Part 46 (1/2)

After thirty of the ninety feet Reacher had a Smith & Wesson out of his pocket. After sixty he had its muzzle jammed hard in Holland's ear. Before they hit he had his left hand hooked over Holland's seat back, his arm rigid, his shoulder locked. The front end of the car punched straight through the wooden siding. The airbags exploded. The winds.h.i.+eld shattered. The front wheels kicked up on the hut floor and the whole car went airborne. The front b.u.mper hit a bed frame and smacked it like a cue ball and drove it into the paraffin stove. The stove tore out from under its pipe connection and clanged away like a barrel and the car fell to earth and ploughed on and hit the bed again and smashed it into the next bed across the aisle. The header rail above the winds.h.i.+eld hit the unmoored stovepipe and bent it with a shriek and its raw end sc.r.a.ped the length of the car's roof and then the car was all the way inside the hut, still moving fast, the chains on the back thras.h.i.+ng and grinding across the wooden floor. Reacher kicked Holland in the knee and forced his foot off the gas. The car crushed beds two deep against the far wall and punched out the other side into the moonlight and landed hard and came to rest nose down half in and half out of the hut in a tangle of bent iron frames and tumbling plywood sheets. Both headlights were out and there was all kinds of grinding and rattling coming from under the hood. There was hissing and wheezing and ticking from stressed components. There was dust and splinters all around and frigid air was pouring in through the shattered front gla.s.s like liquid.

The Smith's muzzle was still hard in Holland's ear.

Reacher was still upright in his seat, still braced easily against the back of Holland's chair. The pa.s.senger airbag had inflated against his squared shoulder, and then it had collapsed again.

He said, 'I told you, Holland, you can't compete.'

Holland didn't answer.

Reacher said, 'You damaged the car. How am I going to get back to town?'

Holland asked, 'What are you going to do with me?'

Reacher said, 'Let's take a walk. Keep your hands where I can see them.'

I'll have plenty of time to read, Janet Salter had said, after all this fuss is over after all this fuss is over.

You reap what you sow.

They climbed out of the wrecked car into the cold and the wind and stepped away into the narrow lane that separated the first row of huts from the second. Holland walked ahead and Reacher followed ten feet behind with the old .38 six-shooter held low and easy. It was the one Janet Salter had cradled through so many hours.

Reacher said, 'Tell me about Plato.'

Holland stopped and turned around and said, 'I never met him. It was all on the phone, or through the bikers.'

'Is he as bad as he sounds?'

'Worse.'

'What's supposed to happen tonight?'

'Like you figured. He's going to take the jewellery out and steal back some of the meth.'

'And you were supposed to help?'

'I was supposed to be here, yes. I have some equipment for him, and the key to the door.'

'OK,' Reacher said. Then he raised the .38 and pulled the trigger and shot Holland between the eyes. The gun kicked gently in his hand and the sound was the same as a 158-grain .38 always was outdoors in quiet cold air, a fractured spitting crack crack that rolled away across the flat land and faded fast, because it had nothing to bounce back from. Holland went down with a loud rustle of heavy nylon and the stiffness of his coat pitched him half sideways and left him lying on one shoulder with his face turned up to the moon. Thirty-eight hundredths of an inch was mathematically a little larger than nine millimetres, so the third eye in his forehead was a little larger than Janet Salter's had been, but his face was a little larger too, so overall the effect was proportional. that rolled away across the flat land and faded fast, because it had nothing to bounce back from. Holland went down with a loud rustle of heavy nylon and the stiffness of his coat pitched him half sideways and left him lying on one shoulder with his face turned up to the moon. Thirty-eight hundredths of an inch was mathematically a little larger than nine millimetres, so the third eye in his forehead was a little larger than Janet Salter's had been, but his face was a little larger too, so overall the effect was proportional.

Chief Thomas Holland, RIP.

His body settled and his blood leaked out and his cell phone started ringing in his pocket.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

REACHER GOT TO THE PHONE BY THE THIRD RING. IT WAS IN Holland's parka, in a chest pocket. It was faintly warm. Reacher hit the green b.u.t.ton and raised it to his ear and said, 'Yes?' Holland's parka, in a chest pocket. It was faintly warm. Reacher hit the green b.u.t.ton and raised it to his ear and said, 'Yes?'

'Holland?' Practically a yell. A bad connection, very loud background noise, a Spanish accent, nasal and not deep.

A small man.

Plato.

Reacher didn't answer.

'Holland?'

Reacher said, 'Yes.'

'We're fifteen minutes out. We need the landing lights.'

Then the phone went dead.

We? How many? How many? Landing lights? Landing lights? What landing lights? Reacher stood still for a second. He had seen no electricity supply out to the runway. No humped gla.s.s lenses along its length. It was just a flat slab of concrete. It was possible the Crown Vic's headlights were supposed to do the job, in which case Plato was s.h.i.+t out of luck, because the Crown Vic's headlights were both busted. But then, headlights couldn't stretch two miles. Not even halogen, not even on bright. What landing lights? Reacher stood still for a second. He had seen no electricity supply out to the runway. No humped gla.s.s lenses along its length. It was just a flat slab of concrete. It was possible the Crown Vic's headlights were supposed to do the job, in which case Plato was s.h.i.+t out of luck, because the Crown Vic's headlights were both busted. But then, headlights couldn't stretch two miles. Not even halogen, not even on bright.

Fifteen minutes.

Now fourteen and change.

Reacher put the phone in his own pocket and then checked through the rest of Holland's pockets. Found the T-shaped key to the stone building's door, and a scuffed old Glock 17. The throw-down pistol. There were fourteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.

His round.

He put the key and the Glock in his pocket and took another Glock out of Holland's holster. His official piece. It was newer. Fully loaded. He put his gloves back on and bunched Holland's s.h.i.+rt collar and jacket collar and parka collar all together in his fist and dragged the body to the nearest hut and all the way inside. Left it dumped in the centre of the floor. Then he hustled back to the car.

Thirteen minutes and change.

The car was canted down at the front, half in and half out of the hut. He squeezed along its flank and in through the hole in the shattered wall and stood where the stove had been and opened the trunk.

All kinds of stuff in there. But three basic categories: normal car stuff where the Ford Motor Company had planned it to be, regular cop gear neatly stowed in plastic trays, and then other things thrown in on top of everything else. In the first category: a spare tyre and a scissor jack. In the second category: a fluorescent traffic jacket, four red road flares, three nested traffic cones, a first-aid kit, a green tackle box for small items, two tarps, three rolls of crime scene tape, a bag of white rags, a lockbox for a handgun. In the third category: a long coil of greasy rope, an engine hoist with pulleys and tripod legs, unopened boxes of big heavy-duty garbage bags.

Nothing even remotely resembling a landing light.

Twelve minutes and change.

He pictured the scene from a pilot's point of view. An airliner, a Boeing 737, descending, on approach, dim blue-grey moonlit tundra ahead and below. Visible to some degree, but uniform, and featureless. The guy would have GPS navigation, but he would need help from the ground. That was clear. But he wouldn't be expecting any kind of mainstream FAA-approved bulls.h.i.+t. That was clear, too. Nothing was going to be done by the book.

What would he need?

Something improvised, obviously.