No Plan B

The light from Jed’s new knowledge didn’t just spill back toward his past. It also shone forward, showing him what he needed to do. And where he needed to go. Which was away from his foster home, for a start. Then away from California altogether.

Jed took two days to plan. To do his research. To build up his courage. Which explained why, at the same time Reacher stepped into the alley in Gerrardsville, Colorado, Jed was standing in front of a dresser in his foster parents’ bedroom. The top drawer was open. His foster mother’s tired, stretched underwear was pushed to one side. The wad of twenty-dollar bills was exposed. And Jed was in a quandary. He needed the money. Badly. But he didn’t want to steal it. He was desperate not to break the law. So he was trying to convince himself that taking it wouldn’t count as stealing. Not if the money was already stolen. Which in a way, he figured it was. It had been provided by the state to pay for his food and shelter. His, and the other three foster kids he lived with. And yet the cash was there, unspent, while they wore clothes that were too small and went to bed hungry each night.

The bottom line was that Jed didn’t want to commit a crime. But neither did he want to starve. Or have to hitch a ride across more than half the country. Because regardless of what he wanted, three things were certain. He had a long way to go. Not much time to get there. And he could not afford to be late.

Chapter 8

Reacher’s ears were ringing when he came around. There was a sharp pain in his head. The weight of the metal on his chest made it hard to breathe. It took him a moment to figure out what was pinning him to the ground. Then another five minutes of shoving and heaving and scrabbling before he was able to wriggle free.

A small crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley. Reacher recognized some of the people. They had been gawping at the bus after it crushed Angela St. Vrain. The excitement out there must have died down. They must have gambled that the action in the alley would be more interesting. They were certainly more interested in watching than getting involved. It was only when Reacher had almost extracted himself that a couple of the younger men stepped forward and tried to take his arms.

Reacher pushed them away.

One of them said, “You OK, buddy?”

Reacher said nothing.

“Because we thought we heard gunshots.” The guy shrugged. “Guess it must have been the metal breaking.”

Reacher took several deep gulps of air while he waited for the crowd to disperse then got busy checking the alley around him. There were tire marks on the pavement. Paint transfer in a couple of spots on the walls. A big dent in the nearest dumpster. A scattering of broken glass here and there. But no gun. No guys in hoodies. No car. No trash bag. No purse. And no envelope.

—

The emergency services were out in force by the time Reacher made his way back to the street. The traffic in all directions had been stopped by four pairs of patrol cars, formed up in Vs with their light bars popping and flashing. A tent had been set up over the area at the side of the bus where Angela St. Vrain’s body had been. More to protect the scene from TV crews in helicopters and journalists with long lenses than the weather, Reacher thought. It’s not like there was any great mystery about what killed the woman. The who was a different story, though. And so was the why.

Reacher saw four uniformed officers canvassing the last stragglers in the crowd. He kept on looking until he spotted a guy in a suit emerge from the far side of the bus. The guy was wearing nitrile gloves and he had a small black notebook in his left hand. Reacher thought it said something about the level of crime in the town if they sent a detective to what would seem like a routine traffic accident in many places. He wasn’t complaining, though. It saved him the time it would take to find the station house.

Reacher figured the detective would be in his early thirties. He looked to be six feet even and was clearly in good shape. His hair was buzzed short. His suit pants had a razor-sharp crease down the front and back. His shirt was freshly ironed. His tie was neatly knotted. And his shoes gleamed like mirrors.

The guy felt Reacher looking at him so he walked over and held out his hand. “Detective Harewood. Can I help you?”

Reacher laid out what he had seen at the intersection and what had happened subsequently in the alley. He took it slow and broke the information into manageable chunks. Harewood wrote it all down in his book. He didn’t skip anything. He didn’t summarize. And he didn’t waste any time with undue questions about Reacher’s address or occupation.