Lee Child - The Midnight Line

Mackenzie said, “You think Porterfield wasn’t the man you thought he was?”

“He could have been ten times worse. Now I don’t know for sure. Which is the interesting part. It makes it equally possible he was ten times better.”

Bramall said, “If he was, how would Arthur Scorpio know his name?”

“Through Billy, maybe. Billy was Porterfield’s neighbor, just as much as the pie lady. They all talk. Maybe Scorpio liked to hear neighborhood gossip.”

“He had ten grand in a shoebox.”

“Maybe to live on while he wrote his novel.”

Bramall didn’t answer. His phone rang. He answered, and listened, and gave the phone to Reacher.

“It’s General Simpson,” he said. “For you.”

Reacher put the phone to his ear.

The supe said, “Porterfield was a U.S. Marine.”

Chapter 28

The supe said, “Anything below the surface is locked down tight, but we know from Social Security and other unclassified sources that the Seymour Porterfield who died in Wyoming last year was an Ivy League postgrad who joined the Marine Corps the day after 9/11. He was the perfect recruit. A real poster boy. He went to Iraq in the first wave as a lieutenant in a rifle company. He didn’t last more than a month. He was an early casualty. The injury is unspecified. He was honorably discharged, and he returned to civilian life. Back then the Marines could still afford mental-health counseling during that type of separation. There’s a note that says Porterfield seemed happy to resume academic pursuits, and had realistic expectations of a future inheritance, both cash and real estate, such that no one had to worry very much, least of all the Marine Corps. Then he dropped off the government radar for a very long time.”

“Until?” Reacher said.

“Two years ago. Some office deep in the Pentagon got a brand new case. Something to do with Porterfield. We don’t know what. We think they dug up his original service file for background, and then sealed it. Which usually means something. Meanwhile they were also opening a second new file, about Porterfield and a woman. That’s what we can see so far. Three files, like you said.”

“Was Sanderson the woman?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s below the surface.”

“Are you still looking?”

“Discreetly,” the supe said. “I’ll be in touch.”

The phone went dead. Reacher passed it back to Bramall, who plugged it in to charge.

Mackenzie said, “Does this help us?”

Reacher said, “It might not be her.”

“Suppose it is.”

“It gives us a wounded Marine officer and a wounded army officer in the same place for six months. Such a thing could go either way. They could have been the worst addicts in the history of the world. Or they could have been doing better, with each other’s moral support. Or maybe they were never users at all. They were very impressive people, after all. Porterfield quit school and rushed to sign up. Rose was top ten at West Point and did five tours. Maybe they got together for peace and quiet with someone who understood.”

“Then where is she now?”

“That’s the problem. That question is also an answer.”

“Sadly,” she said. “It forces us to conclude that these days she’s more likely to be an addict than very impressive. Or she’d still be calling me.”

“Worst case.”

“You were leaning away.”

“Still am,” Reacher said. “Still hoping for the best. May I ask you a personal question?”

“I suppose,” she said.

“What kind of twins are you and Rose? Do you look exactly alike?”

She nodded. “We’re identical twins. Literally. More so than most.”

“Then we should stop by the hospital.”

“Why?”

“By now people are hurting. I guess some of them might have friends, who might be willing to share. I guess some of them will try to score in town. The rest will go to the emergency room. They’ll claim a raging toothache. Or a crippling backache. Whatever can’t be tested. But pain is a thing now, so the doctor has to take their word for it. He has to write a prescription for the good stuff. We should check if she’s been there. You’ll remind them of her. Like a human missing persons billboard.”

“I feel like I’m betraying her. I’m accepting she’s a junkie.”

“It’s a percentage game. We have to start somewhere.”

She was quiet a long moment.

Then she said, “OK, let’s go.”

Bramall started the big V8 motor, and steered a wide circle toward the head of the driveway. They turned their backs on the flat acre with the long view east, and the brown board house, with the ancient millwork and the old church pew. They settled in for three rough miles, and then the dirt road again.

But coming the other way out of the driveway right at that moment was the woman who had baked the strawberry pie. The woman who lived there. Home from the market, in her Jeep SUV. Bramall stopped and backed up to let her by. But she stopped, too, side by side, and buzzed her window down.

Bramall buzzed his window down.

So did Reacher.

The woman recognized them, from the day before, and she nodded cautiously, and then she peered beyond them at Mackenzie. Who she didn’t recognize. No sign at all. Nothing there. The exact replica. The human billboard.

A stranger.

The woman said, “Can I help you folks?”

Reacher said, “We came by to check a couple of things, connected to what we spoke about yesterday. We didn’t know you were out.”

“Yes you did. I passed you at the turn.”

“Perhaps we didn’t notice.”

“You’re private detectives. You’re supposed to notice.”

“We’re looking for a missing woman,” Reacher said. “Maybe we were preoccupied.”

“What things do you want to check?”

“About when you saw Porterfield,” Reacher said. “Was he disabled in any way?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Two arms and two legs?”

“Sure.”

“Was he limping at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Talking well and thinking straight?”

“He was very courteous and polite.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Now about that one time on the dirt road, and what you saw in Porterfield’s car. Can you tell us about that again?”

“There was nothing in the car. I was wrong.”

“Suppose you were right. What did you see?”

She paused a beat.

“It was real quick,” she said. “Two cars passing, that’s all. The wind was up, like a dust storm.”

“Even so,” Reacher said. “What did you see?”

She paused again.

“A girl turning away,” she said. “And a silvery color.”

“It stuck in your mind.”

“It was weird.”

“Had you ever seen such a thing before?”

“Never.”

“Did you ever see such a thing again?”

“Never.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Reacher said. “How about in a different car? All alone. Maybe driving in from west of here.”

“Never,” the woman said again. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I promise. Now here’s a different question. Do you let people use your driveway any old time they want to?”

“Apart from you?”

“Point taken,” Reacher said. “But is it generally OK for folks to drive in and use your forest trails?”

“No it is not.”

“You never allow that?”

“Why would I?”

“You ever see it happen nonetheless? By trespassers, maybe?”

“Never,” she said for the fourth time. “What’s going on?”

“The real reason we’re here is we followed a truck. It was kind of escaping. It drove up your driveway and out again on one of your trails. We don’t know which one.”

The woman looked all around.