Hostage

“Be careful,” Retro said. “Your body might not be used to anything this healthy.”

Vaughan smiled. “Actually, I’ve been making a conscious effort to eat better,” she said.

“Good for you. How’s the foot?”

“It still hurts. And the doctor said I shouldn’t put any weight on it right now, which is kind of driving me nuts.”

“Give it time,” Retro said. “It’s only been a few days.”

After stopping for something to eat on the way back from Despair, Vaughan had spent several hours in the emergency room, and had gone home with stitches and a bandage and a special boot and a pair of crutches. She could still drive a car, but Commander Bailey had put her on desk duty until her foot healed completely.

Which was also driving her nuts.

She lowered her sunglasses, turned around and looked toward a section of wooden fencing at the back of the lot.

“Ever get the feeling someone’s watching you?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. So what are you planning to do down there in Florida?”

“As little as possible,” Retro said.

“You’re only forty-two. I’m having a hard time imagining you on a porch in a rocking chair.”

“I’ll send pictures. Better yet, you can come and visit sometime.”

“I would like that,” Vaughan said.

“I’m sure I’ll get bored with tennis and fishing and long walks on the beach after a while. I might get a private investigator’s license and go into business for myself. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

Vaughan nodded, took a sip of her lemonade.

They sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, and Vaughan started thinking about the message she’d received from the FBI yesterday-about their efforts to trace the origin of the incoming calls to Sozinho’s cell phone. Apparently some of the calls had been intercepted and redirected from Vaughan’s home phone, the landline at her house.

Which was probably how Jack Reacher had managed to connect-if it was really him who’d called. When he heard the news that she was missing, he’d called her home phone, just like Sozinho and the man in the black leather jacket figured he would.

That was the theory, anyway.

So far, the FBI had failed to trace any of the calls any further than Vaughan’s house, so they still didn’t know where the man in the black leather jacket was operating from or exactly how everything had transpired.

And maybe they never would.

Vaughan was thinking about all that when Commander Bailey walked over with a distressed expression on his face, incongruent with the apron and chef’s hat he was wearing.

Something was wrong.

“We forgot to buy buns for the hot dogs,” he said.

Retro laughed. “I’ll make a quick trip to the store,” he said.

“You stay here,” Vaughan said. “I’ll go.”

They tried to talk her out of it, because of her foot, but she insisted. It was Retro’s party, so he shouldn’t have to leave to run an errand, and everyone else was busy cooking or chopping vegetables or playing horseshoes. Anyway, it was about time for Vaughan to apply some more sunscreen-another lifestyle change to go along with the healthy new diet-and she had left her bottle of lotion in her car.

Retro helped her up. She grabbed her crutches and navigated past the food tables and through the back door of the stationhouse.

There was a long hallway with offices on both sides. It doglegged to the right, past the front desk, and then there was a double set of doors that led to the sidewalk. Vaughan nodded to the officer on duty as she pushed her way outside.

Her car was parked at the curb, just a few feet away. As she made her way toward it, she saw a very large man walking at a steady pace on the other side of the street. He was heading east, away from the station, maybe a hundred feet from where Vaughan was standing. He wore a sturdy set of clothes that might have been purchased from a sporting goods outlet, or even a hardware store.

Reacher?

Vaughan wanted to run to him, but she couldn’t.

She was on crutches.

Anyway, it probably wasn’t him.

But maybe it was.

Thinking she would start the car and drive by and get a look at his face, she reached into her pocket for her keys, realizing immediately that she had left them in her purse under the lounge chair.

“Hey,” she shouted.

But the man didn’t respond.

He kept walking, and then he turned and disappeared around the corner.

Jude Hardin

Jude has worked as a fence installer, pizza delivery man, convenience store clerk, freelance journalist, film extra, professional drummer, bartender, avionics technician, carpet cleaner, chemical plant supervisor, substitute teacher, and registered nurse. His varied vocations have given him a wealth of experiences for his true passion – writing novels.Jude graduated from the University of Louisville in 1983 with an English degree, and currently lives and works in northeast Florida. When he’s not pounding away at the computer keyboard, Jude can be found pounding away on his drums, playing tennis, reading, or down at the pond fishing with his son.

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