Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(95)

“Jet skis need servicing,” she said.

“I’ll hire a mechanic,” he said. “Regular as clockwork. I promise.”

She paused a beat.

“OK,” she said. “Let’s go to Florida.”

They took nothing except the flashlights. They hustled out between the dead Honda and a pick-up parked next door. They tracked around room twelve, and came back on the blind side, along the back wall, to where they guessed their bathroom was. They pressed their backs against the siding. West was dead ahead. A faint gray acre of grass, and then a wall of trees, low and black beyond it. They listened hard, and they looked for lights. They heard nothing, and they saw nothing.

They held hands and set out walking. Fast, but not running. They slipped and stumbled. Soon they were out in the open. Shorty imagined weird one-eyed night-vision goggles turning in his direction. Zooming in, and focusing. Patty thought, if they see you early, they might just track you for a spell. They fixed their eyes on the dark horizon. The wall of trees. They hustled on toward it. Closer and closer. Faster and faster. They ran the last fifty yards.

They slipped between the first trunks and stopped dead, bent over, breathing hard, gasping, for air, from relief, with primitive joy at having survived. Some kind of ancient victory. Making them stronger. They stood up again. They listened. They heard nothing. They moved deeper into the woods. On and on. Slow going, because of vines and low stuff around their ankles, and because of stepping left, and stepping right, around all the trees. Plus it was dark. They didn’t risk the flashlights. Not yet. Because of the night vision. They figured it would be like setting themselves on fire.

Five minutes later Patty said, “Are we still heading west?”

Shorty said, “I think so.”

“We should turn south now.”

“Why?”

“We were out in the open an awful long time. They could have been watching from a distance. They saw us heading west, so now they think we’re going to continue heading west.”

“Do they?”

“Because unconsciously people project spatial things in straight lines.”

“Do they?”

“So we need to turn off one way or the other. North or south. They can project us west all they want. We’ll never show up. I like south better. If we find a road, it’s a straight shot to town.”

“OK, we should make a left turn.”

“If we’re really heading west right now.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Shorty said.

So Patty turned what she hoped was exactly ninety degrees. She checked it carefully. She was shoulder-on to Shorty. She was sideways on to the way they had just been walking. She set out in the new direction. Shorty followed. On and on. The same slow progress. Grabby vines, and whip-like saplings. Sometimes fallen boughs, propped diagonally across their path. Which meant a detour, and a long look back, to make sure they hadn’t gotten turned around.

Way far in the distance they heard a bike. Maybe a mile away. A short trip. It started up, it rode a minute, and it shut down again. The faintest sound. Repositioning, maybe. For what? On what basis? Patty stopped walking, and Shorty bumped into her.

She said, “Do they ride them all the time, like horseback, or do they get off and approach on foot?”

“I guess I don’t hear them buzzing around all the time, so yeah, I guess they park them and fan out on foot.”

“Which means we won’t hear them coming. Mark was bullshitting.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“We’re in trouble.”

“It’s a big woods. They need to get closer than forty feet. That guy was real far away. He was shit out of luck.”

“We should turn southwest now,” Patty said.

“Why?”

“I think from here it would be the fastest way to the break in the trees.”

“Won’t they guess?”

“We can’t worry about that anymore. There are nine of them. Between them they can guess everything.”

“OK, we should head half a turn to the right.”

“If we’re really heading south right now.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Shorty said. “More or less.”

“I think we got turned around.”

“Not by much.”

Patty said nothing.

Shorty said, “What?”

“I think we’re lost in the woods. Which is full of archers who want to kill us. I think I’m going to die surrounded by trees. Which I guess is fair. I work in a sawmill.”

“You OK?”

“A bit light headed.”

“Hang in there. We’re close enough for government work. Turn half right, keep on going, and we’ll reach the clearing.”

They did all those things. They turned half right, they kept on going, and they reached the clearing. A minute later. But it was the wrong clearing. They were behind the motel again. The same gray acre of grass. A different angle. But only slightly. They were coming out of the woods about twenty yards from where they ran in.

—

Reacher heard motorcycle engines far in the distance. First a swarm, like a whole bunch together, buzzing faintly, right at the edge of silence, then individual machines about a mile away, some driving by, some slowing down. Not the clumsy bass beat of American machines. The other kind of motorbike noise. High revs, gears and chains, all kinds of cams and valves and other parts howling and thrashing up and down. The quad-bikes, he assumed. There had been nine, neatly parked in three rows of three. In front of the barn. Now they were out and about, revving and squirming their way through the trees.