Killing Floor (Page 114)

Kliner was forcing Finlay practically out of the chair with the pressure of the automatic in his ear. Finlay’s lips were clamped. Kliner was sneering at me. I smiled at him. Kliner was a dead man. He was as dead as a man who has just jumped off a high building. He hadn’t hit the ground yet. But he’d jumped.

"Understand?" Kliner said to me. "Call it six o’clock tomorrow morning to save Mr. Finlay’s life, seven o’clock to save Miss Roscoe’s life. And don’t go messing with Picard. Nobody else knows my phone number."

I shrugged at him again.

"Do you understand?" he repeated.

"I think so," I said. "Hubble’s run away and you don’t know how to find him, right? Is that what you’re telling me?"

Nobody spoke.

"You can’t find him, can you?" I said. "You’re useless, Kliner. You’re a useless piece of shit. You think you’re some kind of a smart guy, but you can’t find Hubble. You couldn’t find your asshole if I gave you a mirror on a stick."

I could hear that Finlay wasn’t breathing. He thought I was playing with his life. But old man Kliner left him alone. Moved across into my field of vision again. He had gone pale. I could smell his stress. I was just about getting used to the idea that Hubble was still alive. He’d been dead all week, and now he was alive again. He was alive, and hiding out somewhere. He’d been hiding out somewhere all week, while they looked for him. He was on the run. He hadn’t been dragged out of his house on Monday morning. He’d walked out by himself. He’d taken that stay-at-home call and smelled a rat and run for his life. And they couldn’t find him. Paul Hubble had given me the tiny edge I was going to need.

"What’s Hubble got that you want so much?" I said.

Kliner shrugged at me.

"He’s the only loose end left," he said. "I’ve taken care of everything else. And I’m not going out of business just because an asshole like Hubble is running around somewhere shooting his stupid mouth off. So I need him at home. Where he belongs. So you’re going to get him for me."

I leaned forward and stared right into his eyes.

"Can’t your son get him for you?" I said, quietly.

Nobody spoke. I leaned forward some more.

"Tell your boy to go pick him up," I said.

Kliner was silent.

"Where’s your son, Kliner?" I asked him.

He didn’t say anything.

"What happened to him?" I said. "Do you know?"

He knew, but he didn’t know. I could see that. He hadn’t accepted it. He’d sent his boy after me, and his boy hadn’t come back. So he knew, but he hadn’t admitted it to himself. His hard face went slack. He wanted to know. But he couldn’t ask me. He wanted to hate me for killing his boy. But he couldn’t do that either. Because to do that would be to admit it was true.

I stared at him. He wanted to raise that big shotgun and blow me into a red dew. But he couldn’t. Because he needed me to get Hubble back. He was churning away inside. He wanted to shoot me right then. But forty tons of money was more important to him than his son’s life.

I stared into his dead eyes. Unblinking. Spoke softly.

"Where’s your son, Kliner?" I said.

There was silence in the office for a long time.

"Get him out of here," Kliner said. "If you’re not out of here in one minute, Reacher, I’ll shoot the detective right now."

I stood up. Looked around the five of them. Nodded to Finlay. Headed out. Picard followed me and closed the door quietly.

Chapter Thirty

PICARD AND I WALKED OUT TOGETHER THROUGH THE SQUAD room. It was deserted. Quiet. The desk sergeant was gone. Teale must have sent him away. The coffee machine was on. I could smell it. I saw Roscoe’s desk. I saw the big bulletin board. The Morrison investigation. It was still empty. No progress. I dodged around the reception counter. Pushed open the heavy glass door against its stiff rubber seal. Stepped out into the bright afternoon.

Picard signaled with the stubby gun barrel that I should get in the Bentley and drive. I didn’t argue with the guy. Just headed across the lot to the car. I was closer to panic than I’d ever been in my whole life. My heart was thumping and I was taking little short breaths. I was putting one foot in front of the other and using every ounce of everything I had just to stay in control. I was telling myself that when I arrived at that driver’s door, I better have some damn good idea about what the hell I was going to do next.

I got into the Bentley and drove up to Eno’s diner. Reached around to the seat pocket and found the map. Walked over through the bright afternoon sun and pushed in through Eno’s door. Slid into an empty booth. Ordered coffee and eggs.

I was screaming at myself to listen to what I’d learned through thirteen hard years. The shorter the time, the cooler you’ve got to be. If you’ve only got one shot, you’ve got to make it count. You can’t afford to miss because you screwed up the planning. Or because you ran out of blood sugar and got sick and dizzy in the small hours of the morning. So I forced the eggs down and drank the coffee. Then I pushed the empty mug and the plate aside and spread the map on the table. Started looking for Hubble. He could be anywhere. But I had to find him. I had one shot at it. I couldn’t rush around from place to place. I had to find him inside my head. It had to be a thought process. I had to find him inside my head first and then go straight to him. So I bent over Eno’s table. Stared at the map. Stared at it for a long time.

I SPENT THE BEST PART OF AN HOUR WITH THE MAP. THEN I folded it up and squared it on the table. Picked up the knife and the fork from the egg plate. Palmed them into my trouser pocket. Looked around me. The waitress walked over. The one with glasses.

"Planning a trip, honey?" she asked me.