Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(82)

“What wasn’t straight?”

“He kept referring to Stan in the present tense. He was saying, Stan is this, Stan is that, Stan is here, Stan is there. At first I assumed that ancestry buffs talk that way. To bring the subject alive. But he kept on doing it. In the end I asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

“Why he was talking that way.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks Stan is still alive.”

Reacher shook his head.

“That’s crazy,” he said. “He died years ago. He was my father. I was at his funeral.”

Burke nodded.

“Which is why I thought it would upset you,” he said. “Obviously the professor is either mistaken or confused. Or a crank of some kind, with a bee in his bonnet. All of which can be distressing, after a family bereavement. Naturally there are sensitivities involved.”

“It was thirty years ago,” Reacher said. “I got over it.”

“Thirty years?”

“Give or take,” Reacher said. “I was a company commander in West Germany, with the CID. I remember flying back. He was buried in Arlington Cemetery. My mother wanted that for him, because he fought in Korea and Vietnam. She thought he deserved it.”

Burke said nothing.

Reacher said, “What?”

“Coincidence, I’m sure,” Burke said.

“What is?”

“The professor said the family story has it that Stan Reacher was working away from home for a very long time, completely out of touch, but then finally he retired, and he came back to live in New Hampshire.”

“When?”

“Thirty years ago,” Burke said. “Give or take. Those were the professor’s exact words.”

“That’s crazy,” Reacher said again. “I was at the funeral. The guy is wrong. I should call him back.”

“You can’t. He’s tied up the rest of the day.”

“Where is this old guy who came back to New Hampshire supposed to be living now?”

“With the granddaughter of a relative.”

“Where exactly?”

“You can hear it from the horse’s mouth first thing tomorrow.”

“I’m trying to get to San Diego. I need to get going.”

“Are you upset about what he said?”

“Not upset at all. Just not sure what to do. I don’t want to waste time talking to an idiot.”

Burke was quiet a moment.

“I feel I shouldn’t dissuade you further,” he said. “My only worry was emotional strain. In its absence, I suppose you could give the professor the benefit of the doubt. It might be an innocent error. A simple transposition of two similar names, or something. You might still enjoy talking to him. About Ryantown, if nothing else. He knows a lot about it. He did research there.”

“I would need a motel,” Reacher said. “I can’t go back to Laconia.”

“There’s a place north of Ryantown. About twenty miles. I told you about it. Supposed to be good.”

“Deep in the woods.”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds perfect, under the circumstances. If I gave you fifty bucks for gas, would you drive me there?”

“Fifty bucks is too much.”

“We’ve done a lot of miles. And there are tires to consider, and general wear and tear, plus a share of the overhead. Insurance, for instance, and servicing, and repairs.”

“I would take twenty.”

“Deal,” Reacher said.

They climbed out of the picnic table and walked back to the Subaru.

—

Karel was the sixth and final arrival. He worked the morning as normal, starting early, out at the highway, where he got instantly lucky with a semi-serious fender bender, which then became doubly lucky, because both insurance companies hired him to haul the wrecks. Which paid the rent for the day. The rest was icing on the cake. There were no more crashes, but he got three separate breakdowns. Which was pretty damn good for the time of year. And then a fourth, he thought for a happy moment, after he had clocked off and was heading north, when he saw an old Subaru stalled on the shoulder. But it turned out to be nothing. Two guys in it, admiring the view, one of them talking on the phone. A little burble of fumes coming out at the back. The old Subaru was running fine.

Twenty miles later he slowed to a crawl, and he turned hard left, into the narrow opening. Into the mouth of the track. Which was barely wider than the truck itself. Leaves and branches brushed and battered both sides. The huge tires bounced and slapped through the potholes. He slowed again, barely a walk, idling in his lowest stump-pulling gear. The wire was up ahead. Across the blacktop. The warning bell. He wanted all three axles to ring it separately. That was the code. Bing, bing-bing . Hence the low speed.

He rolled slowly over the wire. And stopped. He set the brakes. He shut down the engine. He opened his door against the press of the foliage and dropped his bags down ahead of him. Then he squeezed out sideways and locked the door from below. He gathered his luggage, and hauled it ten yards along the track, and set it down in a neat array. He turned and looked back. His truck was jammed in. There was no space either side. Obviously not for a car. Not for a quad-bike, even. A pedestrian, maybe, leading with a shoulder, getting whipped in the face by branches.