Bad Luck and Trouble, Page 41

  half-million-square-mile circle.”

  “Five hundred and two thousand, seven hundred and twenty,” Reacher said, automatically. “Assuming you use only three decimal places for pi. But that’s the bargain we made. We could stop them when the circle was small, or we could come for you guys.”

  “Thanks,” O’Donnell said.

  “Hey, I voted to stop the truck. Neagley overruled me.”

  “So how do we do this?”

  “You ever seen a really great centerfielder play baseball? He never chases the ball. He runs to where the ball is about to arrive. Like Mickey Mantle.”

  “You never saw Mantle play.”

  “I saw newsreels.”

  “The United States is close to four million square miles. That’s bigger than center field at Yankee Stadium.”

  “But not much,” Reacher said.

  “So where do we run to?”

  “Mahmoud isn’t dumb. In fact he strikes me as a very smart and cautious guy. He just spent sixty-five million dollars on what are basically just components. He must have insisted that part of the deal was that someone would show him how to screw the damn things together.”

  “Who?”

  “What did Neagley’s woman friend tell us? The politician? Diana Bond?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “She told us that New Age’s engineer does the quality control tests because so far he’s the only guy in the world who knows how Little Wing is supposed to work.”

  Dixon said, “And Lamaison had him on a string somehow.”

  “He was threatening the guy’s daughter.”

  O’Donnell said, “So Lamaison was going to pimp him out. Lamaison was going to take him somewhere. And you threw Lamaison out of the damn helicopter before you asked him.”

  Reacher shook his head. “Lamaison talked about the whole thing like it was firmly in the past. He said it was a done deal. There was something in his voice. Lamaison wasn’t taking anyone anywhere.”

  “So who?”

  “Not who,” Reacher said. “The question is, where?”

  Dixon said, “If there’s only one guy, and Lamaison wasn’t planning to take him somewhere, they’ll have to bring the missiles to him.”

  “Which is ridiculous,” O’Donnell said. “You can’t bring a semi full of missiles to a garden apartment in Century City or wherever.”

  “The guy doesn’t live in Century City,” Reacher said. “He lives way out in the desert. The middle of nowhere. The back of beyond. Where better to bring a semi full of missiles?”

  “Cell phones are up,” the pilot called.

  Reacher pulled out his Radio Shack pay-as-you-go. Found Neagley’s number. Hit the green button. She answered.

  “Dean’s place?” he asked.

  “Dean’s place,” she said. “For sure. I’m twenty minutes away.”

  83

  The Bell had GPS, but not the kind that drew a road map on a screen. Not like O’Donnell’s rental car. The Bell’s system produced a pair of always-changing latitude and longitude readings instead, pale green numbers, plain script. Reacher told the pilot to get himself somewhere south of Palmdale and wait. The pilot was nervous about fuel. Reacher told him to lose altitude. Helicopters sometimes survived engine failures at a few hundred feet. They rarely survived at a few thousand.

  Then Reacher called Neagley back. She had gotten Dean’s address from Margaret Berenson in the Pasadena hotel. But she had no GPS, either. She was adrift in the dark, behind two last-generation headlights made weaker by blue paint on the lenses. And cell coverage was patchy. Reacher lost her twice. Before he lost her a third time he told her to find Dean’s spread and drive in tight circles with her lights on bright.

  Reacher took Lamaison’s seat up front and pressed his forehead to the window the same way Lamaison had. Dixon and O’Donnell took side windows in back. Between them they covered a one-eighty panorama. Maybe more. For safety’s sake Reacher had the pilot turn wide circles once in a while, in case what they wanted was way behind them.

  They saw nothing.

  Nothing at all, except vast featureless blackness and occasional pinpoints of orange light. Gas stations maybe, or tiny parking lots outside small grocery stores. They saw occasional cars on lonely roads, but none of them was Neagley’s Civic. Yellow headlight beams, not blue. Reacher tried his phone again. No service.

  “Fuel’s really low,” the pilot said.

  “Highway on the left,” Dixon called.

  Reacher looked down. Not much of a highway. There were five cars on it within a linear mile, two heading south and three heading north. He closed his eyes and pictured the maps he had looked at.

  “We shouldn’t be seeing a north-south highway,” he said. “We’re too far west.”

  The Bell tilted and swung away east on a long fast curve and came level again.

  The pilot said, “I’m going to have to set down soon.”

  “You’ll set down when I tell you,” Reacher said.

  North of the mountains the air was better. Some dust, some heat shimmer, but basically it was clear to the horizon. Way far ahead in the distance a tiny grid of lights winked and twinkled. Palmdale, presumably. A nice place, Reacher had heard. Expanding. Desirable. Therefore expensive. Therefore a guy looking for acres and isolation and maximum bang for the buck would stay well away from it.

  “Turn south,” he said. “And climb.”

  “Climbing eats fuel,” the pilot said.

  “We need a better angle.”

  The Bell climbed, slowly, a couple of hundred feet. The pilot dropped the nose and turned a wide circle, like he was hosing the horizon with an imaginary searchlight.

  They saw nothing.

  There was no cell coverage.

  “Higher,” Reacher said.

  “Can’t do it,” the pilot said. “Look at the dial.”

  Reacher found the fuel gauge. The needle was riding the end stop. Officially the tanks were empty. He closed his eyes again and pictured the map. Berenson had said Dean had complained about the commute from hell. To Highland Park he had only two choices. Either Route 138 on the east flank of Mount San Antonio, or Route 2, to the west, past the Mount Wilson Observatory. Route 2 was probably smaller and twistier. And it joined the 210 at Glendale. Which probably made it more hellish than the eastern approach. No reason to choose it unless it was a total no-brainer. Which meant Dean was starting from somewhere due south of Palmdale, not east of south. Reacher looked straight ahead and waited until the distant grid of lights slid back into view.

  “Now pull a one-eighty and head back,” he said.

  “We’re out of fuel.”

  “Just do it.”

  The craft turned in its own length. Dipped its nose and clattered onward.

  Sixty seconds later they found Neagley.

  A mile in front and four hundred feet down they saw a cone of blue light turning and pulsing like a beacon. It looked like Neagley had the Civic on maximum lock and was driving a thirty-foot circle and flashing between dipped and brights as she went. The effect was spectacular. The beams swept and leapt and threw moving shadows and cleared a couple of hundred feet where there were no obstructions. Like a lighthouse on a rocky shore. There were small buttes and mesas and gullies, thrown into dramatic relief. To the north, low buildings. Power lines to the east. To the west the fractured land fell away into a shallow arroyo maybe forty feet wide and twenty deep.

  “Land there,” Reacher said. “In the ditch. And keep the wheels up.”

  The pilot said, “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way I want it.”

  The pilot drifted west a little and dropped a couple of hundred feet and turned to line up with the arroyo. Then he took the Bell down like an elevator. A siren went off to warn that he was landing with the undercarriage up. He ignored it and kept on going. He slowed twenty feet off the ground and eased on down and pancaked gently on the arroyo’s rocky bed. Stones crunched and metal grated and the fl
oor tipped a foot from horizontal. Out the windows Reacher could see Neagley’s lights coming toward them through a sandstorm kicked up by the rotor wash.

  Then the fuel ran out.

  The engines died and the rotor shuddered to a stop.

  The cabin went quiet.

  Reacher was first out the door. He batted his way through clouds of warm dust and sent Dixon and O’Donnell ahead to meet with Neagley and then turned back to the Bell. He opened the cockpit door and looked in at the pilot. The guy was still strapped to his seat. He was flicking the face of the fuel gauge with his fingernail.

  “Nice landing,” Reacher said. “You’re a good pilot.”

  The guy said, “Thanks.”

  “That thing with the rotation,” Reacher said. “The way it kept the door open up there. Smart move.”

  “Basic aerodynamics.”

  “But then, you had plenty of practice.”

  The pilot said nothing.

  “Four times,” Reacher said. “That I know about, at least.”

  The pilot said nothing.

  “Those men were my friends,” Reacher said.

  “Lamaison told me I had to do it.”

  “Or?”

  “I would lose my job.”

  “That’s all? You let them throw four live human beings out of your helicopter to save your job?”

  “I’m paid to follow instructions.”

  “You ever heard about a trial at Nuremberg? That excuse really doesn’t cut it anymore.”

  The pilot said, “It was wrong, I know.”

  “But you did it anyway.”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “Lots of choices,” Reacher said. Then he smiled. The pilot relaxed a little. Reacher shook his head like he was bemused by it all and leaned in and patted the guy on the cheek. Left his hand there, far side of the guy’s face, a friendly gesture. He worked his thumb up toward the guy’s eye socket, pressed his index finger on the guy’s temple, worked his other three fingers behind the guy’s ear, into his hair. Then he broke the guy’s neck, one-handed, with a single convulsive twist. Then he bounced the guy’s head around, front to back, side to side, to make sure the spinal cord was properly severed. He didn’t want the guy to wake up a paraplegic. He didn’t want the guy to wake up at all.

  He walked away and left him there, still strapped in his seat. Turned back after fifty feet and checked. A helicopter in a ditch, slightly tilted, wheels up, tanks empty. A crash. The pilot still on board, impact injuries, an unfortunate accident. Not perfect, but reasonable.

  Neagley had parked a hundred feet from the arroyo, which was about half the distance to Edward Dean’s front door. Her lights were still on bright. When Reacher got to the car he turned and looked back and checked again. The Bell was hidden pretty well. The crown of the rotor was visible, but only just. The blades themselves drooped out of sight under their own weight. The dust was settling. Neagley and Dixon and O’Donnell were standing together in a tight group of three.

  “We OK?” Reacher asked.

  Dixon and O’Donnell nodded. Neagley didn’t.

  “You mad with me?” Reacher asked her.

  “Not really,” she said. “I would have been if you’d screwed up.”

  “I needed you to work out where the missiles were headed.”

  “You already knew.”

  “I wanted a second opinion. And the address.”

  “Well, here we are. No missiles.”

  “They’re still in transit.”

  “We hope.”

  “Let’s go see Mr. Dean.”

  They piled into the tiny Civic and Neagley drove the hundred feet to Dean’s door. Dean opened up on the first knock. Clearly he had been rousted by the helicopter drone and the flashing lights. He didn’t look much like a rocket scientist. More like a coach at a third-rate high school. He was tall and loose-limbed and had a shock of sandy hair. He was maybe forty years old. He was barefoot and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Night attire. It was close to midnight.

  “Who are you people?” he asked.

  Reacher explained who they were, and why they were there.

  Dean had no idea what he was talking about.

  84

  Reacher had been expecting some kind of a denial. Lamaison had warned Berenson to stay quiet, and clearly he would have done the same or more with Dean. But Dean’s denial seemed genuine. The guy was puzzled, not evasive.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Reacher said. “We know what you did with the electronics packs, and we know why you had to do it.”

  Suddenly there was something in Dean’s face. Just like with Margaret Berenson.

  Reacher said, “We know about the threat against your daughter.”

  “What threat?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Away. Her mother, too.”

  “School’s not out.”

  “An urgent family matter.”

  Reacher nodded. “You sent them away. That was smart. “

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Reacher said, “Lamaison is dead.”

  There was a flash of hope in Dean’s eyes, just for a split second, hard to see in the darkness.

  “I threw him out of the helicopter,” Reacher said.

  Dean said nothing.

  “You like bird watching? Wait a day and drive a mile or two south and get up on the roof of your car. Two buzzards circling, it’s probably a snake-bit coyote. More than two, it’s Lamaison. Or Parker, or Lennox. They’re all out there somewhere.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Reacher said, “Show him, Karla.”

  Dixon pulled out the wallet she had taken from Lamaison’s pocket. Dean took it from her and turned to the light burning in his hallway. He spilled the contents into his palm and shuffled through them. Lamaison’s driver’s license, his credit cards, a New Age photo ID, his Social Security card.

  “Lamaison is dead,” Reacher said again.

  Dean put the stuff back in the wallet and handed it back to Dixon.

  “You got his wallet,” he said. “Doesn’t prove you got him.”

  “I can show you the pilot,” Reacher said. “He’s dead, too.”

  “He just landed.”

  “I just killed him.”

  “You’re crazy.”