The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(83)

‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘No. Go and lean on this guy. One thing I learned in the Bureau – never leave a lead unfollowed. Those are the ones that bite you in the ass.’

The address Wallwork gave Reacher for the guy on the bike was in the same subdivision as Holly’s place. Reacher cut roughly southwest from the truck stop to avoid driving back through town and threaded his way through the rows of rectangular houses on their rectangular lots until he arrived outside the final one on the final street. The last one to be built, Reacher figured. Maybe a couple of years younger than the first. Which could be an advantage, if all the kinks in the design had been ironed out. Or a disadvantage if the contractor’s enthusiasm had worn off by then and the pick of the crew had left for fresh projects. But whichever way the scale had leaned originally, the point was no longer relevant. It looked like the house had been beamed in from a scrapyard. Shingles were slipping off the roof. The windows were opaque with dirt. Paint was peeling off every flat surface. The yard seemed to be filled with spoil from a chemical plant. And in the centre, shiny and incongruous, sat a bike. Flames on the fuel tank. Tall wide handlebars. Foot pegs way out in front.

Like Holly’s, the house had a front door with no window. Reacher was even less inclined to knock on this one so he drove past and stopped in the fishtail. Made his way down the far side where there were no neighbours to worry about. And found he wouldn’t have to climb over the fence. He wouldn’t be able to. Because it had already fallen down. Reacher stepped over the remains and surveyed the yard. If any attempt at horticulture had ever been made, the signs were long gone. Nothing was growing. The soil was dull brown. It looked utterly desolate. Reacher wouldn’t have been surprised to find scientists there in hazmat suits collecting samples. He cut across to the rear of the house. It also had a sliding glass door. This one had a diagonal crack running across it. Some kind of clear tape had been applied. It was yellow with age and the peeling edges were encrusted with ancient bugs. Reacher looked inside, into the kitchen. The cupboard doors were shabby. Several weren’t lined up straight and a couple weren’t closed. There were pots on the stove. The sink was stacked high with dirty plates and mugs and glasses. Cans and bottles were overflowing from the trash. There was a full ashtray on the small round table. But no sign of the biker. Or anyone else.

Reacher knocked on the glass. He heard a scraping sound above him. A window opening. He moved closer to the wall.

‘Whoever you are, they’re not here.’ It was a woman’s voice, raspy from cigarette smoke. ‘Now get out of my yard.’

‘I need to talk to Zach,’ Reacher said.

‘I told you, he’s not here.’

‘His bike’s out front.’

‘So talk to the bike. Zach’s not here. None of them are. Come in and look if you don’t believe me. If your shots are up to date.’

‘So where are they?’

‘At the workshop, obviously. Trying to fix up that dumbass car.’

‘Got an address on the workshop?’

‘If you don’t know that, you don’t know Zach. What do you want him for?’

‘To talk about a job.’

The woman let out a little shriek. ‘You really don’t know Zach if you think he wants a job.’

‘He wants this one. Trust me.’

The woman paused. ‘Is there money involved? As in actual cash you can spend at the store?’

‘There’s plenty.’

‘OK. Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you where Zach’s at. You tell Zach half of what he earns comes to me. Or I’ll kick his ass out. Again.’

Reacher followed the woman’s directions. They took him due west on a straight road, wide in places, narrow in others, flanked by telephone poles, with fields on either side. Some had drainage ditches, some a hazy covering of green. None had any sign of purpose. Maybe they’d once been cultivated. Maybe they’d been earmarked for development into more houses. But whatever had been planned was long forgotten and they’d descended into a state of permanent disuse.

Reacher continued for nineteen miles, until he came to a crossroads. The woman had said twenty, but he figured that was close enough. Most people work in round numbers. He saw a single building on the far side of the intersection, on the right. The workshop. Positioned to be convenient for traffic approaching from the east or north. Maybe a random choice. Maybe the result of some in-depth study of traffic patterns and emerging demographics. Either way, not enough to guarantee a long-term future.

The structure was about as simple as you could get. There were columns at the corners and in the centre of each wall. Steel, presumably, encased in concrete. The sides and back were solid. The roof was flat. And the front had two vehicle-width doors, both rolled up. Originally they would have led to two bays. The right-hand one was still in commission. It had a lift, banks of tools, pneumatic lines, the whole nine yards. A car was raised up with its wheels at head height. A two-door coupé with a long hood, maybe from the late sixties or early seventies. It was bright orange. A guy was standing under it, fiddling with something. Four others were next to it, giving advice. To the side of them the other bay had been converted into some kind of clubhouse. There were three leather couches. None of them matched. A fridge. A table made out of three tyres stacked on their sides with a circle of glass on top. And there were posters on the walls. Some of cars. Some of women. Some of cars and women.