Blue Moon

The reports came in fast, but not fast enough. One after the other the members of the inner council got hurried calls on their cell phones. An old white Toyota Corolla with a half-off front fender had been seen driving one block, then another, then another. No rhyme or reason in terms of direction. No obvious destination. Generally it seemed to be headed toward the tumbledown neighborhoods where not even homeless people lived.

Then came the paydirt call. A reliable guy a hundred yards away saw the car slow, stop, and park. Two people got out. The driver was a small woman with short dark hair. In her twenties or thirties, and dressed all in black. Her passenger was a huge guy, about twice her size. He was older, easily six-five and two-fifty, built like a brick outhouse, and dressed like a refugee. They locked the car and walked away together, and were lost to sight very quickly, after the first corner they turned.

All that information was shared immediately, by calls and voicemails and texts. Fast, but not fast enough. The message got to the guy at the lumber yard gate about ninety seconds after a small dark-haired woman and a huge ugly guy had walked right past. Close enough to touch. More minutes were spent getting cars together, and then they streamed away in the direction the couple had been walking.

No result. The small woman and the big man were long gone. They had disappeared somewhere in a crowded residential neighborhood, maybe ten blocks by ten of shabby row houses packed tightly together. Maybe four hundred separate addresses. Plus basements and sublets. Full of deadbeats and weirdoes, who either came and went at all hours, or never went out at all. Hopeless.

The top boys put a new word out. All eyes open. A small dark-haired woman, younger, and a big ugly guy, older. Report back immediately.

Chapter 23

Neither Barton nor Hogan had a gig that night, so they closed down their jam when Reacher and Abby got back, and proposed a chill evening in, maybe with Chinese delivery, maybe a bottle of wine, maybe a little weed, some conversation, some stories, some catch-up. Maybe put some records on. All good, until Abby’s cell phone rang.

It was Maria Shevick, calling from Aaron Shevick’s phone. She and Abby had exchanged numbers. Just in case. And this felt like a just-in-case situation. Maria said a black Lincoln Town Car was parked outside her house. Two guys in it, watching. They had been there all afternoon. They looked like they were set to stay.

Abby passed her phone to Reacher.

He said, “They’re looking for me. Because I mentioned Trulenko. They got worried. Just ignore them.”

Maria asked, “Suppose they knock on the door?”

Seventy, stooped, and starving.

He said, “Let them search the house. Show them whatever they want to look at. They’ll see I’m not there, and they’ll go back to their car, and after that all they’ll need to do is watch the sidewalk. Should be relatively painless.”

“Very well.”

“Any news on Meg?”

“Good and bad,” Maria said.

“Start with the good,” Reacher said.

“I think for the first time the doctors truly believe she’s improving. I can hear it in their voices. Not what they say, but the way they say it. Their words are always circumspect. But now they’re excited. They think they’re winning. I can tell.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“They’ll want to confirm it with tests and scans. Which we’ll have to pay for first.”

“How much?”

“We don’t know yet. A lot, I’m sure. They have amazing machines now. There have been dramatic advances in soft tissue analysis. It’s all very expensive.”

“When will they need it?”

“Obviously half of me wants it to be as soon as possible. And obviously the other half doesn’t.”

“You should do what is right medically. We’ll figure out the rest as we go along.”

“We can’t borrow it,” Maria said. “You would have to do it for us, because they think you’re Aaron Shevick. But now, for you, that would be a trap. Because you asked about Trulenko.”

“Aaron could borrow it under my name. Or any name. They’re new at this game. They have no system for checking. Not yet, anyway. It’s an option. If you need it fast.”

“You said you could find Trulenko. You said it used to be part of your job.”

“The question is when,” Reacher said. “I figured I had six chances before the week is over. Now maybe not so many. I need to work on a faster plan.”

“I apologize for my tone.”

“No need,” Reacher said.

“This is all very stressful.”

“I can only imagine,” Reacher said.

They hung up and Reacher passed the phone back to Abby.

Barton said, “This is crazy, man. I’m going to keep on saying it, because it’s going to keep on being true. I know those people. I play their clubs. I’ve seen what they do. One time, there was a piano player they didn’t like. They smashed his fingers with a hammer. The guy never played again. You can’t take them on.”

Reacher looked at Hogan and asked, “Do you play their clubs?”

“I’m a drummer,” Hogan said. “I play anywhere they pay me.”

“Have you seen what they do?”