Lee Child - The Midnight Line

“It was only a guess,” Bramall said.

“Based on a fact,” she said. “Which Noble hasn’t got.”

“He might guess different.”

“At least he’ll get a chance to.”

“You really want me to call him?”

“I think we should.”

Bramall looked at Reacher.

Reacher said, “He cooked, after all. Normally we would send a note of some kind.”

Bramall took out his tortoiseshell reading glasses, and a small notebook. He opened it with his thumb.

Reacher said, “You have Noble’s number in there?”

Bramall said, “Just the western division’s switchboard.”

He dialed and played phone tag for a long minute, saying the name over and over again, with variations, Special Agent Kirk Noble, Special Agent Noble, Kirk Noble. Eventually the guy himself must have come on the line, because Bramall reminded him who he was, in terms of the bacon-and-egg dinner, and then he said now there was very strong reason to believe the fugitives had gone to Oklahoma.

Evidently Noble asked to speak to Reacher.

Bramall passed the phone.

Noble said, “There’s a problem with Porterfield.”

Chapter 26

Noble said, “I typed it up, word for word based on what you told me, and then I ran it through some software we have, which automatically checks against our existing databases, to see if we know the names already, for other reasons. And Seymour Porterfield came up blocked. I dug around and found three separate files on the guy, all locked, all needing high-level passwords.”

Reacher said, “What kind of a guy would get a file like that?”

“A source of information,” Noble said. “It’s a security measure.”

“Interesting.”

“I need to know who Porterfield was.”

“He had an expensive kitchen.”

“I need you to tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything about Porterfield. He wore blue jeans a lot and had an eye for décor. But I don’t really care. He’s not why I’m here.”

“One of the files was about Porterfield and a second person. Judging by the codes, the second person was a woman. I can’t read the date on the file but the sequencing suggests it was first opened about two years ago and last looked at by someone not long before Porterfield died.”

“Interesting,” Reacher said again. “How deep in your system are these files?”

“Very deep. But I don’t think they’re DEA originals. I think we got copied in as a courtesy, by someone else.”

“Who?”

“It’s a weird code. Not the FBI or the ATF. It’s like what we used to get when we had Special Forces deployed in Colombia. Not a remote source, you understand. Somewhere fairly near our main office.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “I understand. Don’t forget to call Oklahoma.”

He clicked off. Told the others.

Mackenzie said, “Does this help us?”

“I don’t know,” Reacher said. “Who Porterfield was two years ago doesn’t necessarily tell us where Rose is now. We shouldn’t invest too much time in it. I guess we could go pull off the road ahead of the fourth place, and I could make a call from there, while we were waiting.”

—

They parked on the slope of the shoulder, at an angle, like a cop with a radar gun. Ahead of them were twelve more homesteads, all widely separated and out of sight, all along forty more miles of the dirt road. And then nothing. No one was coming. Reacher borrowed Bramall’s phone and dialed the same ancient number from memory.

The same woman answered.

“West Point,” she said. “Superintendent’s office. How may I help you?”

“This is Reacher.”

“Hello, major.”

“I need to speak with the supe.”

“You don’t know his name, do you?”

“I guess not currently.”

“It’s General Simpson. He’ll be happy you called. He has information for you. Wait one, major.”

There were clicks and dead air, and then the supe’s voice came on the line.

It said, “Major.”

Reacher said, “General.”

He didn’t use the name Simpson. Just in case it wasn’t. West Point culture was full of practical jokes, and although he very much doubted the woman who answered the phone would set him up, he couldn’t be sure.

The supe said, “What progress are you making?”

“Some,” Reacher said. “I think I’m close to the right location.”

“Which is where?”

“Bottom right-hand corner of Wyoming.”

“So she went home.”

“Not exactly, but not far away. I found trace evidence in a house in a place called Mule Crossing. She was there about a year and a half ago. My sense is she’s still in the general neighborhood.”

The supe said, “There’s something you need to know. It might be important. Out of curiosity I tried to take a look at Sanderson’s service record and medical file. I couldn’t get in. They’re sealed tighter than a duck’s butt on a choppy day. I think your people did it.”

“My people?”

“Military police.”

“When?”

“Hard to tell exactly. Not recently. But after she left the service, almost certainly. Two years ago, possibly.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Now guess what I was calling about?”

“How could I?”

“The house where I found evidence was owned by a guy who also has a sealed file in a government database. Three sealed files, in fact. One of which was first opened around two years ago, and features the guy with a woman. Apparently they are not native files. The folks at the database think the agency in question was copied in as a courtesy, by another agency.”

“Do they know which one?”

“They hinted at the Pentagon.”

“I find that interesting,” the supe said. “As you knew I would. But you didn’t call just to entertain me. You want me to do something.”

“Who do you know down there?”

“A couple of people.”

“Do they owe you?”

“How big of a risk would they be taking?”

“Not much. This thing went cold a year and a half ago. It’s ancient history now. And they don’t have to give us chapter and verse. Just confirm or deny if Sanderson is the woman in the file with the guy who owned the house. His name was Seymour Porterfield. Social Security should show a county sheriff’s notification of death around the start of spring last year.”

“He’s dead?”

“It’s Wyoming. He was eaten by a bear.”

Reacher spelled Porterfield’s names, first and last.

The supe repeated them back.

“Thank you, general,” Reacher said. “You can call me back on this number. My partner Mr. Bramall will answer.”

“Thank you, major.”

Reacher said, “Sir, is your name Simpson?”

“Correct,” the supe said. “Sean Simpson.”

“Yes, sir,” Reacher said, purely out of habit.

He clicked off, and gave the phone back to Bramall, who plugged it in to charge.

—

They waited an hour on the shoulder, and saw no one coming, except a small herd of elk, who came out of the trees on one side of a gulch, and into the trees on the other. Overhead, black birds of prey hovered motionless, high in the sky.

The road stayed empty.

“I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said. “I did it again. Every idea looks like a good idea. Until it turns out wrong.”

“Neither of us had a better idea,” Reacher said.

“Maybe it’s a good thing if we don’t see her. It would mean she doesn’t need what Billy was selling. It would mean she’s OK. Someone stole her ring. You said so yourself.”

“Best case.”

“Which sometimes happens.”

“Sometimes,” Reacher said.

“How often?”

“More than never. Less than always.”

“Wait,” Bramall said.