Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(46)

Then he heard a sound, way off to his right.

It was a yelp. A man’s voice. Definitely not joy or ecstasy. Not really outrage or anger either. Just pain. Distant. About where the orchard was, on the way back to the car. Reacher stood up, and picked his way over the heaved and tumbled stones as fast as he could, slipping between trees, following the old road, past the schoolroom, past the church, back to the fence.

Where fifty yards away he saw the old guy with the ponytail, exactly halfway across the orchard. Another guy less than half his age and maybe twice his weight was standing behind him, twisting his arms.

Reacher stepped over the fence and set out toward them.





Chapter 18


Fifty yards would have been five or six seconds for an athlete, but Reacher was aiming nearer thirty. A slow walk. But purposeful. Intended to communicate something. He kept his strides long and his shoulders loose and his hands away from his sides. He kept his head up and his eyes hard on the guy. A primitive signal, learned long ago. The guy glanced away to the south. For help, maybe. Maybe he wasn’t alone.

Reacher got close.

The big guy turned to face him. He wrestled the old guy around in front, and used him like a human shield.

Reacher stopped six feet away.

He said, “Let him go.”

Just three words, but in a tone also learned long ago, with whole extra paragraphs hidden in the dying vowel sound at the end of the phrase, about the inevitable and catastrophic result of attempted resistance. The big guy let the old guy go. But he wasn’t quitting. No sir. He wanted Reacher to be sure about that. He made it like he wanted to free up his hands anyway. For more important purposes. He shoved the old guy aside and stepped right into Reacher’s space, not more than four feet away. He was twenty-some years old, dark haired and unshaven, more than six feet and two hundred pounds, tanned and muscled by outdoor labor.

He said, “This is none of your business.”

Reacher thought, what is this, Groundhog Day?

But out loud he said, “You were committing a crime on public land. I would be failing in my duty as a citizen if I didn’t point it out. That’s how civilization works.”

The guy glanced away to the south, and back again.

He said, “This ain’t public land. This is my granddaddy’s apple farm. And neither of you should be here. Him because he ain’t allowed and you because you’re trespassing.”

“This is the road,” Reacher said. “Your granddaddy stole it from the county forty years ago. Back when he was a brave young fellow. Like you are now.”

The guy glanced south again, but this time he didn’t glance back. Reacher turned and saw another guy approaching, walking fast between two lines of trees, where the orchard came down a slope. He looked the same as the first guy, except a generation older. Not more. The daddy, perhaps. Not the granddaddy. Better jeans than his son. Cleaner T shirt. Deeper tan, grayer hair. Built the same, but fifty-something.

He arrived, and said, “What’s going on here?”

Reacher said, “You tell me.”

“Who are you?”

“Just a guy standing on the public road asking you a question.”

“This is not the public road.”

“That’s the problem with denial. Reality doesn’t care what you think. It just keeps rolling along. This is the road. Always was. Still is.”

“What’s your question?”

“I saw your boy physically assaulting this much older gentleman. I guess my question is how well you think that reflects on your parenting skills.”

“In this case, pretty damn well,” the new guy said. “What are our apples worth if people think our water is poisoned?”

“That all was eight years ago,” Reacher said. “It came to nothing anyway. The top scientists in the world said your water is OK. So get over it. With a little humility. Probably you said some dumb thing eight years ago. Should I twist your arm today?”

The old guy with the ponytail said, “Technically they have a contract with the corporation in Colorado. There was a rider on the restraining order. It said they get paid if they can prove I was here. I hoped they had forgotten the arrangement. Apparently they hadn’t. They saw my car.”

“How do they prove it?”

“They just did. They texted a picture. That’s where he went. No cell signal, except up on the rise.”

“Law and order,” the daddy said. “It’s what this country needs.”

“Except for the part about stealing the county road to grow more apples.”

“I’m getting sick of hearing you say that, over and over.”

“It’s the sound of reality, rolling along.”

“Why were you in the woods anyway?”

“None of your business,” Reacher said.

“Maybe it is our business. We have a relationship with the landowner.”

“You can’t text a picture of me.”

“Why not?”

“You would have to take your phone out of your pocket. Whereupon I would take it away from you and break it. I guess that’s why you can’t.”

“There are two of us. Two phones.”

“Still not enough. You should call for reinforcements. But oh dear, you can’t. No cell signal, except up on the rise.”