Lee Child - The Midnight Line

“Pretty much.”

“Maybe she got married. You know any kind of a Serena?”

“No.”

“What about Rose? Maybe she goes by her middle name.”

“No.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

“What is this about exactly?”

Reacher took the ring out of his pocket. The gold filigree, the black stone, the tiny size. West Point 2005 . He said, “This is hers. I want to return it. I was told Sy Porterfield sold it in Rapid City six weeks ago.”

“He didn’t.”

“Evidently.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Would your boy have given up his Ranger tab?”

“Not after what he went through to get it.”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t help you,” Headley said. “Except I can promise you Sy Porterfield didn’t sell that ring in Rapid City six weeks ago, on account of getting ate up by a bear or a mountain lion more than a year before in another state entirely.”

“So someone else sold it.”

“From here?”

“Possibly. Fifty-fifty maybe. Mule Crossing was mentioned. Either true or false.”

“I see folks drive by. I don’t know who they are.”

“Who would?”

Headley squirmed around in his chair, as if gazing west through the wall, as if picturing the dirt road rolling away into the darkness. He turned back and said, “The guy who runs the snowplow in the winter lives in the first place on the left. About two miles in. I guess he knows who lives where, from seeing their tire tracks, and maybe towing them out from time to time.”

“Two real miles in, or two Wyoming miles?”

“It’s about a five minute drive.”

Which even on a dirt road could be more than two real miles. At an average speed of thirty, it would be two and a half. At forty, it would be more than three. And then back again.

“You got a car?” Reacher asked.

“I got a truck.”

“Can I borrow it?”

“No, you can’t.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “What’s the guy’s name, with the snowplow?”

“I don’t know his second name. Not sure I ever heard it. But I know his first name is Billy.”

Chapter 13

Reacher let himself out and walked down to where the dirt road met the two-lane. In the pitch dark there was nothing to see. No lights in the distance. Underfoot the surface felt like sand and fine gravel. Not hard to walk on. Except for the darkness. There was no clue at all as to direction, or curves, or turns, or camber, or gradient, or anything. He would be like a blind man, staggering slowly, blundering into fences, falling into ditches. Two miles was too far, in the gloom of night. He would have been a severe disappointment as a mail carrier.

He turned around. He crossed the two-lane and waited on the shoulder going north. Back to Laramie. Too soon to get the same students coming home again. But there would be others. Earlier birds, or regular folk coming back from shopping or a blue-plate special. He waited. The first two cars blew by without slowing, five minutes apart. The third stopped. It was a battered sedan with the hubcaps missing. The driver was a guy about forty, wearing a denim jacket. He said he was going to Laramie. Reacher asked him what he knew about motels in town. The guy said there were three types of place. Chain hotels south of the highway, or the same thing near the university, where people stayed for the football games, or dumpy mom-and-pop fleapits on the main drag north of the center. All Reacher wanted was a bed and a pay phone, so he said the guy should let him out wherever was the most convenient. Which turned out to be the chains south of the highway. They were right there, on a service road parallel with the two-lane, across a grassy strip.

He paid for a room, and found a phone in an alcove off the lobby. He dug in his pocket and took out Nakamura’s business card. Those are my numbers. Office and cell. Call me if you need to talk. Scorpio is a dangerous man .

He dialed her cell.

She answered.

He said, “This is Reacher.”

She said, “Are you OK?”

She sounded worried.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Why?”

“Where are you?”

“Laramie, Wyoming.”

“Don’t go to Mule Crossing.”

“I just did.”

“Scorpio made a call. He set you up.”

“I already know he lied to me about Seymour Porterfield. The guy died a year and a half ago. So I want you to give Scorpio a message. If you get the chance. Tell him one day I’m going to come back to Rapid City and pay him a visit.”

“I’m serious, Reacher.”

“So am I.”

“He told a man named Billy to shoot you on sight. From behind a tree with a deer rifle.”

“A man named what?”

“Billy.”

Reacher said, “I just heard that name.”

“Don’t go to Mule Crossing,” Nakamura said again. “No point going there anyway, if he lied about it.”

“He lied about Porterfield. I don’t know if he lied about Mule Crossing, too. Depends how fast he was thinking. He was under pressure at the time. I was going to put him in a tumble dryer. How would he even know the name Mule Crossing? It’s not a famous place. It’s nothing but a flea market and a firework store on a two-lane road in the middle of nowhere. It’s possible Scorpio told me the wrong person but the right place. Maybe Porterfield used to be in business with him. Maybe this guy Billy took over.”

“Scorpio’s call implied Billy gets privileges of some kind. So they might be in business together.”

“What sort of business?”

“I don’t know. But the threat to you was very clear. In my opinion he was ordering a homicide. I’m going to call the local sheriff in the morning.”

“Don’t,” Reacher said. “That would only complicate things.”

“I’m a police officer. I have to.”

“What exactly did Scorpio say on the phone?”

“It was a voicemail again. He called it weird shit going on. He said you were a strange piece of bad luck. The implication was there was something taking place on an ongoing basis, but you knew nothing about it, because you were just a random passerby. He said he gave you Porterfield’s name to get rid of you. Then he told Billy to kill you. He said not to mess with you, because you’re like the Incredible Hulk. He said to use a deer rifle from behind a tree. He was ordering a homicide, Reacher. Clear as day. I have to put it in the system.”

“The Incredible Hulk? I thought I was Bigfoot. These guys need to make up their minds.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Did he mention Mule Crossing?”

“Not in the voicemail. Not specifically.”

“Was it a Mule Crossing number he called?”

“No, it was another drugstore burner. We can’t trace it.”

“Then wait a day, OK? Wouldn’t mean much to the sheriff without an exact location. Wyoming is a big state. I wouldn’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Reacher said. “I want to know where the ring came from. That’s all.”

Nakamura didn’t reply to that, and they hung up. Room service was nothing more than a Xeroxed sheet of paper with a phone number for pizza delivery, so Reacher dialed again and ordered a large pie with extra pepperoni and anchovies. He waited for it in the lobby. An old habit. He didn’t like people to know which room was his.

—

He woke the next morning with the sunrise, and went out in search of coffee. Which meant walking through the hotel’s parking lot to get back to the two-lane. There was a black SUV parked near the door. It was a Toyota Land Cruiser. A serious vehicle. He had seen them in dusty and rugged parts of the world. The United Nations used them. This particular example was fairly new, and basically clean, but a little travel-stained.