Worth Dying For (Page 35)

Even so, Carson had hauled the Duncans in for questioning. By that point a hint of foul play was definitely in the air, so the State Police had to be involved, because of jurisdiction issues, so the Duncans were taken to a State barracks over near Lincoln. Seth went with them and was questioned by female officers, but had nothing to say. The three adults were grilled for days. Nebraska, in the 1980s. Rules and procedures were pretty loose where child kidnapping was suspected. But the Duncans admitted nothing. They allowed their property to be searched, voluntarily. Carson’s people did the job thoroughly, which wasn’t hard because there wasn’t much property. Just the T-shaped acre of land, bounded by the unfinished post-and-rail fence, and the three houses themselves. Carson’s people found nothing. Carson called the FBI, who sent a team equipped with the latest 1980s technology. The FBI found nothing. The Duncans were released, driven home, and the case went cold.

Reacher crawled across the room, back to the first carton, hands and knees, overview completed, ready to start in on the fine details.

The doctor didn’t answer. He just stood there, bruised, sore, shaking, sweating. Jacob Duncan repeated the question: ‘Where is Reacher now?’

The doctor said, ‘I would like to sit down.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘A little.’

‘At the motel?’

‘No,’ the doctor said. ‘I figured Mr Vincent wouldn’t serve me.’

‘So where were you drinking?’

‘At home.’

‘And then you walked to the motel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I needed something from my car. Some medical equipment.’

‘So you were already drunk when you stole our truck?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t have done it if I was sober.’

‘Where is Reacher now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

The doctor said, ‘A drink?’

‘You’re familiar with the concept, I think.’

‘Yes, I would like a drink.’

Jacob Duncan got up and stepped across his kitchen to a cabinet on the wall. He opened it up and took out a bottle of Wild Turkey, almost full. From another cabinet he took a glass. He carried both back to the table and set them down. He took stuff off a chair in the corner, a pair of boots, old mail, a ball of string, and he carried the chair across the room and placed it behind the doctor.

He said, ‘Sit down, please. And help yourself.’

The doctor sat down and shuffled the chair closer to the table and uncorked the bottle. He poured himself a generous measure and drank it all in one go. He poured a second glass.

Jacob Duncan asked, ‘Where is Reacher now?’

The doctor said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. And it’s time to make your choice. You can sit here with us and drink my fine bourbon and pass the time of day in pleasant conversation. Or we could do it another way. We could have Seth break your nose, for instance. I’m pretty certain he would like to. Or we could have your wife join us, and we could subject her to petty humiliations. My guess is she wouldn’t put up much of a fight, having known us all these years. No marks, no overt damage. But the shared experience might have an effect on your marriage, in the years to come, you having shown yourself unable to defend her. Because she’ll see it as unwilling, not unable. You should think about it.’

‘Reacher’s gone,’ the doctor said.

‘Gone?’

‘He left this afternoon.’

‘How?’

‘He got a ride.’

‘Impossible,’ Jacob said. ‘We blocked the road, north and south.’

‘Not in time.’

‘Did you see him go?’

‘He was at the motel. I think he changed the plates because he was going to use your truck. But someone else came along and he hitched a ride, which was better.’

‘Who came along?’

‘Not one of us. Just someone driving through.’

‘What kind of car?’

‘I’m not good with cars. I think it was white.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

The doctor drank most of his second glass. Gulp, swallow, gulp, swallow. He said, ‘He’s going to Virginia.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ the doctor said. He filled his glass again. ‘But that’s all he’s ever talked about, right from the first moment he got here. He’s on his way to Virginia, and always was.’

‘What’s in Virginia?’

‘He didn’t say. A woman, perhaps. That’s the impression I got.’

‘From what?’

‘Just a feeling.’

Jacob Duncan said, ‘You’re nervous.’

The doctor said, ‘Of course I am.’

‘Why? You’re just sharing a drink with your neighbours.’

The doctor said nothing.

Jacob Duncan said, ‘You think he’s coming back.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Is he coming back?’

The doctor said nothing.

‘Tell us.’

The doctor said, ‘He was a military cop. He knows how to do things.’

‘What things?’

‘He said he’s going to visit with the county police. Tomorrow morning, I suppose. He said he’s going to look at the file from twenty-five years ago. If it’s OK, he’s going to Virginia. If it’s not, he’s coming back here.’

‘Why would he?’

‘To get you, that’s why.’

Up in Canada, the white van had made the right turn just shy of the town called Medicine Hat, and was heading south on the lonely road that led down towards Pakowki Lake. It was already full dark up there. No lights at all, and no moon or stars either, because of the cloud. The road was bad. It was pitted with potholes. It twisted and it wandered, and it rose and it fell. It was hard going, and not entirely safe. It was dangerous, even, because at that stage a broken axle or a busted half-shaft would ruin everything. So the driver turned left, on a rough grassy track he had used before, and bumped and bounced two hundred yards to a picnic spot provided for summer visitors. In winter it was always deserted. The driver had seen bears there, and coyotes, and red foxes, and moose, and twice he thought he had seen elk, although they might have been shadows, and once he thought he had seen a wolf, but it might have been just another coyote. But he had never seen people. Not in winter. Not even once.

He parked under a towering pine and shut down for the night.

Roberto Cassano and Angelo Mancini pulled their rented Impala around the back of the Marriott and slotted it next to a black Cadillac that was standing alone in the rear of the lot. They got out and stretched and checked their watches. They figured they had time for a quick dinner before their reinforcements arrived. The diner or the rib shack? They liked neither one. Why would they? They had taste, and the retard local yokels sure as hell didn’t. But they were hungry, and they had to eat somewhere.

They pondered for a second and decided on the diner. They turned away from the hotel lobby and headed for the main drag.

The Duncans let the doctor finish a third glass of Wild Turkey, and then they sent him on his way. They pushed him out the door and told him to walk home. They watched him down the driveway, and then they turned and strolled back and regrouped in Jacob’s kitchen. Jacob put the bottle back in the cupboard, and put the glass in the sink, and returned the chair to the corner of the room. His brother Jasper asked, ‘So what do you think?’

Jacob said, ‘About what?’

‘Should we call the county and stop them showing Reacher the files?’

‘I don’t see how we could do that.’

‘We could try.’

‘It would draw attention.’

Jonas asked, ‘Should we call Eldridge Tyler? Strictly as a backup?’

‘Then we would owe him something.’

‘It would be a wise investment, if Reacher is coming back.’

‘I don’t think he’s coming back,’ Jacob said. ‘That’s my first thought, certainly.’

‘But?’

‘Ultimately I guess it depends on what he finds, and what he doesn’t find.’

THIRTY

REACHER FOUND A STATEMENT FROM THE LITTLE GIRL’S FATHER. IT was long and detailed. Cops weren’t dumb. Fathers were automatic suspects when little girls disappeared. Margaret’s father had been Arthur Coe, universally known as Artie. At the time of his daughter’s disappearance he was thirty-seven years old. Relatively ancient for a father of an eight-year-old, back in the 1980s. He was a local man. He was a Vietnam veteran. He had refused an offer from the local Selective Service board to classify his farm work as an essential occupation. He had served, and he had come back. A brave man. A patriot. He had been fixing machinery in an outbuilding when Margaret had ridden away, and he had still been fixing it four hours later, when his wife came to tell him that the kid was still out. He had dropped everything and started the search. His statement was full of the same kinds of feelings Dorothy had described over breakfast, the unreality, the hope against hope, the belief that the kid was just out playing somewhere, surely to God, maybe picking flowers, that she had lost track of time, that she would be home soon, right as rain. Even after twenty-five years the typewritten words still reeked of shock and pain and misery.