The Midnight Line

  “It’s not for sale. It’s a gift for your sister.”

  “I could give it to her.”

  “So could the lady at West Point. Eventually.”

  “You feel a need to hand it over personally?”

  “I need to know she’s OK.”

  “You never met her.”

  “Makes no difference. Should it? I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Mackenzie took the ring off. She handed it back.

  Some kind of look on her perfect face.

  Reacher said, “I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re here because it’s family, and Mr. Bramall is here because he’s getting paid. Why am I here? I’m giving you the impression I’m some kind of a weird obsessive. Maybe a couple soldiers short of a squad. I don’t mean to. But I get it. I’m making you feel uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re very polite.”

  “I assume it’s an honor thing. Rose was in a world I didn’t understand.”

  “What we need now is solid information. Are you confident this place is empty?”

  “There are dust sheets everywhere and the water is off.”

  “So where would Rose go, if not here?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “What is?” Reacher said.

  “I should be on a psychiatrist’s couch to answer these questions.”

  “Why?”

  “We participated in a fantasy. OK? We were required to. As if we were lords of the manor and owned the whole valley. As if when the neighbors built, we were practically giving them almshouses out of sheer benevolence. Obviously later on we discovered Father had to sell some acres. But it was like we still owned them. Like slave quarters. We lorded it over the poor people. We were in and out anytime we wanted.”

  “Which of the three would she go to now?”

  “Any of them.”

  “You want a ride? In the front, if you like. You’re paying the bills, after all.”

  Reacher got in the back, and got comfortable. Mackenzie took his place in the passenger seat. Bramall drove, but not back to the road. Mackenzie showed him different tracks. The ways they went as kids. Easy enough for a slip of a girl to skip along. Harder for the car. But it made it, bending saplings, all four tires grabbing, like a ponderous cat. The nearest neighbor slid into view. Not a trophy cabin. Built before the word existed. The product of a more innocent age, when a vacation house could be a plain and simple thing. The view was a picture postcard.

  Bramall and Mackenzie went to the door.

  They knocked.

  It opened.

  A guy stood there. Same kind of age as the guy in the Mule Crossing post office. Same kind of tired-out stoop. Bramall said something to him, then Mackenzie, and the old guy nodded and made to let them in. Bramall turned and waved to Reacher, and Reacher got out of the car, and walked over to join them. They went inside, and the old guy said yes, all those years ago he had bought the land and built the house. For family vacations. Now he came alone. Which was borne out by the evidence. Reacher looked around and saw one of everything, and felt the quiet patient air of a lonely place.

  The guy said he remembered the twins coming by. Way back they were wild-haired little girls in country dresses. They visited all the time, until they were ten or twelve, then not so much, until they were fifteen or so, and then hardly at all after that.

  Mackenzie said, “Have you seen Rose recently?”

  The old guy said, “Where would I see her?”

  “Around here, maybe.”

  “I guess it’s a dumb question to ask what she looks like now.”

  Mackenzie smiled. “Maybe a bit more tan than me. Maybe a bit more toned. She would claim she’s been working harder. She might have cut her hair. Or dyed it. She might have gotten tattoos.” She looked a question at Bramall. “Anything else we should consider?”

  Bramall looked a question at Reacher.

  Is this where we tell her she was wounded?

  “No,” Reacher said. “I’m sure the gentleman knows what she looks like.”

  “I haven’t seen her,” the old guy said.

  They used the old guy’s driveway, and crossed the road, and took the driveway opposite. It came out on another idyllic scene, but smaller, a quarter-sized version of the old homestead, with a newer house and no active stream.

  The house was closed up and empty. Locked doors, shaded windows, no broken glass. No burglars, no squatters. No feral Rose Sanderson, going to earth in a place she remembered.

  They moved off again, on another rough trail Mackenzie seemed half to know and half to imagine. The Toyota squeezed between trees, and rode up and down dips and hollows, and bucked and nodded. Bramall stayed calm behind the wheel. He drove most of the way one-handed.

  The last house came into view.

  It was the same kind of thing as before, an unpretentious A-framed cabin, with a lot of glass on a spectacular view. Bramall looped around to the driveway, as if he had been on it all along, and he parked a respectful distance from the house.

  The front door opened.

  A woman stood in the shadow.

  She must have heard their tires.

  She took a hopeful step forward, into the sun.

  She looked like Porterfield’s neighbor, but wound up way tighter. Upset about something. She was staring all around, and then staring at the car.

  Bramall got out.

  She watched him.

  Mackenzie got out.

  She watched her.

  Reacher got out.

  She watched him.

  No one else got out.

  She staggered back, like she had been hit in the head. She leaned on the frame of the door.

  She said, “Have you guys seen Billy?”

  Bramall didn’t answer.

  The woman said, “I thought maybe you were him. Maybe he got a new car. He’s supposed to be coming.”

  “For what?” Reacher said.

  “Have you seen him?”

  Mackenzie said, “Who is Billy?”

  Reacher said, “We’ll get to that.”

  To the woman in the doorway he said, “I got a question for you first, and then I’ll tell you about Billy.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Tell me about the other woman, who looks just like my friend here. Like her twin sister.”

  “What other woman?”

  “I just told you. Pay attention. Like my friend here. In this neighborhood.”

  “Never seen her.”

  “She might be Billy’s friend too.”

  “Don’t know her.”

  “You sure?”

  “A woman who looks like her? Never seen one.”

  “You ever heard the name Rose?”

  “Never ever. Now tell me about Billy.”

  “I haven’t met him yet,” Reacher said. “But I hear his privileges were suspended. His cupboard is bare. Until he takes care of a local problem. Which he hasn’t yet. I know that, because I’m the local problem. And here I still am. So if he happens to drop by, tell him I’m looking for him. The Incredible Hulk. Tell him I plan to stop by and pay him a visit. Give him a good description. That might be worth twenty bucks to him. You could get a freebie.”

  “Billy never gives freebies,” the woman said.

  “Who is Billy?” Mackenzie asked again.

  They told her in the car. Not the whole story. Still they kept him separate. As if he was an accidental discovery, off to one side. They told her about the shoebox of cash, but not the shoebox of jewelry.

  But Mackenzie was a smart woman.

  She said, “Then why were you in his home in the first place?”

  Which under her critical gaze led to the whole soup-to-nuts narrative, involving Scorpio, and Porterfield, and Billy, and Bramall’s old phone records, and Nakamura’s overheard voicemails.

  Mackenzie said, “In other words for a
t least two years Rose has been involved with drug dealers and drug users. Meth and heroin. With all that entails. Such as shacking up with one who got eaten by a bear.”

  They didn’t answer.

  Mackenzie asked, quietly, “Is she an addict?”

  They told her about the shoebox of jewelry.

  She started to cry.

  Chapter 22

  They drove back to the old homestead, where Mackenzie’s rental was parked, at an angle, like a garish red blot on the old-timey landscape.

  She said, “Now I’m worried about the timescale. Her comb was lost at least a year and a half ago. We know that. Possibly months before. This is likely a two-year thing. Or more. But her ring left Wyoming just six weeks ago. Doesn’t that feel like a final threshold? Like some kind of end stage?”

  Reacher said, “Did you call the army during your search?”

  “They told me nothing. They had privacy concerns. Any other time, I would have been cheering them on.”

  “I called a place I know. I pulled some strings. They didn’t have much. They had a list of her West Point scores. She did very well.”

  “I remember.”

  “They had a list of her deployments. Iraq and Afghanistan. Five tours and out.”

  “OK.”

  “They had a list of her medals.”

  “I didn’t know she won any.”

  “She won a Bronze Star.”

  “For what?”

  “The regulation says the Bronze Star medal is awarded to individuals who distinguish themselves in a combat theater by heroism, outstanding achievement, or meritorious service.”

  “I didn’t know,” Mackenzie said again.

  “She also won a Purple Heart.”

  Mackenzie was quiet a long moment.

  First she said, “I didn’t know.”

  Then she said, “What for?”

  Last she said, “Oh, no.”

  Reacher didn’t recite the regulation. Not happy listening. Awarded to any member of the armed forces who has been wounded, killed, or who has died or may die of wounds.

  Mackenzie said, “How bad?”

  “Can’t tell,” Reacher said. “Right now it’s just the name of a medal. Lots of people have them. As a matter of fact I have one. Truth is none of them come cheap. Most of them leave a mark. But you heal up and you walk away. Almost always. Certainly a big percentage. Doesn’t have to be bad news.”

  Mackenzie said, “Iraq and Afghanistan was all bad news.”

  She looked ahead at her sleek red car.

  She said, “I’m not going home. I’m staying here. She’s close. You said so yourself. She’s in trouble. Maybe she lost an arm. Maybe she’s a disabled veteran with nowhere to live and nothing to eat.”

  She told them to follow her back to the Hertz office, and then take her to see Billy’s place.

  Nakamura carried her laptop down the corridor to her lieutenant’s corner suite. She played the captured voicemail. We just got a message from Montana. They sent a rider down especially. They have a Fed up there asking questions. He just left Billings.

  She said, “I saw the rider from Montana. He was there four minutes.”

  Her lieutenant said, “Does this get us anywhere?”

  “My friend in the lab is doing great work with predicting the phone numbers.”

  “What does he want, the Medal of Honor?”

  “A pat on the back would be good. You know, stick your head in, say hi.”

  “What do you want?”

  “It would be good to know what kind of Fed they had up there in Billings. And it would be good to know who sent the warning. Was it a subsidiary, an affiliate, a franchise, or just a friendly bunch of guys all loosely in the same boat?”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Call the Billings PD and ask them who was in town last night. They’ll know, because they’ll have gotten a courtesy call ahead of time.”

  “And this guy is going to Wyoming next? Remind me again, why should I care?”

  “Because Scorpio got one of his tentacles trodden on. If we knew exactly who he’s scared of, maybe we could work out exactly what he’s doing.”

  The lieutenant called through a closed hutch to his secretary, and told her to get a number for whatever captain or commissioner or other fancy rank was top boy in the Billings PD, over in Montana. And then to dial it, and put it on line one.

  They got to Billy’s place in the late afternoon. The sun was over the distant mountains. The pronghorns were throwing shadows taller than they were. The colors were different.

  The place was still empty.

  They went in the kitchen door, and up to the slept-in bedroom. To the closet. Reacher put the shoeboxes on the bed. Mackenzie whirred her finger down the wadded cash, and then poked through the jewelry, pushing her nail through the inch of clinking metal, gathering necklace chains as fine as hair, tumbling high school rings aside, and brassy wise-guy pinkie-finger signet rings, with black onyx faces and tiny off-center chips of diamond.

  She said, “Was the pawn shop window like this?”

  “Exactly like that,” Reacher said.

  “Poor Rose.”

  “Do you know this area?”

  “I know Laramie. Or I used to. Down here was all railroad land. Before the track was laid they used mules. Hence the name, probably.”

  “No old friends or relatives?”

  “Seven months of the year the road is closed. This was the other side of the world to us.”

  “Nowhere she would remember?”

  “From later on, probably bars and restaurants downtown. Some stores, possibly. Sometimes we went out to the university. For music, or whatever. But I don’t think she would want to live out there now. We’re thirty-five years old.”

  “So where?”