Duke the bodyguard came back to my room five minutes before seven in the evening, which was way too early for dinner. I heard his footsteps outside and a quiet click as the lock turned. I was sitting on the bed. The e-mail device was back in my shoe and my shoe was back on my foot.
"Get a nap, asshole?" he asked.
"Why am I locked up?" I asked back.
"Because you're a cop-killer," he said.
I looked away. Maybe he had been a cop himself, before he went private. Lots of ex-cops wind up in the security business, as consultants or private eyes or bodyguards. Certainly he had some kind of an agenda, which could be a problem for me. But it meant he was buying Richard Beck's story without question, which was the upside. He looked at me for a second with nothing much in his face. Then he led me out of the room and down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor and through dark passageways toward the side of the house that faced north. I could smell salt air and damp carpet. There were rugs everywhere. Some places they were laid two-deep on the floor. They glowed with muted colors. He stopped in front of a door and pushed it open and stepped back so I was channeled into a room. It was large and square and paneled with dark oak. Rugs all over the floor. There were small windows in deep recesses. Darkness and rock and gray ocean outside. There was an oak table. My two Colt Anacondas were lying on it, unloaded. Their cylinders were open. There was a man at the head of the table. He was sitting in an oak chair with arms and a tall back. He was the guy from Susan Duffy's surveillance photographs.
In the flesh he was mostly unremarkable. Not big, not small. Maybe six feet, maybe two hundred pounds. Gray hair, not thin, not thick, not short, not long. He was about fifty. He was wearing a gray suit made out of expensive cloth cut without any attempt at style. His shirt was white and his tie was no color at all, like gasoline. His hands and face were pale, like his natural habitat was underground parking garages at night, hawking samples of something from his Cadillac's trunk.
"Sit down," he said. His voice was quiet and strained, like it was all high up in his throat. I sat opposite him at the far end of the table.
"I'm Zachary Beck," he said.
"Jack Reacher," I said.
Duke closed the door gently and leaned his bulk against it from the inside. The room went quiet. I could hear the ocean. It wasn't a rhythmic wave sound like you hear at the beach. It was a continuous random crashing and sucking of surf on the rocks. I could hear pools draining and gravel rattling and breakers coming in like explosions. I tried to count them. People say every seventh wave is a big one.
"So," Beck said. He had a drink on the table in front of him. Some kind of amber liquid in a short heavy glass. Oily, like scotch or bourbon. He nodded to Duke. Duke picked up a second glass. It had been waiting there for me on a side table. It had the same oily amber liquid in it. He carried it awkwardly with his finger and thumb right down at the base. He walked across the room and bent a little to place it carefully in front of me. I smiled. I knew what it was for.
"So," Beck said again.
I waited.
"My son explained your predicament," he said. It was the same phrase his wife had used.
"The law of unintended consequences," I said.
"It presents me with difficulties," he said. "I'm just an ordinary businessman, trying to work out where my responsibilities lie."
I waited.
"We're grateful, naturally," he said. "Please don't misunderstand that."
"But?"
"There are legal issues, aren't there?" He said it with a little annoyance in his voice, like he was being victimized by complexities beyond his control.
"It's not rocket science," I said. "I need you to turn a blind eye. At least temporarily. Like one good turn deserves another. If your conscience can accommodate that kind of a thing."
The room went quiet again. I listened to the ocean. I could hear a full spectrum of sounds out there. I could hear brittle seaweed dragging on granite and a drawn-out undertow sucking backward toward the east. Zachary Beck's gaze was moving all over the place. He was looking at the table, then at the floor, then into space. His face was narrow. Not much of a jaw. His eyes were set fairly close together. His brow was lined with concentration. His lips were thin and his mouth was pursed. His head was moving a little. The whole thing was a reasonable facsimile of an ordinary businessman struggling with weighty issues.
"Was it a mistake?" he asked.
"The cop?" I said. "In retrospect, obviously. At the time, I was just trying to get the job done."
He spent a little more time thinking, and then he nodded.
"OK," he said. "In the circumstances, we might be willing to help you out. If we can. You did a great service for the family."
"I need money," I said.
"Why?"
"I'm going to need to travel."
"When?"
"Right now."
"Is that wise?"
"Not really. I'd prefer to wait here a couple of days until the initial panic is over. But I don't want to push my luck with you."
"How much money?"
"Five thousand dollars might do it."
He said nothing to that. Just started up with the gazing thing again. This time, there was a little more focus in his eyes.
"I've got some questions for you," he said. "Before you leave us. If you leave us. Two issues are paramount. First, who were they?"
"Don't you know?"
"I have many rivals and enemies."
"That would go this far?"
"I'm a rug importer," he said. "I didn't intend to be, but that's the way things worked out. Possibly you think I just deal with department stores and interior decorators, but the reality is I deal with all kinds of unsavory characters in various foreign hellholes where enslaved children are forced to work eighteen-hour days until their fingers bleed. Their owners are all convinced I'm ripping them off and raping their cultures, and the truth is I probably am, although no more than they are. They aren't fun companions. I need a certain toughness to prosper. And the point is, so do my competitors. This is a tough business all around. So between my suppliers and my competitors I can think of half a dozen separate people who would kidnap my son to get at me. After all, one of them did, five years ago, as I'm sure my son told you."
I said nothing.
"I need to know who they were," he said, like he really meant it. So I paused a beat and recounted the whole event for him, second by second, yard by yard, mile by mile. I described the two tall fair-haired DEA guys in the Toyota accurately and in great detail.
"They mean nothing to me," he said.
I didn't answer.
"Did you get the Toyota 's license plate?" he asked.
I thought back and told him the truth.
"I only saw the front," I said. "There was no plate."
"OK," he said. "So they were from a state that doesn't require a front license plate. That narrows it down a little, I guess."
I said nothing. A long moment later he shook his head.
"Information is in very short supply," he said. "An associate of mine contacted the police department down there, in a roundabout way. One town cop is dead, one college cop is dead, two unexplained strangers in a Lincoln Town Car are dead, and two unexplained strangers in a Toyota pickup truck are dead. The only surviving eyewitness is a second college cop, and he's still unconscious after a car wreck nearly five miles away. So right now nobody knows what happened. Nobody knows why it happened. Nobody has made a connection to an attempted kidnap. All anybody knows is there was a bloodbath down there for no apparent reason. They're speculating about gang warfare."
"What happens when they run the Lincoln 's plate?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"It's a corporate registration," he said. "It doesn't lead directly here."
I nodded. "OK, but I want to be on the West Coast before that other college cop wakes up. He got a good look at me."
"And I want to know who stepped out of line here."
I glanced at the Anacondas on the table. They had been cleaned and lightly oiled. I was suddenly very glad I had ditched the spent shells. I picked up my glass. Wrapped my thumb and all four fingers around it and sniffed the contents. I had no idea what they were. I would have preferred a cup of coffee. I put the glass back on the table.
"Is Richard OK?" I asked.
"He'll live," Beck said. "I'd like to know who exactly is attacking me."
"I told you what I saw," I said. "They didn't show me ID. They weren't known to me personally. I just happened to be there. What's your second paramount issue?"
There was another pause. The surf crashed and boomed outside the windows.
"I'm a cautious man," Beck said. "And I don't want to offend you."
"But?"
"But I'm wondering who you are, exactly."
"I'm the guy who saved your boy's other ear," I said.
Beck glanced at Duke, who stepped forward smartly and took my glass away. He used the same awkward pincer movement with his thumb and his index finger, right down at the base.
"And now you've got my fingerprints," I said. "Nice and clear."
Beck nodded again, like a guy making a judicious decision. He pointed at the guns, where they lay on the table.
"Nice weapons," he said.
I said nothing back. He moved his hand and nudged one of them with his knuckles. Then he sent it sliding across the wood toward me. The heavy steel made a hollow reverberant sound on the oak.
"You want to tell me why there's a mark scratched against one of the chambers?"
I listened to the ocean.
"I don't know why," I said. "They came to me like that."
"You bought them used?"
"In Arizona," I said.
"From a gun store?"
"From a gun show," I said.
"Why?"
"I don't like background checks," I said.
"Didn't you ask about the scratches?"
"I assumed they were reference marks," I said. "I assumed some gun nut had tested them and marked the most accurate chamber. Or the least accurate."
"Chambers differ?"
"Everything differs," I said. "That's the nature of manufacturing."
"Even with eight-hundred-dollar revolvers?"
"Depends on how discriminating you want to be. You feel the need to measure down to the hundred-thousandths of an inch, then everything in the world is different."
"Does it matter?"
"Not to me," I said. "I point a gun at somebody, I don't care which individual blood cell I'm targeting."
He sat quiet for a moment. Then he went into his pocket and came out with a bullet. Shiny brass case, dull lead point. He stood it upright in front of him like a miniature artillery shell. Then he knocked it over and rolled it under his fingers on the table. Then he placed it carefully and flicked it with his fingertip so that it rolled all the way along to me. It came in a wide graceful curve. It made a slow droning sound on the wood. I let it roll off the end of the table and caught it in my hand. It was an unjacketed Remington.44 Magnum. Heavy, probably more than three hundred grains. It was a brutal thing. Probably cost the best part of a dollar. It was warm from his pocket.
"You ever played Russian roulette?" he asked.
"I need to get rid of the car I stole," I said.
"We've already gotten rid of it," he said.
"Where?"
"Where it won't be found."
He went quiet. I said nothing. Just looked at him, like I was thinking Is that the sort of thing an ordinary businessman does? As well as registering his limousines through shell corporations? And instantly recalling the retail on a Colt Anaconda? And trapping a guest's prints on a whiskey tumbler?
"You ever played Russian roulette?" he asked again.
"No," I said. "I never did."
"I'm under attack," he said. "And I just lost two guys. Time like this I need to be adding guys, not losing them."
I waited, five seconds, ten. I made out like I was struggling with the concept.
"You asking to hire me?" I said. "I'm not sure I can stick around."
"I'm not asking anything," he said. "I'm deciding. You look like a useful guy. You could have that five thousand dollars to stay, not to go. Maybe."
I said nothing.
"Hey, if I want you, I've got you," he said. "There's a dead cop down in Massachusetts and I've got your name and I've got your prints."
"But?"
"But I don't know who you are."
"Get used to it," I said. "How do you know who anybody is?"
"I find out. I test people. Suppose I asked you to kill another cop? As a gesture of good faith?"
"I'd say no. I'd repeat that the first one was an unfortunate accident I regret very much. And I'd start wondering about what kind of an ordinary businessman you really are."
"My business is my business. It needn't concern you."
I said nothing.
"Play Russian roulette with me," he said.
"What would that prove?"
"A federal agent wouldn't do it."
"Why are you worried about federal agents?"
"That needn't concern you, either."
"I'm not a federal agent," I said.
"So prove it. Play Russian roulette with me. I mean, I'm already playing Russian roulette with you, in a manner of speaking, just letting you into my house without knowing exactly who you are."
"I saved your son."
"And I'm very grateful for that. Grateful enough that I'm still talking to you in a civilized manner. Grateful enough that I might yet offer you sanctuary and employment. Because I like a man who gets the job done."
"I'm not looking for work," I said. "I'm looking to hide out for maybe forty-eight hours and then move on."
"We'd look after you. Nobody would ever find you. You'd be completely safe here. If you pass the test."
"Russian roulette is the test?"
"The infallible test," he said. "In my experience."
I said nothing. The room was silent. He leaned forward in his chair.
"You're either with me or against me," he said. "Either way, you're about to prove it. I sincerely hope you choose wisely."
Duke moved against the door. The floor creaked under his feet. I listened to the ocean. Spray smashed upward and the wind whipped it and heavy foam drops arced lazily through the air and tapped against the window glass. The seventh wave came booming in, heavier than the others. I picked up the Anaconda in front of me. Duke pulled a gun out from under his jacket and pointed it at me in case I had something other than roulette on my mind. He had a Steyr SPP, which is most of a Steyr TMP submachine gun cut down into pistol form. It's a rare piece from Austria and it was big and ugly in his hand. I looked away from it and concentrated on the Colt. I thumbed the bullet into a random chamber and closed the cylinder and spun it free. The ratchet purred in the silence.
"Play," Beck said.
I spun the cylinder again and raised the revolver and touched the muzzle to my temple. The steel was cold. I looked Beck straight in the eye and held my breath and eased the trigger back. The cylinder turned and the hammer cocked. The action was smooth, like silk rubbing on silk. I pulled the trigger all the way. The hammer fell. There was a loud click. I felt the smack of the hammer pulse all the way through the steel to the side of my head. But I felt nothing else. I breathed out and lowered the gun and held it with the back of my hand resting on the table. Then I turned my hand over and pulled my finger out of the trigger guard.
"Your turn," I said.
"I just wanted to see you do it," he said.
I smiled.
"You want to see me do it again?" I said.
Beck said nothing. I picked up the gun again and spun the cylinder and let it slow and stop. Raised the muzzle to my head. The barrel was so long my elbow was forced up and out. I pulled the trigger, fast and decisive. There was a loud click in the silence. It was the sound of an eight-hundred-dollar piece of precision machinery working exactly the way it should. I lowered the gun and spun the cylinder a third time. Raised the gun. Pulled the trigger. Nothing. I did it a fourth time, fast. Nothing. I did it a fifth time, faster. Nothing.
"OK," Beck said.
"Tell me about Oriental rugs," I said.
"Nothing much to tell," he said. "They go on the floor. People buy them. Sometimes for a lot of money."
I smiled. Raised the gun again.
"Odds are six to one," I said. I spun the cylinder a sixth time. The room went completely silent. I put the gun to my head. Pulled the trigger. I felt the smack of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Nothing else.
"Enough," Beck said.
I lowered the Colt and cracked the cylinder and dumped the bullet out on the table. Lined it up carefully and rolled it all the way back to him. It droned on the wood. He stopped it with the heel of his hand and sat there and said nothing for two or three minutes. He was looking at me like I was an animal in a zoo. Like maybe he wished there were some bars between him and me.
"Richard tells me you were a military cop," he said.
"Thirteen years," I said.
"Were you good?"
"Better than those bozos you sent to pick him up."
"He speaks well of you."
"So he should," I said. "I saved his ass. At considerable cost to myself."
"You going to be missed anywhere?"
"No."
"Family?"
"Haven't got any."
"Job?"
"I can't go back to it now," I said. "Can I?"
He played with the bullet for a moment, rolling it under the pad of his index finger. Then he scooped it up into his palm.
"Who can I call?" he said.
"For what?"
He jiggled the bullet in his palm, like shaking dice.
"An employment recommendation," he said. "You had a boss, right?"
Mistakes, coming back to haunt me.
"Self-employed," I said.
He put the bullet back on the table.
"Licensed and insured?" he said.
I paused a beat.
"Not exactly," I said.
"Why not?"
"Reasons," I said.
"Got a registration for your truck?"
"I might have mislaid it."
He rolled the bullet under his fingers. Gazed at me. I could see him thinking. He was running things through his head. Processing information. Trying to make it fit with his own preconceptions. I willed him onward. An armed tough guy with an old panel van that doesn't belong to him. A car thief. A cop-killer. He smiled.
"Used records," he said. "I've seen that store."
I said nothing. Just looked him in the eye.
"Let me take a guess," he said. "You were fencing stolen CDs."
His type of guy. I shook my head.
"Bootlegs," I said. "I'm not a thief. I'm ex-military, trying to scrape a living. And I believe in free expression."
"Like hell," he said. "You believe in making a buck."
His type of guy.
"That too," I said.
"Were you doing well?"
"Well enough."
He scooped the bullet into his palm again and tossed it to Duke. Duke caught it one-handed and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
"Duke is my head of security," Beck said. "You'll work for him, effective immediately."
I glanced at Duke, than back at Beck.
"Suppose I don't want to work for him?" I said.
"You have no choice. There's a dead cop down in Massachusetts, and we have your name and your prints. You'll be on probation, until we get a feel for exactly what kind of a person you are. But look on the bright side. Think about five thousand dollars. That's a lot of bootleg CDs."
The difference between being an honored guest and a probationary employee was that I ate dinner in the kitchen with the other help. The giant from the gatehouse lodge didn't show, but there was Duke and one other guy I took to be some kind of an all-purpose mechanic or handyman. There was a maid and a cook. The five of us sat around a plain deal table and had a meal just as good as the family was getting in the dining room. Maybe better, because maybe the cook had spat in theirs, and I doubted if she would spit in ours. I had spent enough time around grunts and NCOs to know how they do things.
There wasn't much conversation. The cook was a sour woman of maybe sixty. The maid was timid. I got the impression she was fairly new. She was unsure about how to conduct herself. She was young and plain. She was wearing a cotton shift and a wool cardigan. She had clunky flat shoes on. The mechanic was a middle-aged guy, thin, gray, quiet. Duke was quiet too, because he was thinking. Beck had handed him a problem and he wasn't sure how he should deal with it. Could he use me? Could he trust me? He wasn't stupid. That was clear. He saw all the angles and he was prepared to spend a little time examining them. He was around my age. Maybe a little younger, maybe a little older. He had one of those hard ugly corn-fed faces that hides age well. He was about my size. I probably had heavier bones, he was probably a little bulkier. We probably weighed within a pound or two of each other. I sat next to him and ate my food and tried to time it right with the kind of questions a normal person would be expected to ask.
"So tell me about the rug business," I said, with enough tone in my voice that he knew I was saying I assumed Beck was into something else entirely.
"Not now," he said, like he meant not in front of the help. And then he looked at me in a way that had to mean anyway I'm not sure I want to be talking to a guy crazy enough to chance shooting himself in the head six straight times.
"The bullet was a fake, right?" I said.
"What?"
"No powder in it," I said. "Probably just cotton wadding."
"Why would it be a fake?"
"I could have shot him with it."
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I wouldn't, but he's a cautious guy. He wouldn't take the risk."
"I was covering you."
"I could have gotten you first. Used your gun on him."
He stiffened a little, but he didn't say anything. Competitive. I didn't like him very much. Which was OK with me, because I guessed he was going to wind up as a casualty before too long.
"Hold this," he said.
He took the bullet out of his pocket and handed it to me.
"Wait there," he said.
He got up off his chair and walked out of the kitchen. I stood the bullet upright in front of me, just like Beck had. I finished up my meal. There was no dessert. No coffee. Duke came back with one of my Anacondas swinging from his trigger finger. He walked past me to the back door and nodded me over to join him. I picked the bullet up and clamped it in my palm. Followed him. The back door beeped as we passed through it. Another metal detector. It was neatly integrated into the frame. But there was no burglar alarm. Their security depended on the sea and the wall and the razor wire.
Beyond the back door was a cold damp porch, and then a rickety storm door into the yard, which was nothing more than the tip of the rocky finger. It was a hundred yards wide and semicircular in front of us. It was dark and the lights from the house picked up the grayness of the granite. The wind was blowing and I could see luminescence from the whitecaps out in the ocean. The surf crashed and eddied. There was a moon and low torn clouds moving fast. The horizon was immense and black. The air was cold. I twisted up and back and picked out my room's window way above me.
"Bullet," Duke said.
I turned back and passed it to him.
"Watch," he said.
He loaded it into the Colt. Jerked his hand to snap the cylinder shut. Squinted in the moonlit grayness and clicked the cylinder around until the loaded chamber was at the ten o'clock position.
"Watch," he said again.
He pointed the gun with his arm straight, aiming just below horizontal at the flat granite tables where they met the sea. He pulled the trigger. The cylinder turned and the hammer dropped and the gun kicked and flashed and roared. There was a simultaneous spark on the rocks and an unmistakable metallic whang of a ricochet. It feathered away to silence. The bullet probably skipped a hundred yards out into the Atlantic. Maybe it killed a fish.
"It wasn't a fake," he said. "I'm fast enough."
"OK," I said.
He opened the cylinder and shook the empty shell case out. It clinked on the rocks by his feet.
"You're an asshole," he said. "An asshole cop-killer."
"Were you a cop?"
He nodded. "Once upon a time."
"Is Duke your first name or your last?"
"Last."
"Why does a rug importer need armed security?"
"Like he told you, it's a rough business. There's a lot of money in it."
"You really want me here?"
He shrugged. "I might. If somebody's sniffing around, we might need some cannon fodder. Better you than me."
"I saved the kid."
"So what? Get in line. We've all saved the kid, one time or another. Or Mrs. Beck, or Mr. Beck himself."
"How many guys have you got?"
"Not enough," he said. "Not if we're under attack."
"What is this, a war?"
He didn't answer. Just walked past me toward the house. I turned my back on the restless ocean and followed him.
There was nothing doing in the kitchen. The mechanic had disappeared and the cook and the maid were stacking dishes into a machine large enough to do duty in a restaurant. The maid was all fingers and thumbs. She didn't know what went where. I looked around for coffee. There still wasn't any. Duke sat down again at the empty deal table. There was no activity. No urgency. I was aware of time slipping away. I didn't trust Susan Duffy's estimate of five days' grace. Five days is a long time when you're guarding two healthy individuals off the books. I would have been happier if she had said three days. I would have been more impressed by her sense of realism.
"Go to bed," Duke said. "You'll be on duty as of six-thirty in the morning."
"Doing what?"
"Doing whatever I tell you."
"Is my door going to be locked?"
"Count on it," he said. "I'll unlock it at six-fifteen. Be down here by six-thirty."
I waited on my bed until I heard him come up after me and lock the door. Then I waited some more until I was sure he wasn't coming back. Then I took my shoe off and checked for messages. The little device powered up and the tiny green screen was filled with a cheerful italic announcement: You've Got Mail! There was one item only. It was from Susan Duffy. It was a one-word question: Location? I hit reply and typed Abbot, Maine, coast, 20m S of Portland, lone house on long rock finger. That would have to do. I didn't have a mailing address or exact GPS coordinates. But she should be able to pin it down if she spent some time with a large-scale map of the area. I hit send now.
Then I stared at the screen. I wasn't entirely sure how e-mail worked. Was it instantaneous communication, like a phone call? Or would my reply wait somewhere in limbo before it got to her? I assumed she would be watching for it. I assumed she and Eliot would be spelling each other around the clock.
Ninety seconds later the screen announced You've Got Mail! again. I smiled. This might work. This time her message was longer. Only twenty-one words, but I had to scroll down the tiny screen to read it all. It said: We'll work the maps, thanks. Prints show 2 bodyguards in our custody are ex-army. All under control here. You? Progress?
I hit reply and typed hired, probably. Then I thought for a second and pictured Quinn and Teresa Daniel in my mind and added otherwise no progress yet. Then I thought some more and typed re 2 bodyguards ask MP Powell quote 10-29, 10-30, 10-24, 10-36 unquote from me specifically. Then I hit send now. I watched the machine announce Your message has been sent and looked away at the darkness outside the window and hoped Powell's generation still spoke the same language mine did. 10-29, 10-30, 10-24, and 10-36 were four standard Military Police radio codes that meant nothing much in themselves. 10-29 stood for weak signal. It was a procedural complaint about failing equipment. 10-30 meant I am requesting nonemergency assistance. 10-24 meant suspicious person. 10-36 meant please forward my messages. The 10-30 nonemergency call meant the whole string would attract no attention from anybody. It would be recorded and filed somewhere and ignored for the rest of history. But taken together the string was a kind of underground jargon. At least it used to be, way back when I was in uniform. The weak signal part meant keep this quiet and under the radar. The request for nonemergency assistance backed it up: keep this away from the hot files. Suspicious person was self-explanatory. Please forward my messages meant put me in the loop. So if Powell was on the ball he would understand the whole thing to mean check these guys out on the quiet and give me the skinny. And I hoped he was on the ball, because he owed me. He owed me big time. He had sold me out. My guess was he would be looking for ways to make it up to me.
I looked back at the tiny screen: You've Got Mail! It was Duffy, saying OK, be fast. I replied trying and switched off and nailed the device back into the heel of my shoe. Then I checked the window.
It was a standard two-part sliding thing. The bottom casement would slide upward in front of the top casement. There was no insect screen. The paint on the inside was thin and neat. The paint on the outside was thick and sloppy from where it had been continually redone to beat the climate. There was a brass catch. It was an ancient thing. There was no modern security. I slipped the catch and pushed the window up. It caught on the thick paint. But it moved. I got it open about five inches and cold sea air blew in on me. I bent down and looked for alarm pads. There weren't any. I heaved it all the way up and examined the whole of the frame. There was no sign of any security system at all. It was understandable. The window was fifty feet up above the rocks and the ocean. And the house itself was unreachable because of the high wall and the water.
I leaned out the window and looked down. I could see where I had been standing when Duke fired the bullet. I stayed half-in and half-out of the window for about five minutes, leaning on my elbows, staring at the black ocean, smelling the salt air, and thinking about the bullet. I had pulled the trigger six times. It would have made a hell of a mess. My head would have exploded. The rugs would have been ruined and the oak paneling would have splintered. I yawned. The thinking and the sea air were making me sleepy. I ducked back inside and slammed the casement down and went to bed.
I was already up and showered and dressed when I heard Duke unlock the door at six-fifteen the next morning, day twelve, Wednesday, Elizabeth Beck's birthday. I had already checked my e-mail. There were no messages. None at all. I wasn't worried. I spent ten quiet minutes at the window. The dawn was right there in front of me and the sea was gray and oily and subdued. The tide was out. Rocks were exposed. Pools had formed here and there. I could see birds on the shore. They were black guillemots. Their spring feathers were coming in. Gray was changing to black. They had bright red feet. I could see cormorants and black-backed gulls wheeling in the distance. Herring gulls swooping low, searching for breakfast.
I waited until Duke's footsteps had receded and went downstairs and walked into the kitchen and met the giant from the gatehouse face-to-face. He was standing at the sink, drinking water from a glass. He had probably just swallowed his steroid pills. He was a very big guy. I stand six feet five inches tall and I have to center myself quite carefully to walk through a standard thirty-inch doorway. This guy was at least six inches taller than me and probably ten inches wider across the shoulders. He probably outweighed me by two hundred pounds. Maybe by more. I got that core shudder I get when I'm next to a guy big enough to make me feel small. The world seems to tilt a little.
"Duke is in the gym," the guy said.
"There's a gym?" I said.
"Downstairs," he said. His voice was light and high-pitched. He must have been gobbling steroids like candy for years. His eyes were dull and his skin was bad. He was somewhere in his middle thirties, greasy blond, dressed in a muscle shirt and sweatpants. His arms were bigger than my legs. He looked like a cartoon.
"We work out before breakfast," he said.
"Fine," I said. "Go right ahead."
"You too."
"I never work out," I said.
"Duke's expecting you. You work here, you work out."
I glanced at my watch. Six twenty-five in the morning. Time ticking away.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Just looked at me like I was setting some kind of a trap for him. That's another problem with steroids. Too many of them can rewire your head. And this guy's head didn't look like it had started from a very positive place to begin with. He looked mean and stupid. No better way to put it. And not a good combination. There was something in his face. I didn't like him. I was oh-for-two, as far as liking my new colleagues went.
"It's not a difficult question," I said.
"Paulie," he said.
I nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Paulie. I'm Reacher."
"I know," he said. "You were in the army."
"You got a problem with that?"
"I don't like officers."
I nodded. They had checked. They knew what rank I had held. They had some kind of access.
"Why not?" I asked. "Did you fail the OCS exam?"
He didn't answer.
"Let's go find Duke," I said.
He put his glass of water down and led me out to a back hallway and through a door to a set of wooden cellar stairs. There was a whole basement under the house. It must have been blasted out of solid rock. The walls were raw stone patched and smoothed with concrete. The air was a little damp and musty. There were naked lightbulbs hanging in wire cages close to the ceiling. There were numerous rooms. One was a good-sized space with white paint all over it. The floor was covered with white linoleum. There was a smell of old sweat. There was an exercise bicycle and a treadmill and a weights machine. There was a heavy bag hanging from a ceiling joist. There was a speed bag near it. Boxing gloves on a shelf. There were dumbbells stored in wall racks. There were free weights stacked loose on the floor next to a bench. Duke was standing right next to it. He was wearing his dark suit. He looked tired, like he had been up all night. He hadn't showered. His hair was a mess and his suit was creased and wrinkled, especially low down on the back of the coat.
Paulie went straight into some kind of a complicated stretching routine. He was so muscle-bound that his legs and arms had limited articulation. He couldn't touch his shoulders with his fingers. His biceps were too big. I looked at the weights machine. It had all kinds of handles and bars and grips. It had strong black cables that led through pulleys to a tall stack of lead plates. You would have to be able to lift about five hundred pounds to move them all.
"You working out?" I said to Duke.
"None of your business," he replied.
"Me either," I said.
Paulie turned his giant neck and glanced at me. Then he lay down on his back on the bench and shuffled around until his shoulders were positioned underneath a bar resting on a stand. The bar had a bunch of weights on either end. He grunted a bit and wrapped his hands around the bar and flicked his tongue in and out like he was preparing for a major effort. Then he pressed upward and lifted the bar off the stand. The bar bent and wobbled. There was so much weight on it that it curved way down at the ends, like old film of Russian weight-lifters at the Olympics. He grunted again and heaved it up until his arms were locked straight. He held it like that for a second and then crashed it back into the stand. He turned his head and looked straight at me, like I was supposed to be impressed. I was, and I wasn't. It was a lot of weight, and he had a lot of muscle. But steroid muscle is dumb muscle. It looks real good, and if you want to pit it against dead weight it works just fine. But it's slow and heavy and tires you out just carrying it around.
"Can you bench-press four hundred pounds?" he called. He was a little out of breath.
"Never tried," I said.
"Want to try now?"
"No," I said.
"Wimpy little guy like you, it could build you up."
"I'm officer class," I said. "I don't need building up. I want some four-hundred-pound weight bench-pressed, I just find some big stupid ape and tell him to do it for me."
He glowered at me. I ignored him and looked at the heavy bag. It was a standard piece of gym equipment. Not new. I pushed it with my palm and set it swinging gently on its chain. Duke was watching me. Then he was glancing at Paulie. He had picked up on some vibe I hadn't. I pushed the bag again. We had used heavy bags extensively in hand-to-hand combat training. We would be wearing dress uniforms to simulate street clothes and we used the bags to learn how to kick. I once split a heavy bag with the edge of my heel, years ago. The sand dumped right out on the floor. I figured that would impress Paulie. But I wasn't going to try it again. The e-mail thing was hidden in my heel and I didn't want to damage it. I made an absurd mental note to tell Duffy she should have put it in the left shoe instead. But then, she was left-handed. Maybe she had thought she was doing the right thing all along.
"I don't like you," Paulie called. He was looking straight at me, so I assumed he was talking to me. His eyes were small. His skin glittered. He was a walking chemical imbalance. Exotic compounds were leaking from his pores.
"We should arm wrestle," he said.
"What?"
"We should arm wrestle," he said again. He came up right next to me, light and quiet on his feet. He towered over me. He practically blotted out the light. He smelled of sharp acrid sweat.
"I don't want to arm wrestle," I said. I saw Duke watching me. Then I glanced at Paulie's hands. They were clenched into fists, but they weren't huge. And steroids don't do anything for a person's hands, unless they exercise them, and most people don't think to do that.
"Pussy," he said.
I said nothing.
"Pussy," he said again.
"What's in it for the winner?" I asked.
"Satisfaction," he said.
"OK."
"OK what?"
"OK, let's do it," I said.
He seemed surprised, but he moved back to the weights bench fast enough. I took my jacket off and folded it over the exercise bicycle. Unbuttoned my right cuff and rolled my sleeve up to my shoulder. My arm looked very thin next to his. But my hand was a shade bigger. My fingers were longer. And what little muscle I had in comparison to him came from pure genetics, not out of some pharmacist's bottle.
We knelt down facing each other across the bench and planted our elbows. His forearm was a little longer than mine, which was going to put a kink in his wrist, which was going to help me. We slapped our palms together and gripped. His hand felt cold and damp to me. Duke took up station at the head of the bench, like a referee.
"Go," he said.
I cheated from the first moment. The aim of arm wrestling is to use the strength in your arm and shoulder to rotate your hand downward, taking your opponent's hand with it, to the mat. I had no chance of doing that. Not against this guy. No chance at all. It was going to be all I could do to keep my own hand in place. So I didn't even try to win. I just squeezed. A million years of evolution have given us an opposable thumb, which means it can work against the other four fingers like a pincer. I got his knuckles lined up and squeezed them mercilessly. And I have very strong hands. I concentrated on keeping my arm upright. Stared into his eyes and squeezed his hand until I felt his knuckles start to crush. Then I squeezed harder. And harder. He didn't give up. He was immensely strong. He kept the pressure on. I was sweating and breathing hard, just trying not to lose. We held it like that for a whole minute, straining and quivering in the silence. I squeezed harder. I let the pain build up in his hand. Watched it register in his face. Then I squeezed harder still. That's what gets them. They think it's already gotten as bad as it's going to get, and then it gets worse. And then worse still, like a ratchet. Worse and worse, like there's an infinite universe of agony ahead of them, stepping up and up and up, remorselessly, like a machine. They start concentrating on their own distress. And then the decision starts flickering in their eyes. They know I'm cheating, but they realize they can't do anything about it. They can't look up helplessly and say he's hurting me! It's not fair! That makes them the pussy, not me. And they can't face that. So they swallow it. They swallow it and they start worrying about whether it's going to get any worse. And it is. For sure. There's plenty more to come. There's always more to come. I stared into Paulie's eyes and squeezed harder. Sweat was making his skin slick, so my hand was moving easily over his, tighter and tighter. There were no friction burns to distract him. The pain was all right there in his knuckles.
"Enough," Duke called. "It's a tie."
I didn't loosen my grip. Paulie didn't back off with the pressure. His arm was as solid as a tree.
"I said enough," Duke called. "You assholes have got work to do."
I raised my elbow up high so he couldn't surprise me with a last-second effort. He looked away and dragged his arm off the bench. We let go of each other. His hand was marked vivid red and white. The ball of my thumb felt like it was on fire. He pushed himself off his knees and stood up and walked straight out of the room. I heard his heavy tread on the wooden staircase.
"That was real stupid," Duke said. "You just made another enemy."
I was out of breath. "What, I was supposed to lose?"
"It would have been better."
"Not my way."
"Then you're stupid," he said.
"You're head of security," I said. "You should tell him to act his age."
"Not that easy."
"So get rid of him."
"That's not easy either."
I stood up slowly. Rolled my sleeve down and buttoned my cuff. Glanced at my watch. Nearly seven in the morning. Time ticking away.
"What am I doing today?" I asked.
"Driving a truck," Duke said. "You can drive a truck, right?"
I nodded, because I couldn't say no. I had been driving a truck when I rescued Richard Beck.
"I need to shower again," I said. "And I need some clean clothes."
"Tell the maid," he said. He was tired. "What am I, your damn valet?"
He watched me for a second and headed for the stairs and left me all alone in the basement. I stood and stretched and panted and shook my hand loose from the wrist to ease the strain. Then I retrieved my jacket and went looking for Teresa Daniel. Theoretically she could be locked up somewhere down there. But I didn't find her. The basement was a warren of spaces carved and blasted out of the rock. Most of them were self-explanatory. There was a furnace room filled with a roaring boiler and a bunch of pipes. There was a laundry room, with a big washing machine sitting high on a wooden table, so it would drain by gravity into a pipe that ran out through the wall at knee height. There were storage areas. There were two locked rooms. Their doors were solid. I listened hard but heard nothing from inside them. I knocked gently and got no response.
I headed back upstairs and met Richard Beck and his mother in the ground-floor hallway. Richard had washed his hair and parted it low on the right and swept it sideways so it hung down thickly on the left, to hide his missing ear. It looked like the thing old guys do to hide the fact they're going bald on top. The ambivalence was still there in his face. He looked comfortable in the dark safety of his house, but I could see he also felt a little trapped. He looked pleased enough to see me. Not just because I had saved his ass, but maybe because I was a random representation of the outside world, too.
"Happy birthday, Mrs. Beck," I said.
She smiled at me, like she was flattered that I'd remembered. She looked better than she had the day before. She was easily ten years older than me, but I might have paid her some attention if we'd met somewhere by chance, like a bar or a club or on a long train ride.
"You'll be with us for a while," she said. Then it seemed to dawn on her why I would be with them for a while. I was hiding out there because I had killed a cop. She looked confused and glanced away and moved on through the hallway. Richard went with her and looked back at me, once, over his shoulder. I found the kitchen again. Paulie wasn't there. Zachary Beck was waiting for me instead.
"What weapons did they have?" he asked. "The guys in the Toyota?"
"They had Uzis," I said. Stick to the truth, like all good scam artists. "And a grenade."
"Which Uzis?"
"The Micros," I said. "The little ones."
"Magazines?"
"The short ones. Twenty rounds."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
I nodded.
"You an expert?"
"They were designed by an Israeli Army lieutenant," I said. "His name was Uziel Gal. He was a tinkerer. He made all kinds of improvements to the old Czech models 23 and 25 until he had a whole new thing going. This was back in 1949. The original Uzi went into production in 1953. It's franchised to Belgium and Germany. I've seen a few, here and there."
"And you're absolutely sure these were Micro versions with the short mags?"
"I'm sure."
"OK," he said, like it meant something to him. Then he walked out of the kitchen and disappeared. I stood there and thought about the urgency of his questions and the wrinkles in Duke's suit. The combination worried me.
I found the maid and told her I needed clothes. She showed me a long shopping list and said she was on her way out to the grocery store. I told her I wasn't asking her to go buy me clothes. I told her just to borrow them from somebody. She went red and bobbed her head and said nothing. Then the cook came back from somewhere and took pity on me and fried me some eggs and bacon. And made me some coffee, which put the whole day in a better light. I ate and drank and then I went up the two flights of stairs to my room. The maid had left some clothes in the corridor, neatly folded on the floor. There was a pair of black denim jeans and a black denim shirt. Black socks and white underwear. Every item was laundered and neatly pressed. I guessed they were Duke's. Beck's or Richard's would have been too small and Paulie's would look like I was wearing a tent. I scooped them up and carried them inside. Locked myself in my bathroom and took my shoe off and checked for e-mail. There was one message. It was from Susan Duffy. It said: Your location pinpointed by map. We will move up 25m S and W of you to motel near I-95. Response from Powell quote your eyes only, both DD after 5, 10-2, 10-28 unquote. Progress?
I smiled. Powell still talked the language. Both DD after 5 meant both guys had served five years and then been dishonorably discharged. Five years is way too long for the discharges to have been related to inherent ineptitude or training screw-ups. Those things would have been evident very early. The only way to get fired after five years is to be a bad person. And 10-2, 10-28 left no doubt about it. 10-28 was a standard radio-check response meaning loud and clear. 10-2 was a standard radio call for ambulance urgently needed. But read together as MPs' covert slang ambulance urgently needed, loud and clear meant these guys need to be dead, make no mistake about it. Powell had been in the files, and he hadn't liked what he had seen.
I found the icon for reply and typed no progress yet, stay tuned. Then I hit send now and put the unit back in my shoe. I didn't spend long in the shower. Just rinsed the gymnasium sweat off and dressed in the borrowed clothes. I used my own shoes and jacket and the overcoat Susan Duffy had given me. I walked downstairs and found Zachary Beck and Duke standing together in the hallway. They both had coats on. Duke had car keys in his hand. He still hadn't showered. He still looked tired, and he was scowling. Maybe he didn't like me wearing his clothes. The front door was standing open and I saw the maid driving past in a dusty old Saab, off to do the household's marketing. Maybe she was going to buy a birthday cake.
"Let's go," Beck said, like there was work to be done and not much time to do it in. They led me out through the front door. The metal detector beeped twice, once for each of them but not for me. Outside the air was cold and fresh. The sky was bright. Beck's black Cadillac was waiting on the carriage circle. Duke held the rear door and Beck settled himself in the back. Duke got into the driver's seat. I took the front passenger seat. It seemed appropriate. There was no conversation.
Duke started the engine and put the car in gear and accelerated down the driveway. I could see Paulie far ahead in the distance, opening the gate for the maid in the Saab. He was back in his suit. He stood and waited for us and we swept past him and headed west, away from the sea. I turned around and saw him closing the gate again.
We drove the fifteen miles inland and turned north on the highway toward Portland. I stared ahead through the windshield and wondered exactly where they were taking me. And what they were going to do with me when they got me there.
They took me right to the edge of the port facilities outside the city itself. I could see the tops of ships' superstructures out on the water, and cranes all over the place. There were abandoned containers stacked in weedy lots. There were long low office buildings. There were trucks moving in and moving out. There were seagulls in the air everywhere. Duke drove through a gate into a small lot made of cracked concrete and patched blacktop. There was nothing in it except for a panel van standing all alone in the center. It was a medium-sized thing, made from a pickup frame with a big boxy body built onto it. The body was wider than the cab and wrapped up over it. It was the kind of thing you find in a rental line. Not the smallest they have to offer, not the largest. There was no writing on it. It was entirely plain, painted blue, with rust streaks here and there. It was old, and it had lived its life in the salt air.
"Keys are in the door pocket," Duke said.
Beck leaned forward from the back seat and handed me a slip of paper. It had directions on it, to some place in New London, Connecticut.
"Drive the truck to this exact address," he said. "It's a parking lot pretty much the same as this one. There'll be an identical truck already there. Keys in the door pocket. You leave this one, you bring the other one back here."
"And don't look inside either one," Duke said.
"And drive slow," Beck said. "Stay legal. Don't attract attention."
"Why?" I said. "What's in them?"
"Rugs," Beck said, from behind me. "I'm thinking of you, is all. You're a wanted man. Better to keep a low profile. So take your time. Stop for coffee. Act normally."
They said nothing more. I got out of the Cadillac. The air smelled of sea and oil and diesel exhaust and fish. The wind was blowing. There was indistinct industrial noise all around, and the shriek and caw of gulls. I walked over to the blue truck. Passed directly behind it and saw the roller door handle was secured by a little lead seal. I walked on and opened the driver's door. Found the keys in the pocket. Climbed inside and started the engine. Belted myself in and got comfortable and put the thing in gear and drove out of the lot. I saw Beck and Duke in the Cadillac, watching me go, nothing in their faces. I paused at the first turn and made the left and struck out south.
