Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(56)
Abby got her laptop and worked with him side by side, tackling individual words with on-line dictionaries, or searching the single-letter abbreviations, or the acronyms, on language blogs, and word-nerd sites. She made notes on scraps of paper. A couple of things fell into place, but even so the work was slow. Never had so much come from so little. She had made the video as fast as she dared, five, ten, twenty seconds, scrolling at speed, pumping on and on. Now that vivid blur was giving up thousands and thousands of words, each one a challenge and a puzzle, most of them with two or three plausible solutions.
Reacher let them work. He hung out in the front parlor, with Barton and Hogan, in the spaces between the drums and the speaker cabinets. One cabinet was gray and about the size of a refrigerator. It had eight dirty circles on its grill. Reacher sat on the floor and leaned his back against it and it didn’t move at all. Barton hauled his battered Fender up into his lap, and played it unplugged, barely audible, with up and down runs of soft buzzy notes.
Hogan said, “Do you think we would have won? Do you think Vantresca would have wound up using his languages?”
“On balance I think we would have prevailed,” Reacher said. “As a technical matter I think we would have shut them down before they shut us down. Hard to call it winning, given the mess it would have made. But whatever, the tip of the spear would have been vaporized long ago. I’m afraid your friend wasted his time in school.”
Barton played a descending arpeggio, some kind of diminished minor chord, and ended with a bang on the open bottom string. Plugged in, it would have demolished the house. Unplugged, the string rattled and clattered against the frets, and gave out no fundamental at all. Barton looked at Reacher and said, “Now you’re the tip of the spear.”
“I’m not looking to start a war,” Reacher said. “All I want is the Shevicks’ money. If I can get it some kind of easy way, I absolutely will, believe me. I don’t feel the need to meet any of them face to face on the field of battle. In fact I would be happier not to.”
“You won’t get the option. They must have Trulenko buttoned up pretty tight. Layers and layers. I’ve seen them do it, when a name comes to one of their clubs. They have a man on the corner, and a man on the door, and a man on the next door along, plus a couple of extra guys just roaming around.”
“What do you remember about Trulenko?”
“He was a nerd, like all those guys. I remember thinking it shouldn’t turn out that way. I was cool in high school. Now the nerds are billionaires and I’m scraping a living. I guess I should have learned software, not music.”
“If he was working, what would he be doing?”
“Is he working?”
“Someone used that word.”
“Then computers, I’m sure. That’s what he was good at. He was one of the top boys. His app was something to do with doctors, but basically all that stuff is computer software, isn’t it?”
Abby stuck her head in the door.
“We figured it out,” she said. “We’re ready to go with the Ukrainian. They mention Trulenko twice.”
Chapter 28
Vantresca reset the video so it would play from the beginning, but before he ran it he said, “Overall there’s some weird shit going down. Apart from anything else they’re in an uproar because they’re losing people. Two guys got in a wreck up at the Ford dealer. Then two bagmen got taken off a block in the gourmet quarter. Then two more guys got taken out of a massage parlor. Then two more guys went missing outside of Abby’s house. Total of eight so far.”
“It’s carnage out there,” Reacher said.
“What’s interesting is they blamed the Albanians for the first six. But the language changed for the last two. Now they’re blaming you. They think you’re on some secret New York or Chicago payroll, covertly employed to stir things up down here. There’s an all-points bulletin out on you. Under the name of Shevick. Which in the end could prove to be a bigger problem.”
Vantresca clicked Abby’s phone and started the video. At first he let it spool at the same speed she had recorded it. On the screen the shadow of her fingertip was visible on the right side of the image, scooting up, up, up. Then Vantresca paused and restarted and paused again, until he found the bubble he wanted. It contained a photograph above the text. Aaron and Maria Shevick, and Abigail Gibson, in the hallway of the Shevicks’ home, looking startled and a little uneasy. Reacher remembered the sound he heard from behind the kitchen door. The quiet, scratchy click. The cell phone, imitating a camera.
Vantresca said, “The text below the image says the people in the picture are Jack, Joanna, and Abigail Reacher.”
He played and paused, played and paused, through four more bubbles. He stopped on a fifth. He said, “Right here they’ve already figured out it’s Abby Gibson, not Abigail Reacher. Next message down, they’re sending a guy to her place of work, to get her home address.”
He moved the video on.
“And here they have her home address, and now they’re sending a car to her house, with orders to bring her in if they find her.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Reacher said.
“It gets worse,” Vantresca said. He moved the video on again, to a fat green bubble from later in the day, which had the same photograph in it again, above a dense block of Cyrillic writing. Vantresca read out loud, “It has been reported that the old woman named Joanna Reacher in the picture above was in our pawn shop where she signed her name Maria Shevick.”