The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(50)
‘You should leave now,’ Reacher said. ‘Someone wants these things badly enough to send six guys after you. Those six failed. Do you think they’ll give up? No. They’ll send twelve guys. Eighteen. Who knows how many? And if they get their hands on you, how far do you think I don’t know where the servers are will get you?’
Sands adjusted the towel on her head. Rutherford said nothing.
‘You should leave,’ Reacher said. ‘If I can find the servers I’ll get them to the FBI. They can do whatever they need to with this digital fingerprint you think is in one of them. Then when it’s safe, if you want to, you can come back.’
‘No.’ Rutherford shook his head. ‘I don’t care how many people they send. I’m not being driven out of my home. And I’m not handing the servers over to anyone. Not yet. Not if there’s a chance we could develop Cerberus into something that’s worth serious money. I don’t want to sound shallow or greedy, but look at this place. Mitch is ten years younger than me. He had one good idea. I’ve worked my ass off all my life. I deserve my shot.’
‘That’s fair.’ Sands tucked a loose strand of hair back under the towel. ‘You do deserve a shot. You should benefit if Cerberus turns into a success. We both should. But you can’t benefit if you’re dead. So don’t look at it as being driven away. Think of it as a sabbatical. If Reacher finds the servers we could give a copy to the FBI. Have them sign some kind of agreement not to develop any products out of what they find. That’s not what they do anyway. And in the meantime we could do more work with the models. At my place. It’s safe there, and imagine what it would be like driving back here in a brand new Rolls-Royce. Your old boss pleading with you to go back. You telling him to stick his job.’
An electronic chime sounded in the kitchen and Rutherford stood up. ‘That’s my computer. It’s finished its updates. Finally. Let’s see—’ His phone rang. He checked the screen. ‘It’s a local number. I don’t recognize it. Should I answer?’
‘It’s your phone,’ Reacher said.
Rutherford pressed a key and held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello.’ He listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Reacher. ‘It’s Officer Rule. She wants to talk to you.’
‘This is Reacher.’ He stood and walked to the window.
‘We need to talk,’ Officer Rule said. ‘I’ll give you an address. Come alone. The garage will open. Drive in and stay in your car.’
Reacher found the address Officer Rule gave him without any problem. It was a small single family home with a neat but plain yard on a neat but plain street in a sleepy neighbourhood half a mile from the courthouse. The blacktop had been resurfaced within the last year judging by the colour and the lack of severe cracking, but Reacher thought it was strange that there were no sidewalks. The street butted right up to people’s properties. To their lawns or driveways or beds full of medium-size shrubs. Reacher wondered if that was down to the heat. Or the humidity. Or if people in that town were particularly averse to any form of exercise that involved leaving their own yards.
The correct house was easy to spot because it had a police cruiser parked outside along with a late model Honda Civic. Reacher guessed that would be Officer Rule’s personal vehicle. He slowed as he approached, checked his mirrors a final time to be sure no one was following, then turned on to the driveway. The garage door immediately began to clang and clank its way up and when it was all the way open Reacher rolled inside. He killed his engine and the door began its descent. There was an aluminium ladder fixed on the wall on one side and a bicycle suspended by its front wheel from the other. There was a stout shelf covered with gardening fertilizers and weedkillers and tools of various kinds. Reacher had no idea what any of them were for.
Once the door to the driveway was all the way down a personnel door opened on Reacher’s left and Officer Rule stepped through. She was wearing navy sweatpants with a matching T-shirt. Her hair was held back by a gold clip. And she was holding a slim envelope. Reacher opened his door and started to get out but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay put.
‘We’ve got to be quick. My neighbour will be home any minute and I don’t want her to see you leaving.’
‘You think she’s spying on you?’
‘You’ve never lived in a small town, have you?’ A smile spread briefly across her face. ‘Of course she’s spying. Everyone is. Maybe not the way you were thinking but I still want nothing to do with it. Here.’ She passed the envelope to Reacher. ‘This is for you.’
‘What is it?’ he said. There was nothing written on it. Nothing printed. No label.
‘A file. A copy, anyway. For the journalist you were asking about.’
‘Why are you giving it to me?’
‘Because I’m sick and tired of it. What happened to her is horrible and no one in the department is doing anything about it. You were a military cop. You showed good instincts with Holly’s scumbag boyfriend. Maybe you can shake something loose. Get some justice for this woman. Her name was Toni Garza. I’ve never even heard Detective Goodyear say it out loud.’
The photographs of the dead journalist were safely tucked inside the envelope, and the envelope was safely tucked beneath the floor mat on the passenger side of Marty’s car. There was always the chance of a random traffic stop and Reacher didn’t want to fall foul of a cop with prying eyes if he got pulled over. But even though the pictures were hidden the images continued to cycle through Reacher’s head as he drove. His having seen them made no difference to Toni Garza. She was still dead. It did make a difference to Reacher, though. He had to assume that whoever had killed Garza was the person chasing Rutherford. Or part of the same organization, at least. And now that he’d seen the level of brutality involved, there was no way he could leave Rutherford alone.