Lee Child - The Midnight Line

“You wanted to know the story.”

“I got most of it,” Reacher said. “I got to the part where it ends about twenty miles before the road runs out.”

—

Twenty minutes later the front door opened and Mackenzie stepped out on the porch. She turned and closed the door. She stood still, more than a minute, visibly breathing, deep and slow, in and out. Then she stepped down on the scrub path. She started walking. Bramall and Reacher got out of the car to meet her. She had been crying. That was clear.

At first she said nothing. It was as if she had lost the power of speech. Her lips moved and she made sounds, but no words came out.

“Take it easy,” Bramall said.

She took a breath.

She said, “My sister would like to speak with Mr. Reacher now.”

Reacher looked at her, first in surprise, then as if about to ask a question, which he didn’t, because what could he say? Is she a mess? Was it worse than you expected?

She looked back at him, defeated, and she half shrugged and half nodded, as if saying yes and no to everything.

He walked down the scrub path and stepped up on the porch.

Chapter 33

Reacher turned the knob, and opened the door, and stepped inside. He realized in his mind he was expecting some kind of an elaborate gothic vision, involving shrouded windows and darkness, with maybe a lone candle burning somewhere, and a vague figure talking softly behind a heavy veil. The reality was a bright sun-filled house made of shiny logs the color of wildflower honey. The front door opened directly into the living room. It was small and neat and clean, but mostly empty. Nothing in it but two large armchairs, placed on either side of the fireplace, at comfortable and companionable angles.

Rose Sanderson was in the left-hand chair.

Below the neck she was her sister’s double. No mistake. She sat in a chair the exact same way. Her resting posture was identical. The angle of her wrist. The spread of her fingers. The tilt of her waist. A replica.

Above the neck, not so much. Not anymore. She was wearing a silver track suit top, with a tight hood, which was pulled up around her head. She had tightened the drawstring in front until only an oval of face was showing. On the left was a web of scar tissue, random and uneven, and on the right was a sheet of aluminum foil, oozing with some kind of thick ointment. She had pressed the foil to the shape of her head. Like half a mask.

A silvery color.

She wasn’t sweating. She wasn’t trembling. Her eyes looked OK. Better than OK. Her eyes were the eyes of a person who felt deeply serene and contented.

She said, “I want to ask you about something my sister said.”

Her voice was the same. Same note, same pitch, same volume. Reacher shook her hand and sat down in the empty chair. Up close he could see the left-hand part of her face was somehow reconstructed. It was stitched together from small fragments. The right-hand part was hidden under the home-made tinfoil poultice.

He said, “What do you want to ask me?”

“My sister says you found my class ring in a pawn shop.”

“I did.”

“Therefore your involvement here was completely accidental.”

“It was.”

“But it strikes me you would say that anyway, whether or not it was true. And it strikes me my sister is the type of person who might believe it.”

“Where else would I find your ring?”

“A police evidence locker, maybe.”

“Who do you think I am really?”

“Maybe still the 110th MP.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Then why did you mention it on the video?”

“So you would know I wasn’t bullshitting about being in the army. No one would claim the 110th if they didn’t have to.”

She nodded inside her hood. The foil on her face rustled and clicked.

Reacher said, “Are you expecting a visit from the 110th MP?”

“Not specifically,” she said. “Maybe someone like that.”

“Why?”

“A number of things.”

“Not me,” Reacher said. “I’m just a guy, passing through. Nothing more.”

“You sure?”

“Promise.”

She nodded again, as if the matter was settled.

He took the ring from his pocket, one last time, and he handed it over. She rolled it in her palm, and looked at it from every direction. She smiled. The foil clicked, and a jagged hollow crease appeared in her left cheek, as if the structure of her face had collapsed. Maybe a weak suture.

She said, “Thank you.”

He said, “You’re welcome.”

She said, “I honestly thought I would never see it again.”

Then she gave it back.

“I would owe you forty dollars,” she said. “Haven’t got it right now.”

“It’s a gift,” he said.

“Then I accept. Thank you. But not now. Would you hold it for me? Just a month or so. I could call when I’m ready.”

“You’re worried you’ll trade it away again.”

“Just recently everything has gotten so damn expensive.”

“Must be difficult making ends meet.”

“It is.”

“Is that why you’re worried about meeting someone like the 110th MP?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not worried about what I do,” she said. “No one is interested in my situation. They’ve given up on people like me.”

“Then why expect a visit?”

“Something different. I had a friend whose case is still open. Back burner I’m sure, but some work must get done. One day they’ll have enough.”

“For what?”

“To take another look, I suppose. My working assumption is one day they’ll send a guy. For a moment I hoped you were him, equipped with my ring as a stage prop. But apparently you’re not him. That’s OK. I just wanted to check. Would you ask my sister to come by again?”

—

Mackenzie was in the front seat of the Toyota. Her skin was pale. Her flawless face looked hyper-vivid, impossibly smooth, impossibly perfect. Reacher told her Rose wanted to see her again. She looked a question at him. He didn’t know what she was asking. Maybe she was looking for some kind of general agreement it could have been worse. Some kind of optimistic thinking. Or not. He couldn’t tell. He made an all-purpose don’t-know expression, and she nodded, as if she understood. She got out of the car and walked up the path to the house. She went inside again.

She closed the door.

Reacher took her place in the car.

He closed the door.

Bramall said, “How was it?”

“Pretty bad,” he said. “It hasn’t healed.”

“What state was she in?”

“High as a kite.”

“On what?”

“Something she claims has just gotten very expensive. I guess she’s still holding out for the good stuff. She’s not in the toilet stall yet.”

“Agent Noble implied she would have to be by now. He claims he tracks every shipment.”

“Maybe he was out sick the day they taught real life. Nothing works a hundred percent.”

“What did she want to speak with you about?”

“She’s expecting some kind of investigator to show up one day, asking questions about Porterfield. She was disappointed I wasn’t him. She thinks it’s still an open case.”

Bramall didn’t reply.

Reacher asked him, “What did Mrs. Mackenzie have to say?”

“Nothing good.”

“I woke up knowing.”

“Rose Sanderson got hit in the face by five pieces of shrapnel from an improvised explosive device concealed at the side of a road outside a small town in Afghanistan. The shrapnel appeared to be mostly small fragments of metal, probably off-cuts from a village-style engineering shop. The five pieces that hit her peeled her face off in chunks, and what stayed on was then badly abraded by smaller particles in the blast. But these days battlefield medicine is a miracle. They found most of the missing parts in her helmet and they sewed her back together again. Big name plastic surgeons, the whole nine yards.”