No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(34)

Reacher said, “It’s not raining now.”

Hannah shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about this place you’re going. Winson. It sounds pretty small. Off the beaten track. Do you think you can get all the way there on a Greyhound?”

“Probably not. But I’ll get close.”

“What will you do then?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll figure something out.”

Hannah hit her turn signal and pulled across to the right. A sign said the route to central Denver was coming up in a mile. Hannah slowed down, ready for the exit curve. Then she switched her foot onto the gas and swerved back onto the highway.

“Screw it,” she said. “Forget the bus. I’m taking you all the way to Mississippi.”

Reacher looked at her. “You sure? It must be twelve hundred miles.”

“So what? This is Sam’s truck. The tank’s full. He paid for the diesel. He wouldn’t want it to be wasted.”

“Burning up a dead guy’s fuel doesn’t seem like the best of reasons.”

“It’s not the only reason. I’ve got to leave town for a while, anyway. You told me that. Winson’s as good a place to go as anywhere. Probably. When we get there I can go see Danny Peel. Tell him about Sam in person. That’s got to be better than breaking the news on the phone. And I can check that Angela’s kid is OK.”

“Do you know the neighbor she left the kid with?”

“No. But Danny will.”

Reacher thought about the envelope he had seen in Angela’s purse. The one that disappeared right after she was killed. It was addressed to this Danny Peel. He would need to talk to the guy about it. Find out how Angela came to have it. And what was so important about it. Taking someone along who knew Danny might help. It might make him more open to talk. Speed up the trust-building phase of the conversation. Make the whole process more efficient. And potentially a lot less messy.

“OK, then,” Reacher said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Hannah looked across at him for a second. “But tell me one thing. I’m curious. Your luggage. What happened to it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. You can tell me.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Really? Because here’s what I think. You got to town. Met a woman. Spent the night. Maybe a few nights. You pissed her off somehow. Or you overstayed your welcome. Wouldn’t leave, despite all the hints she dropped. So she lost patience and trashed your stuff. Cut it up. Or set it on fire. Yes. Tell me she burned it. Please. Let that be it.”

“OK. A woman burned it.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Then where’s all your stuff?”

“Right here. In my pocket.”

“What can you possibly fit in your pocket?”

“Everything I need.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. For now.”



* * *



—

Bruno Hix and Damon Brockman were operating on the assumption that there were four categories of prisoner at Winson. That’s what they expected because that’s what they had mandated. What they didn’t realize was that there were actually five.

The fifth category was in fact the oldest. It predated Minerva’s ownership of Winson by several years. It had not been defined by professionals. No doctors were involved in the process. No psychologists. No accountants. Certainly no lawyers. Its members had always been identified by Curtis Riverdale, personally. He relied on his decades of experience. His natural ability to read people. To spot certain things, however well hidden. Things like extreme desperation. Or exceptional greed. Things that would cause an inmate to arrange for his wife, or occasionally his sister, to come to the prison whenever Riverdale told him to. And then to wait, penned in on the secure side of the glass divider, while one of the old guard escorted the woman to his office. Where he put his own personal spin on the concept of the conjugal visit.

Sometimes, if Riverdale felt like spicing things up a little, he had the prisoner brought up, too. He had him cuffed to a steel bar he’d had attached to the wall in the corridor for that specific purpose. And he left his door open. Just a crack. Not so wide that the prisoner could see into the room. But enough to make sure the sounds from inside weren’t muffled in any way.

Riverdale had a visit lined up for that evening. With the wife of a new fish. He was looking forward to it. If she lived up to his expectations he was thinking of having her brought back on Friday afternoon. To celebrate Winson’s return to business as usual.

Assuming everything went according to plan.



* * *



—

The farther Hannah Hampton drove, the less she spoke.

She had started out pretty talkative after deciding not to drop Reacher off at the Greyhound station. She wanted to know all about him. To understand what kind of guy would walk away from the army and wander around the country with no job. No home to return to. No definite destination. No luggage. She asked him about his childhood. His parents. His brother. How he felt when each of them had died. How he had been affected by growing up on military bases all around the world. She was fascinated by his life as an army cop. She wanted to know about the best case he had investigated. The worst. About any that still haunted him. Why he had left the service. And how he felt about being cast adrift after putting his life on the line for other people for thirteen years.