Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(60)

And there dead ahead was the ancient Subaru. Waiting at the curb. On the right spot. At the right time. Inside was a familiar skinny silhouette. Blue denim, a pencil neck, and a long gray ponytail.

“Is that him?” Amos asked.

“Sure is,” Reacher said.

“Maybe I did something good in a previous life.”

She pulled in behind the Subaru. The silhouette jerked its head. Like it was suddenly staring in the mirror. Then the Subaru took off. Instantly. It disappeared out from in front of them. It howled off the curb and blasted down the street.

Maximum acceleration.

Amos said, “What?”

“Chase him,” Reacher said. “Go, go, go.”

She glanced over her shoulder and stamped on the gas and took off in pursuit.

She said, “What just happened?”

“You scared him,” Reacher said. “Your red lights were still on. Like you were pulling him over.”

“He was stationary.”

“Maybe he thought you were busting him.”

“Why would I? Was he on a hydrant?”

“Maybe he’s got weed in the car. Or secret documents. Or something. Maybe he thinks you’re an agent of deep state oppression. We’re dealing with an old guy with a ponytail here.”

They followed him a hundred yards behind, then eighty, then fifty, then twenty. The Subaru was doing its valiant best, but it was no match for a modern-day police vehicle. With lights and a siren. Then up ahead the Subaru turned right. It was lost to sight for ten or twelve agonizing seconds, but they turned after it, and saw it turning again, at the end of the block.

“He’s heading home,” Reacher said. “Somewhere north and west of here.”

Amos took a shortcut on a block she knew better, and came out right on the Subaru’s bumper. A one way street. Up ahead was a red light, and another small jam. Two lanes of traffic, five cars on the left, and six on the right. The tail end of rush hour. The light went green, but nobody moved. Someone was blocking the box. Not a blue van. Not a black Chrysler. The Subaru braked hard and swerved into the shorter line. Now he was the sixth car on the left, one inch behind the fifth. Amos stopped one inch behind him. On his left was the sidewalk, and on his right was the right-hand queue of vehicles, just as long, just as stopped. He was parked tighter than Paris.

Amos said, “Technically he committed a number of offenses.”

“Let it go,” Reacher said. “And thanks for everything.”

He got out of the car and walked ahead. He tapped on the Subaru’s passenger window. The old guy stared ahead for a long moment, absolutely refusing to look, rigid with principle, but eventually, and reluctantly, he glanced to his right. At which point he looked very surprised. He glanced back at the flashing lights. He was confused. He didn’t understand.

Reacher opened the door and got in the car.

“She gave me a ride,” he said. “That’s all. She didn’t mean to startle you.”

Up ahead the light cycled back to green, and this time the traffic moved. The guy drove forward, with one eye on his mirror. Behind him Amos pulled a wide U turn around the light and headed back the way she had come. Reacher turned in his seat and watched her go.

The old guy said, “Why would a cop give you a ride?”

“Protective custody,” Reacher said. “The folks from the apple farm were in town last night.”

The explanation seemed to settle the guy. He nodded.

“I told you,” he said. “That family doesn’t let things go.”

“Back there,” Reacher said. “You shouldn’t have run. Not a smart tactic. The cops will always get you in the end.”

“Were you a cop?”

“In the army,” Reacher said. “Long ago.”

“I know I shouldn’t have run,” the guy said. “But it’s an old habit.”

He said nothing more. He just drove on. Reacher watched the traffic. No blue van. They made a left and a right. They seemed to be heading north and west. Toward the apple farm itself. And Ryantown. That general area.

Reacher said, “Did you make the arrangements?”

“They’re expecting us.”

“Thank you.”

“Visiting hours start at ten.”

“Great.”

“The old man’s name is Mr. Mortimer.”

“Good to know,” Reacher said.

They found the main drag out of town, and two miles later turned left, on the road Reacher had seen the day before. The road that led to the place with no water. They followed it west, through woods, past fields. Reacher watched out his window. In the far distance on his right lay Bruce Jones’s acres, with his twelve dogs, and then came the orchards, and Ryantown itself, overgrown and ghostly.

He said, “How much further?”

“Nearly there,” the guy said.

Two miles later on the left Reacher saw a shape. Way far in the distance. Some kind of a new development. Long low buildings, laid out in a virgin field. There were crisp blacktop roads with bright white markings. There were newly planted trees, looking pale and slender and delicate, next to their natural gnarly neighbors. The buildings were bland stucco, with metal windows, and white aluminum rainwater pipes that kinked at the bottom and ran away to spouts a yard into the grass. There was a sign at the main entrance. Something about assisted living.