Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(109)

“A tactical thing. An in-game adjustment.”

“We don’t need a tactical in-game adjustment. Not now. Not anymore. Shorty is wounded, and I got Patty right here. The game is over.”

“OK, shoot her and then let’s get going.”

“I would want to go finish Shorty first.”

“You’re stalling.”

“What?”

“Do you even have the key?”

“What key?”

“The key to the truck,” Mark said. “Where is it?”

“What kind of question is that? My truck is worth a lot of money.”

Mark nodded.

“Exactly,” he said. “I’m your best friend, worried on your behalf. I hope you didn’t leave the key on your nightstand. If you did, you better call a tow truck. For your tow truck. The motel burned down. That was the first thing on fire up there.”

“I got the key right here,” Karel said. “It’s in my pocket.”

“Good to know,” Mark said. He moved the long black gun out from behind his leg, and he shot Karel four times, all in the rib cage under the arm that was holding the bow.

The gunshots were loud but dull.

The long tube on the front was a silencer, Patty thought.

Karel went down on the track, in a sudden buckling heap, with the hiss of nylon, and the clatter of his bow, and the crack of his head on the blacktop.

Mark turned the gun on Patty.

He said, “Go get the key out his pocket.”

Patty paused a beat, and then got right to it. She felt she had done worse, pulling the arrow out of Shorty’s leg. The key was warm. It was no bigger than the Honda’s.

“Throw it over here,” Mark said.

“Then you’ll shoot me,” she said.

“I could shoot you anytime. I could take the key from your cold dead hand. I’m not squeamish.”

She threw the key.

It landed at his feet.

He said, “How bad is Shorty?”

“Pretty bad,” she said.

“Can he move?”

“His leg is broken.”

“I think you and I might be the last two standing,” Mark said. “And I have to say poor old Shorty is shit out of luck with me. I’m certainly not going back to help him. He can stay where he is, as far as I’m concerned.”

Patty said nothing.

“Purely as a matter of interest, how long do you think he would survive?”

Patty didn’t answer.

“I want to know,” Mark said. “Seriously. Let’s work it out. What is it, five days without water, and five weeks without food? Except he’s not feeling great to begin with.”

“I’ll go help him,” Patty said.

“Suppose you couldn’t. I guess he could try to crawl his way out, but he must be dehydrating fast and feeling weak by now. Crawling might increase the risk of infection. And it would certainly increase his exposure to predators. Some of those critters like to chew on an open wound.”

“Let me go help him.”

“No, I think he should be left on his own right now.”

“Why do you even care? You said you were only catering to other people’s grubby desires. The other people are out of the picture now. So you’re done. Take the key and move the truck and get out of here. Leave us alone.”

Mark shook his head.

“Shorty burned my motel,” he said. “That’s why I care. Forgive me for feeling a tiny bit vengeful.”

“You made us play the game. Starting a fire was a valid move.”

“And leaving him to die is a valid response.”

Patty looked away. At Karel, lifeless on the blacktop, caught by the spread of the headlight beams. All harsh white light and jagged black shadows.

She looked back.

She said, “What are you going to do with me?”

“Always the same question,” Mark said. “You sound like a broken record.”

“I have a right to know.”

“You’re a witness.”

“I said all along you wouldn’t let us win. The game was bullshit.”

“It served its purpose. You should see what’s in the back of my car.”

“Let me go see to Shorty. Come with me. Do it there. Both of us.”

“That’s romantic,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“Where is he exactly?” Mark asked.

“A ways back.”

“Too far. I’m sorry. I really need to get going. Let’s do it here. Just you.”

He aimed the gun. She saw it clearly in the headlight spill. She recognized the brand from the TV shows she watched. A Glock, she was sure. Boxy, detailed, finely wrought. The tube on the front was satin finished. A precision component. It looked like it cost a thousand dollars. She breathed out. Patricia Marie Sundstrom, twenty-five, two years of college, a sawmill worker. Briefly happy with a potato farmer she met in a bar. Happier than she ever expected to be. Happier than she knew. She wanted to see him again. Just one more time.

Something moved behind Mark’s left shoulder.

She saw it in the corner of her eye. In the deep black shadows beyond the headlight beams. A flash of something white. Ten feet back. Suspended in the air. Eyes, she thought. Or teeth. Like a smile. She listened. She heard nothing. Just the rustle of the car’s idling engine, and the soft wet burble of its patient exhaust.