Never Go Back: (Jack Reacher 18) Read online

  Reacher stepped over to the window and looked out. Not much to see. No parking in the lot on that side of the building. Just a big trash container, and a random pile of obsolete furniture, desk chairs and file cabinets. The chair upholstery looked swollen with damp, and the file cabinets were rusty. Then came the stone wall, and over it was a decent view east, all the way to the cemetery and the river. The Washington Monument was visible in the far distance, the same colour as the mist. A watery sun was behind it, low in the sky.

  The door opened behind him and Reacher turned around, expecting Morgan. But it wasn’t Morgan. It was déjà vu all over again. A neat Class A uniform, with JAG Corps insignia on it. A woman lawyer. Her nameplate said Edmonds. She looked a little like Sullivan. Dark, trim, very professional, wearing a skirt and nylons and plain black shoes. But she was younger than Sullivan. And junior in rank. She was only a captain. She had a cheaper briefcase.

  She said, ‘Major Reacher?’

  He said, ‘Good morning, captain.’

  She said, ‘I’m Tracy Edmonds. I’m working with HRC.’

  Which was the Human Resources Command, which back in the days of plain English had been the Personnel Command. Which at first made Reacher think she was there to take him through the paperwork. Pay, bank details, the whole nine yards. But then he realized they wouldn’t have sent a lawyer for that kind of thing. A company clerk could do that stuff perfectly well. So she was there about the Candice Dayton thing, probably. But she was junior, and she had given up her first name unasked, and she had an open look on her face, all friendly and concerned, which might mean the Candice Dayton thing wasn’t as serious as the Big Dog problem.

  He asked, ‘Do you know anything about Susan Turner’s situation?’

  She said, ‘Who?’

  ‘You just walked past her office.’

  She said, ‘Only what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘She took a bribe.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I think that’s confidential.’

  ‘It can’t be. She’s confined prior to trial. Therefore there must be probable cause in the record. Or have we abandoned civilized jurisprudence while I’ve been away?’

  ‘They say she took a day to pass on crucial information. No one understood why. Now they do.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘She arrested an infantry captain from Fort Hood. An espionage case, allegedly. The captain gave up the name of his foreign civilian contact. Major Turner sat on it for twenty-four hours, and the contact used the time to get away.’

  ‘When was this exactly?’

  ‘About four weeks ago.’

  ‘But she wasn’t arrested until the day before yesterday.’

  ‘That’s when the foreign contact paid her. Which was evidence they had to wait for. Without it the delay could have been explained as incompetence, not criminality.’

  ‘Has the pre-trial confinement been appealed?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who’s her lawyer?’

  ‘Colonel Moorcroft. Out of Charlottesville.’

  ‘You mean the JAG school?’

  Edmonds nodded. ‘He teaches criminal defence.’

  ‘Is he commuting from there to here?’

  ‘No, I believe he’s in the Dyer VOQ.’

  Which were the Visiting Officers’ Quarters, at Fort Dyer. Or, now, Joint Base Dyer-Helsington House. Not the Ritz exactly, but not too far from it, and no doubt a whole lot better than a crappy motel on a three-lane a mile from Rock Creek.

  Edmonds pulled out a chair for him, and then one for herself, and sat down at the conference table. She said, ‘Candice Dayton.’

  Reacher sat down, and said, ‘I don’t know who Candice Dayton is. Or was.’

  ‘Denial is not a smart way to go, I’m afraid, major. It never works.’

  ‘I can’t pretend to remember someone if I don’t.’

  ‘It creates a bad impression. It reinforces a negative stereotype. Both things will go against you in the end.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  Edmonds lifted her briefcase on to the table and opened it up. She took out a file. She said, ‘You were posted to Korea several times, is that correct?’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘Including at one time a short spell working with the 55th MP.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. It’s all here in black and white. It was very late in your career. Almost the last thing you did. You were at Camp Red Cloud. Which is between Seoul and the demilitarized zone.’

  ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘Candice Dayton was an American citizen, and at that time she was temporarily resident in Seoul.’

  ‘A civilian?’

  ‘Yes. You remember her now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had a brief affair.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘You and Ms Dayton, of course.’

  ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever been?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had many sexual liaisons in your life?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question.’

  ‘I’m your lawyer. Have you?’

  ‘As many as possible, generally. I like women. I guess it’s a biological thing.’

  ‘So many there may be some you don’t remember?’

  ‘There were some I try to forget.’

  ‘Does that category include Ms Dayton?’

  ‘No. If I was trying to forget her, that would mean I remember her. Right? And I don’t.’

  ‘Are there others you don’t remember?’

  ‘How would I tell?’

  ‘You see, this is what I meant about reinforcing a stereotype. It won’t help you in court.’

  ‘What court?’

  ‘Candice Dayton left Seoul pretty soon after you did, and she went home to Los Angeles, which is where she was from. She was happy to be back. She got a job, and she did quite well for a number of years. She had a daughter early on, who thrived and then did well in school. She got promoted at work, and she bought a bigger house. All the good stuff. But then the economy went bad, and she lost her job, and then she lost her house. As of right now, she and her daughter are living in her car, and she’s looking for financial assistance, from anywhere she’s entitled to get it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She got pregnant in Korea, major. Her daughter is yours.’

  TEN

  EDMONDS PAGED THROUGH the file, walking delicate fingers from sheet to sheet. She said, ‘Army policy is to take no proactive steps. We don’t send out search parties. We merely make a note against the father’s name. Usually nothing happens. But if the father comes to us, as you did, then we’re obliged to act. So we’re going to have to give your current status and location to the court in Los Angeles.’

  She found the page she was looking for. She pulled it out from among all the others. She slid it across the conference table. She said, ‘Obviously, as your lawyer, I would strongly recommend a paternity test. You’ll have to pay for it, but it would be most unwise to proceed to a final settlement without one.’

  Reacher picked up the sheet of paper. It was a crisp new photocopy of an affidavit. Just like the Big Dog’s. Signatures, and lawyers, and seals, and stamps, all done in a law office in North Hollywood, apparently. His name was all over it. Dates were given for his deployment with the 55th. Dates and times and social activities were recorded. Candice Dayton must have kept a comprehensive diary. The baby’s date of birth was noted. It was exactly nine months after the midpoint of his time at Red Cloud. The baby’s name was Samantha. Sam for short, presumably. She was now fourteen years old. Nearly fifteen.

  Edmonds slid a second sheet across. It was a crisp new photocopy of a birth certificate. She said, ‘She didn’t put your name on it. I think originally she was happy to go it alone. But now s
he’s fallen on hard times.’

  Reacher said nothing.

  Edmonds said, ‘I don’t know your current financial situation, obviously. But you’re looking at a little more than three years of child support. Plus college, possibly. I imagine the court will contact you in about a month, and you can work it out with them.’

  Reacher said, ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Probably best not to say that too often. These things are fundamentally adversarial in nature, and you should avoid extra resentment on Ms Dayton’s part, if you can. In fact it might be a smart move to contact her proactively. As soon as possible. To show willing, I mean.’

  Edmonds took back the affidavit, and she took back the birth certificate. She slotted them back into the file, each in its allotted place. She put the file back in her briefcase and closed it. She said, ‘As you know, major, the Uniform Code of Military Justice still lists adultery as a criminal offence. Especially for those with security clearances. Because the risk of compromise is generally seen as significant. Especially where a civilian is involved. But I think if you’re seen to be acting reasonably with Ms Dayton, then I can get the prosecutor to let that aspect slide. Especially if you were to approach Ms Dayton proactively, with an offer. As I said. Right away, perhaps. I think that would be well received. By the prosecutor, I mean.’

  Reacher said nothing.

  Edmonds said, ‘It was a long time ago, after all. And no harm to national security has been apparent. Unless your other issue interferes. The thing with Mr Rodriguez, I mean. They might want to hit you with everything they can find, in which case I really won’t be able to help you.’

  Reacher said nothing.

  Edmonds stood up from the table and said, ‘I’ll keep in touch, major. Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

  She left the room and closed the door behind her. Reacher heard her heels on the linoleum in the corridor, and then he heard nothing at all.

  Fatherhood was up there as one of the most commonplace male experiences in all of human history. But to Reacher it had always seemed unlikely. Just purely theoretical. Like winning the Nobel Prize, or playing in the World Series, or being able to sing. Possible in principle, but always likely to pass him by. A destination for other people, but not for him. He had known fathers, starting with his own, and his grandfathers, and his childhood friends’ fathers, and then some of his own friends, as they got married and started to raise families. Being a father seemed both straightforward and infinitely complex. Easy enough on the surface. Underneath, simply too immense to worry about. So generally it seemed to come out as a day-to-day thing. Hope for the best, one foot in front of the other. His own father had always seemed in charge. But looking back, it was clear he was just making it up as he went along.

  Samantha Dayton.

  Sam.

  Fourteen years old.

  Reacher got no more time to think about her. Not right then. Because the door opened and Morgan walked in, still in his ACU fatigues, still wearing his spectacles, still all groomed and fussy and squared away. He said, ‘You’re dismissed for the day, major. Be back here before 0800 tomorrow.’

  Punishment by boredom. Nothing to do all day. Not an unusual tactic. Reacher didn’t respond. He just sat and stared into the distance. Bad manners or minor insubordination couldn’t make his situation any worse. Not at that point. But in turn Morgan just stood there too, dumb as a rock, holding the door, so eventually Reacher had to get up from the table and file out of the room. He took it slow in the corridor until he heard Morgan shut himself back in his own office.

  Then he stopped and turned around.

  He walked back to the far end of the corridor and checked the office on the left. Room 209. Calvin Franz’s office, back at the beginning. A good friend, now dead. Reacher opened the door and stuck his head in and saw two men he didn’t recognize. NCOs, but not the two from the motel the night before. Not the two in the T-shirts. They were at back-to-back desks, working hard on computers. They looked up at him.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said.

  He stepped back out and tried the opposite door. Room 210, once David O’Donnell’s billet. O’Donnell was still alive, as far as Reacher knew. A private detective, in D.C., he had heard. Not far away. He stuck his head in the room and saw a woman at a desk. She was in ACU fatigues. A lieutenant. She looked up.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  Room 208 had been Tony Swan’s office. Another good friend, also now dead. Reacher opened the door and checked. No one there, but it was a one-person billet, and that one person was a woman. There was a female officer’s hat on the window sill, and a tiny wristwatch unlatched and upside down on the desk.

  He had seen 207. Once Karla Dixon’s domain, now no one’s. The conference room. Dixon was still alive, as far as he knew. In New York, the last time he had heard. She was a forensic accountant, which meant she was very busy.

  Room 206 had been Frances Neagley’s office. Directly opposite his own, because she had done most of his work for him. The best sergeant he ever had. Still alive and prospering, he thought, in Chicago. He stuck his head in and saw the lieutenant who had dumped him at the motel the night before. In the first car, driven by the private first class. The guy was at the desk, on the phone. He looked up. Reacher shook his head and backed out of the room.

  Room 204 had been Stan Lowrey’s office. A hard man, and a good investigator. He had gone early, the only one of the original unit smart enough to get out unscathed. He had moved to Montana, to raise sheep and churn butter. No one knew why. He had been the only black man in a thousand square miles, and he had no farming experience. But people said he had been happy. Then he had been hit by a truck. His office was occupied by a captain in Class A uniform. A short guy, on his way to testify. No other reason for the fancy duds. Reacher said, ‘Excuse me,’ and headed out again.

  Room 203 had been an evidence locker, and still was, and 201 had been a file room, and still was, and 202 had been the company clerk’s quarters, and still was. The guy was in there, a sergeant, relatively old and grey, probably fighting involuntary separation on an annual basis. Reacher nodded a greeting to him and backed out and went downstairs.

  The sour-faced night guy had gone and Leach had taken his place at the reception desk. Behind her the corridor led back to the first-floor offices, 101 through 110. Reacher checked them all. Rooms 109 and 110 had been Jorge Sanchez’s and Manuel Orozco’s offices, and were now occupied by similar guys from a newer generation. Rooms 101 through 108 held people of no particular interest, except for 103, which was the duty officer’s station. There was a captain in there. He was a good-looking guy in his late twenties. His desk was twice the normal size, all covered over with telephones and scratch pads and message forms and an untidy legal pad, with its many used pages folded loosely back like an immense bouffant hairdo from the 1950s. The face-up page was covered with angry black doodles. There were shaded boxes and machines and escape-proof spiral mazes. Clearly the guy spent a lot of time on the phone, some of it on hold, some of it waiting, most of it bored. When he spoke it was with a Southern accent that Reacher recognized immediately. He had talked to the guy from South Dakota more than once. The guy had routed his calls to Susan Turner.

  Reacher asked him, ‘Do you have other personnel deployed around here?’

  The guy shook his head. ‘This is it. What you see is what you get. We have people elsewhere in the States and overseas, but no one else in this military district.’

  ‘How many in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I can’t give you the details.’

  ‘Hazardous duty?’

  ‘Is there another kind? In Afghanistan?’

  Something in his voice.

  Reacher asked, ‘Are they OK?’

  ‘They missed their scheduled radio check yesterday.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Never happened before.’

  �
�Do you know what their mission is?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to tell me. I’m asking whether you know. In other words, how secret is it?’

  The guy paused a beat and said, ‘No, I don’t know what their mission is. All I know is they’re out there in the back of beyond, and all we’re getting is silence.’

  Reacher said, ‘Thank you, captain.’ He headed back to the reception desk, where he asked Leach for a pool car. She hesitated, and he said, ‘I’m dismissed for the day. Colonel Morgan didn’t say I had to sit in the corner. An omission, possibly, but I’m entitled to interpret my orders in the best possible light.’

  Leach asked, ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Fort Dyer,’ Reacher said. ‘I want to talk to Colonel Moorcroft.’

  ‘Major Turner’s lawyer?’

  Reacher nodded. ‘And Dyer is definitely less than five miles away. You won’t be aiding or abetting a serious crime.’

  Leach paused a beat and then opened a drawer and took out a grubby key. She said, ‘It’s an old blue Chevy sedan. I need it back here before the end of the day. I can’t let you have it overnight.’

  ‘Whose is the red sports car outside?’

  Leach said, ‘That’s Major Turner’s ride.’

  ‘Do you know the guys in Afghanistan?’

  Leach nodded. ‘They’re friends of mine.’

  ‘Are they good?’

  ‘They’re the best.’

  ELEVEN

  THERE WERE THREE chevrolet sedans in the HQ lot, and two were old, but only one was old and blue. It was dirty and all beat up and saggy, and it had about a million city miles on the clock. But it started up fine, and it idled OK. Which it needed to, because the daytime traffic was slow. Lots of lights, lots of queues, lots of jammed lanes. But getting into Dyer itself was quicker than the first time. The main gate guards were relatively welcoming. Reacher figured Leach must have called ahead again. Which meant she was turning into a minor ally. Which Reacher was happy about. A sergeant on your side made the world go round, smooth and easy. Whereas a sergeant who took against you could kill you dead.