and a couple of dryer loads, plus enough left over for a square meal and a bed for the night. All out of the kindness of your generous heart. Detective Nakamura couldn’t argue with that. It would be a fine story.”

“I would have to admit selling the ring to Jimmy Rat.”

“Which was perfectly legal. You run a laundromat. You carry quarters to the bank. You don’t know what to do with a ring. Fortunately a guy passing by on his motorcycle offered to buy it from you. Not your fault he turned out to be a bad guy. You’re not your brother’s keeper.”

“You think that’s a good enough story?”