Running Blind Page 31

  Reacher swept his gaze over all of them, pausing on each face, long enough to let them know he wasn’t impressed, and short enough to stop them thinking he was in any way interested. Then he stepped to the bar and rolled a stool out for Harper.

  “What’s on draft?” he asked the bartender.

  The guy was wearing an unwashed dress shirt with no collar. Pleats all the way down the front. He had a dish towel squared over his shoulder. He was maybe fifty, gray-faced, paunchy. He didn’t answer.

  “What have you got?” Reacher asked again.

  No reply.

  “Hey, are you deaf?” Harper called to the guy.

  She was half on and half off the stool, one foot on the floor, the other on the rung. Her jacket was draped open and she was twisting around from the waist. Her hair was loose down her back.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she said. “You give us beer, we give you money, take it from there. Maybe you could turn it into a business, you know, call it running a saloon.”

  The guy turned to her.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said.

  Harper smiled. “No, we’re new customers. That’s what it’s all about, expanding your customer base, right? Do it well enough, and you’ll be the barroom king of the Garden State, no time at all.”

  “What do you want?” the guy said.

  “Two beers,” Reacher said.

  “Apart from that?”

  “Well, we’re already enjoying the ambiance and the friendly welcome.”

  "People like you don’t come in a place like mine without wanting something.”

  “We’re waiting for Bob,” Harper said.

  “Bob who?”

  “Bob with real short hair and an old Cadillac DeVille, ” Reacher said. “Bob from the Army, comes in here eight o’clock every night.”

  “You’re waiting for him?”

  “Yes, we’re waiting for him,” Harper said.

  The guy smiled. Yellow teeth, some of them missing.

  “Well, you’ve got a long wait, then,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Buy a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

  “We’ve been trying to buy a drink for the last five minutes,” Reacher said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Two beers,” Reacher said. “Whatever’s on tap.”

  “Bud or Bud Light.”

  “One of each, OK?”

  The guy took two glasses down from an overhead rack and filled them. The room was still silent. Reacher could feel eight pairs of eyes on his back. The guy placed the beers on the bar. There was an inch of soapy foam on the top of each of them. The guy peeled two cocktail napkins from a stack and dealt them out like cards. Harper pulled a wallet from her pocket and dropped a ten between the glasses.

  “Keep the change,” she said. “So why have we got a long wait for Bob?”

  The guy smiled again and slid the ten backward. Folded it into his hand and put his hand in his pocket.

  “Because Bob’s in jail, far as I know,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Some Army thing,” the guy said. “I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to know the details. That’s how you do business in this part of the Garden State, miss, begging your damn pardon, your fancy ideas notwithstanding. ”

  “What happened?” Reacher asked.

  “Military policemen came in and grabbed him up right here, right in this room.”

  “When?” Reacher asked.

  “Took six of them to get him. They smashed a table. I just got a check from the Army. All the way from Washington, D.C. The Pentagon. In the mail.”

  “When was this?” Reacher asked.

  “When the check came? Couple days ago.”

  “No, when did they arrest him?”

  “I’m not sure,” the guy said. “They were still playing baseball, I remember that. Regular season, too. Couple months ago, I guess.”

  24

  THEY LEFT THE beer untouched on the bar and headed back to the parking lot. Unlocked the Nissan and slid inside.

  “Couple months is no good,” Harper said. “Puts him right outside the picture.”

  “He was never in the picture,” Reacher said. “But we’ll go talk to him anyway.”

  “How can we do that? He’s in the Army system somewhere.”

  He looked at her. “Harper, I was a military policeman for thirteen years. If I can’t find him, who can?”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “No, he couldn’t. If this dump is his local bar, it means he was posted somewhere near here. Low-grade guy like that, a regional MP office will be handling him. Two-month time span, he’s not court-martialed yet, so he’s in a holding pattern at a regional MP HQ, which for this region is Fort Armstrong outside of Trenton, which is less than two hours away.”

  “You sure?”

  He shrugged. "Unless things have changed a hell of a lot in three years.”

  “Some way you can check?” she asked.

  “I don’t need to check.”

  “We don’t want to waste time here,” she said.

  He said nothing back and she smiled and opened her bag. Came out with a folded cellular phone the size of a cigarette packet.

  “Use my mobile,” she said.

  EVERYBODY USES MOBILES. They use them all the time, just constantly. It’s a phenomenon of the modern age. Everybody’s talk, talk, talking, all the time, little black telephones pressed up to their faces. Where does all that conversation come from? What happened to all that conversation before mobiles were invented? Was it all bottled up? Burning ulcers in people’s guts? Or did it just develop spontaneously because technology made it possible?

  It’s a subject you’re interested in. Human impulses. Your guess is a small percentage of calls made represents useful exchange of information. But the vast majority must fall into one of two categories, either the fun aspect, the sheer delight of doing something simply because you can, or else the ego-building self-important bullshit aspect. And your observation is that it splits pretty much along gender lines. It’s not an opinion you’d care to voice in public, but privately you’re sure women talk because they enjoy it, and men talk because it builds them up. Hi, honey, I’m just getting off the plane, they say. So what? Like, who cares?

  But you’re confident that men’s use of mobiles is more closely connected to their ego needs, so it’s necessarily a stronger attachment, and therefore a more frequent urge. So if you steal a phone from a man, it will be discovered earlier, and reacted to with a greater degree of upset. That’s your judgment. Therefore you’re sitting in the airport food court watching the women.

  The other major advantage of women is that they have smaller pockets. Sometimes, no pockets at all. Therefore they carry bags, into which goes all their stuff. Their wallets, their keys, their makeup. And their mobile phones. They take them out to use them, maybe rest them on the table for a spell, and then put them right back in their bags. If they get up for a coffee refill, of course, they take their bags with them. That’s ingrained. Always keep your pocketbook with you. But some of them have other bags too. There are laptop cases, which these days are made with all kinds of extra compartments for the disks and the CD-ROM thing and the cables. And some of them have pockets for mobiles, little external leather rectangles the same shape as the cigarettes-and-lighter cases women carried back when people smoked. Those other cases, they don’t always take them with them. If they’re just stepping away to the beverage counter, they often leave them at the table, partly to keep their place claimed, partly because who can carry a pocketbook and a laptop case and a hot cup of coffee?

  But you’re ignoring the women with the laptop cases. Because those expensive leather articles imply some kind of serious purpose. Their owners might get home in an hour and want to check their e-mail or finalize a pie chart or something, whereupon they open their laptop case and find their phone is gone. Police notified, account canceled,
calls traced, all within an hour. No good at all.

  So the women you’re watching are the nonbusiness travelers. The ones with the little nylon backpacks carried as cabin baggage. And you’re specifically watching the ones heading out of town, not in toward home. They’re going to make a last couple of calls from the airport and then stuff their phones into their backpacks and forget all about them, because they’re flying out of the local coverage area and they don’t want to pay roaming charges. Maybe they’re vacationing overseas, in which case their phones are as useless to them as their house keys. Something they have to take along, but not something they ever think about.

  The one particular target you’re watching most closely is a woman of about twenty-three or -four, maybe forty feet away. She’s dressed comfortably like she’s got a long flight ahead, and she’s leaning back in her chair with her head tilted left and her phone trapped in her shoulder. She’s smiling vacantly as she talks, and playing with her nails. Picking at them and turning her hands in the light to look at them. This is a lazy say-nothing chat with a girlfriend. No intensity in her face. She’s just talking for the sake of talking.

  Her carry-on bag is on the floor near her feet. It’s a small designer backpack, all covered in little loops and catches and zippers. It’s clearly so complicated to close that she’s left it gaping open. She picks up her coffee cup and puts it down again. It’s empty. She talks and checks her watch and cranes to look at the beverage counter. She wraps up the chat. Flips her phone closed and drops it in her backpack. Picks up a matching pocketbook and stands up and wheels away to get more coffee.

  You’re on your feet instantly. Car keys in your hand. You hustle straight across the court, ten feet, twenty, thirty. You’re swinging the keys. Looking busy. She’s in line. About to be served. You drop your keys and they skid across the tiles. You bend to retrieve them. Your hand skims her bag. You come back up with the keys and the phone together. You walk on. The keys go back in your pocket. The phone stays in your hand. Nothing more ordinary than somebody walking through an airport lounge holding a mobile.

  You walk at normal pace. Stop and lean on a pillar. You flip the phone open and hold it at your face, pretending to make a call. Now you’re invisible. You’re a person leaning on a pillar making a call. There are a dozen of you within a twenty-foot radius. You look back. She’s back at her table, drinking her coffee. You wait, whispering nothing into the phone. She drinks. Three minutes. Four. Five. You press random buttons and start talking again. You’re on a new call. You’re busy. You’re one of the guys. She stands up. Yanks on the cords of her backpack to close it up. Picks it up by the cords and bounces it against its own weight to make them tight. She buckles the catches. Swings the pack onto one shoulder and picks up her pocketbook. Opens it to check her ticket is accessible. Closes it again. She looks around once and strides purposefully out of the food court. Straight toward you. She passes within five feet and disappears toward the departure gates. You flip the phone closed and slip it into the pocket of your suit and you walk out the other way. You smile to yourself as you go. Now the crucial call is going to end up on someone else’s bill.

  THE PHONE CALL to the Fort Armstrong duty officer revealed nothing at all on the surface, but the guy’s evasions were voiced in such a way that a thirteen-year Army cop like Reacher took them to be confirmation as good as he’d get if they were written in an affidavit sworn before a notary public.

  “He’s there,” he said.

  Harper had been eavesdropping, and she didn’t look convinced.

  “They tell you that for sure?” she asked.

  “More or less,” he said.

  “So is it worth going?”

  He nodded. “He’s there, I guarantee it.”

  The Nissan had no maps in it, and Harper had no idea of where she was. Reacher had only anecdotal knowledge of New Jersey geography. He knew how to get from A to B, and then from B to C, and then from C to D, but whether that was the most efficient direct route all the way from A to D, he had no idea. So he came out of the lot and headed for the turnpike on-ramp. He figured driving south for an hour would be a good start. He realized within a minute he was using the same road Lamarr had driven him on, just a few days before. It was raining lightly and the Nissan rode harder and lower than her big Buick. It was right down there in the tunnel of spray. The windshield was filmed with city grease and the wipers were blurring the view out with every alternate stroke. Smear, clear, smear, clear. The needle on the gas gauge was heading below a quarter.

  “We should stop,” Harper said. “Get gas, clean the window.”

  “And buy a map,” Reacher said.

  He pulled off into the next service area. It was pretty much identical to the place Lamarr had used for lunch. Same layout, same buildings. He rolled through the rain to the gas pumps and left the car at the full-service island. The tank was full and the guy was cleaning the windshield when he got back, wet, carrying a colored map which unfolded awkwardly into a yard-square sheet.

  “We’re on the wrong road,” he said. “Route 1 would be better.”

  “OK, next exit,” Harper said, craning over. “Use 95 to jump across.”

  She used her finger to trace south down Route 1. Found Fort Armstrong on the edge of the yellow shape that represented Trenton.

  “Close to Fort Dix,” she said. “Where we were before. ”

  Reacher said nothing. The guy finished with the windshield and Harper paid him through her window. Reacher wiped rain off his face with his sleeve and started the motor. Threaded his way back to the highway and watched for the turn onto 95.

  I-95 was a mess, with heavy traffic. Route 1 was better. It curved through Highland Park and then ran dead straight for nearly twenty miles, all the way into Trenton. Reacher remembered Fort Armstrong as a left-hand turn coming north out of Trenton, so coming south it was a right-hand turn, onto another dead straight approach road, which took them all the way to a vehicle barrier outside a two-story brick guardhouse. Beyond the guardhouse were more roads and buildings. The roads were flat with whitewashed curbs and the buildings were all brick with radiused corners and external stairways made of welded tubular steel painted green. Window frames were metal. Classic Army architecture of the fifties, built with unlimited budgets and unlimited scope. Unlimited optimism.

  "The U.S. military,” Reacher said. "We were kings of the world, back then.”

  There was dimmed light in the guardhouse window next to the vehicle barrier. A sentry was visible, silhouetted against the light, bulky in a rain cape and helmet. He peered through the window and stepped to the door. Opened it up and came out to the car. Reacher buzzed his window down.

  “You the guy who called the captain?” the sentry asked.

  He was a heavy black guy. Low voice, slow accent from the Deep South. Far from home on a rainy night. Reacher nodded. The sentry grinned.

  “He figured you might show up in person,” he said. “Go ahead in.”

  He stepped back into the guardhouse and the barrier came up. Reacher drove carefully over the tire spikes and turned left.

  “That was easy,” Harper said.

  “You ever met a retired FBI agent?” Reacher asked.

  “Sure, once or twice. Couple of the old guys.”

  “How did you treat them?”

  She nodded. “Like that guy treated you, I guess.”

  “All organizations are the same,” he said. “Military police more so than the others, maybe. The rest of the Army hates you, so you stick together more.”

  He turned right, then right again, then left.

  “You been here before?” Harper asked.

  “These places are all the same,” he said. “Look for the biggest flower bed, that’s where the general office is.”

  She pointed. “That looks promising.”

  He nodded. “You got the idea.”

  The headlight beams played over a rose bed the size of an Olympic pool. The roses were just dormant stalks,
sticking up out of a surface lumpy with horse manure and shredded bark. Behind them was a low symmetrical building with whitewashed steps leading up to double doors in the center. A light burned in a window in the middle of the left-hand wing.

  “Duty office,” Reacher said. “The sentry called the captain soon as we were through the gate, so right now he’s walking down the corridor to the doors. Watch for the light.”

  The fanlights above the doors lit up with a yellow glow.

  “Now the outside lights,” Reacher said.

  Two carriage lamps mounted on the door pillars lit up. Reacher stopped the car at the bottom of the steps.

  “Now the doors open,” he said.

  The doors opened inward and a man in uniform stepped through the gap.

  “That was me, about a million years ago,” Reacher said.

  The captain waited at the top of the steps, far enough out to be in the light from the carriage lamps, far enough in to be sheltered from the drizzle. He was a head shorter than Reacher had ever been, but he was broad and he looked fit. Dark hair neatly combed, plain steel eyeglasses. His uniform jacket was buttoned, but his face looked open enough. Reacher slid out of the Nissan and walked around the hood. Harper joined him at the foot of the whitewashed steps.

  “Come in out of the rain,” the captain called.

  His accent was East Coast urban. Bright and alert. He had an amiable smile. Looked like a decent guy. Reacher went up the steps first. Harper saw his shoes leaving wet stains on the whitewash. Glanced down and saw her own were doing the same thing.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  The captain smiled again.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The prisoners paint them every morning.”

  “This is Lisa Harper,” Reacher said. “She’s with the FBI.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the captain said. “I’m John Leighton.”

  The three of them shook hands all around at the doors and Leighton led them inside. He turned off the carriage lamps with a switch inside the doors and then killed the hallway light.

  “Budgets,” he said. “Can’t waste money.”

  Light from his office was spilling out into the corridor, and he led them toward it. Stood at his door and ushered them inside. The office was original fifties, updated only where strictly necessary. Old desk, new computer, old file cabinet, new phone. There were crammed bookcases and every surface was overloaded with paper.