The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(61)

‘It gets stored. Along with the ’tronics from our other clients. Then it gets taken away.’

‘Who by?’

The guy shrugged. ‘Whoever buys it, I guess. One year it’s one guy. The next year, someone else. I don’t get to pick.’

‘When do they take it? How often?’

‘Once a month. First Monday, usually. Unless they’re late. Which they sometimes are.’

‘So everything that came in the last three weeks is still here?’

‘Right. Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Where?’

The guy gestured over his shoulder, to the cabin. ‘In there. Locked up.’

‘Show me.’ Sands started down the slope.

‘Hold it,’ the guy said. ‘You got a warrant? You can’t come in demanding to see stuff without one. I know my rights. We’ve had training.’

Sands continued until she was standing right in front of him. Reacher tracked her movement, keeping six feet to the right.

‘You want paperwork, huh?’ Sands tipped her head to the side. ‘I’m surprised. You don’t look much like a paperwork kind of guy. But that’s no problem. Not for me, anyway. Got a fax machine in there? I can get warrants. Subpoenas. Criminal records. Whatever I want. Assuming that’s a path you want to go down?’

The guy didn’t respond.

‘Anything in the system your bosses don’t know about?’ Sands said. ‘Yet?’

‘Assholes,’ the guy said. He ducked back into the cabin and replaced the Benelli in its rack, then led the way to the far end of the structure. He worked a lock. Pushed down on a handle, which took all his weight. Heaved open a pair of doors. Leaned inside. Hit a switch, which brought four pairs of fluorescent tubes flickering into life. Then stood to the side.

‘See for yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s all there.’

The space accounted for half the footprint of the cabin. There were grey metal shelves, floor to ceiling, lined up around all three walls. Some smaller items were scattered on the shelves nearest the entrance. Reacher could see cell phones and cameras and DVD players and a couple of laptops. But the main action was on the floor in the centre of the room. There were dozens of computers and keyboards and monitors and printers and widescreen TVs along with a bunch of other devices Reacher didn’t recognize. All heaped up together. All tangled in a chaotic jumble of cables and wires like a giant electronic spider had been absorbing it into its web.

‘Which ones are they?’ Reacher moved to let Sands get a better view. ‘Can you tell?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sands said. ‘There’s no sign of the cabinet they were in. But that did have a broken door. They probably took the servers out and threw the rest of it in one of those dumpsters. Better get Rusty down here. I’ll need help finding them in all this junk.’

‘I’m here.’ Rutherford appeared from around the corner of the cabin. He looked into the room and nodded his head. ‘All right. They must be buried in the middle of all this. Come on. Let’s get to work. I want all eight of them, just in case.’

Rutherford scrambled through the mess to the far side on the basis that each new delivery was apparently shoved in on top of the last and the servers could have been there for a couple of weeks. Sands handed her purse to Reacher and went in after him. It was hot inside. The roof was made of metal. So were the walls. There was an air conditioner but it only cooled the office area. Not the storage side. It was as if their prize was hidden in an oven. Reacher stayed outside. It wasn’t a great deal cooler in the direct sun. But he wanted to keep an eye on the guy with the grey hair. He knew the man pulling Marty’s strings had put out an order to watch for Rutherford. The man with a liking for suitcases and bone saws. There was no reason to believe the grey-haired guy was involved. Or that Fisher’s cell would be put back on active duty if anyone called in a sighting. But plans change. Opportunities present themselves. Sometimes they’re too good to resist. They were in a remote location. Two of them were in an enclosed space. And the guy had a shotgun.

Rutherford and Sands continued to sift through the mound of discarded equipment. The grey-haired guy leaned one shoulder against the cabin wall and watched them. He made no move for his phone. Or a panic button. Or an alarm. The sun continued to beat down. Reacher continued to watch all three people. Until finally Rutherford and Sands emerged into the open air. They were blinking against the light. Their clothes were clinging with sweat. Their skin was smeared with dust. And their hands were empty.

Sands took back her purse.

Rutherford approached the grey-haired guy. ‘Where’s everything else?’

The guy straightened up. ‘Like what? This is everything.’

‘It can’t be. Some things are missing. Eight things, at least. From the town IT department.’

The guy shrugged.

‘Where else could they be?’

‘You accusing me of something?’

‘What? No. Is there another site somewhere, is what I mean. Like an overflow?’

‘No. Everything comes here.’

‘Who else works here?’ Reacher said.

‘No one. Just me.’

‘What if you’re out sick? Or on vacation?’

‘My boss would send someone. To fill in for me.’