Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(63)

“Whatever,” Hogan said.

“You want to move out of state?”

“I would prefer you to.”

Silence for a long moment.

Then the guy spoke again. Some new menace in his voice. Some new thought. He said, “Did they walk or drive?”

“Who?”

“The man and the woman you were harboring.”

“We weren’t harboring diddly squat. We had friends over for dinner.”

“Walk or drive?”

“When?”

“When they left your house at the end of the evening. When they didn’t stay over.”

“They walked.”

“Do they live close by?”

“Not very,” Hogan said, cautiously.

“So a walk of some length. We’re watching these blocks very carefully. We didn’t see a man and a woman walking home.”

“Maybe they had a car parked around the corner.”

“We didn’t see a man and a woman driving home, either.”

“Maybe you missed them.”

“I don’t think we would have.”

“Then I can’t help you, man.”

The guy said, “I know they were here. I saw the food they ate. I have the note they transcribed from the stolen phone. Tonight these are the most heavily watched blocks in the city. They were not seen leaving. Therefore they’re still here. I think they’re upstairs, right now.”

Silence for another long moment.

Then Hogan said, “You’re a pain in the ass, man. Go ahead up and take a look. Three rooms, all of them empty. Then get out of the house and don’t come back. Don’t send an invitation to the picnic.”

In the hallway upstairs Abby whispered, “We could still climb out the window.”

“We didn’t make the bed,” Reacher whispered back. “And I decided we need this guy’s car. We can’t let him leave anyway.”

“Why do we need his car?”

“Something I just realized we need to do.”

Below them the guy’s footsteps crossed the hallway. Toward the bottom of the stairs. A heavy tread. The old floor creaked and yielded under it. Reacher left his gun in his pocket. He didn’t want to use it. A gunshot on a city street at night is going to get a reaction. Too many complications. Evidently the Albanian guy thought the same way. His right hand snaked into view and gripped the stair rail. No gun. His left hand followed. No gun. But they were big hands. Smooth and hard, broad and discolored, thick blunt fingers, with what looked like a manicure done by a steak mallet.

The guy stepped up on the bottom stair. Big shoe. Large size. Wide fitting. Thick heavy legs. Bulky shoulders, a too-tight suit jacket. Maybe six-two, maybe two-twenty. Not a scrappy little Adriatic guy. A big side of beef. Once upon a time a police detective in Tirana. Maybe size was a requirement. Maybe it got better results.

The guy kept on climbing. Reacher backed away, out of sight. He figured he would step up and say hello just as the guy got to the top. From where he had the furthest to fall. All the way back down again. Maximum distance. Better than just falling on the floor. More efficient. The footsteps kept on coming. Every board squeaked. Reacher waited.

The guy got to the top.

Reacher stepped out.

The guy stared at him.

Reacher said, “Tell me about the rare and subtle word.”

In the hallway below, he heard Hogan say, “Oh, shit.”

The guy at the top of the stairs didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “Tell me about the bunch of meanings. Repulsive to the eye, no doubt, unpleasant to look at, hideous, offensive, unsightly, base, degraded, vile, repellent. All that good modern-day stuff. But if it’s originally an old folk word from years ago, then it’s mostly about fear. In most languages the words share a root. Things you feared, you called ugly. The creature who lived in the forest was never handsome.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “Are you guys scared of me?”

No reply.

Reacher said, “Take out your phone and place it on the floor at your feet.”

The guy said, “No.”

“And your car keys.”

“No.”

“I’m going to take them anyway,” Reacher said. “Up to you when and how.”

The same gaze. Steady, calm, amused, predatory, unhinged.

At that point the guy had two basic choices. He could think of something clever to say back, or he could skip the whole talk-fest altogether, and move straight to the action. Reacher was genuinely uncertain which way he would jump. Downstairs he had seemed to like the sound of his own voice. That was for sure. Once upon a time a police detective. He liked holding court. He liked revealing how the crime was solved. On the other hand, banter alone wasn’t going to win the day. He knew that. Sooner or later something of substance would have to be thrown in the mix. Why not start at the end?

The guy launched off the head of the stairs, off powerful legs, shoulders up, head down, aiming to charge, aiming to plant a shoulder in Reacher’s chest, aiming to knock him backward off balance. But Reacher was at least fifty percent ready, and he twitched forward toward the guy and threw a vicious right uppercut, except not vertically, more out at a forty-five degree angle, so that the guy’s charging, ducking face met it exactly square on, his own onrushing two-twenty meeting Reacher’s opposite-direction two-fifty in a colossal rupture of kinetic energy, face against fist, enough to lift the guy up off his heels, and dump him down on his butt, except the floor wasn’t there, so the guy somersaulted backward down the stairs, one complete flailing rotation, wide and high, and then he crashed against the bottom wall in a spatter of limbs.