Worth Dying For (6 page)

ELEVEN

J
ASPER
D
UNCAN
TOOK A PART-USED BOTTLE OF
K
NOB
C
REEK
whiskey from his kitchen cabinet and stuck three gnarled fingers and a blunt thumb in four chipped glasses. He put them on the table and pulled the cork from the bottle and poured four generous measures. He slid the glasses across the scarred wood, a little ceremony, focused and precise. He sat down again and each man took an initial sip, and then the four glasses went back to the table, a ragged little volley of four separate thumps in the quiet of the night.

Jacob Duncan said, ‘From the beginning, son.’

Seth Duncan said, ‘I’m dealing with it.’

‘But not very well, by the sound of it.’

‘He’s my customer.’

Jacob shook his head. ‘He was your contact, back in the day, but we’re a family. We do everything together, and nothing apart. There’s no such thing as a side deal.’

‘We were leaving money on the table.’

‘You don’t need to go over ancient history. You found a guy willing to pay more for the same merchandise, and we surely appreciate that. But rewards bring risks. There’s no such thing as something for nothing. No free lunch. So what happened?’

‘We’re a week late.’

‘We aren’t. We don’t specify dates.’

Seth Duncan said nothing.

Jacob said, ‘What? You guaranteed a date?’

Seth Duncan nodded.

Jacob said, ‘That was dumb, son. We never specify dates. You know we can’t afford to. There are a hundred factors outside of our control. The weather, for one.’

‘I used a worst-case analysis.’

‘You think too much. There’s always something worse than the worst. Count on it. So what happened?’

‘Two guys showed up. At my house. Two days ago. His people. Tough guys.’

‘Where was Brett?’

‘I had to tell him I was expecting them.’

‘Were you?’

‘More or less.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘Because I’m dealing with it.’

‘Not very well, son. Apparently. What did they do?’

‘They said they were there to deliver a message from their boss. An expression of displeasure. I said I understood. I explained. I apologized. They said that wasn’t good enough. They said they had been told to leave marks. I said they couldn’t. I said I have to be out and about. I have a business to run. So they hit Eleanor instead. To make their point.’

‘Just like that?’

‘They asked first. They made me agree. They made her agree, too. They made me hold her. They took turns. I told her sorry afterwards. She said, what’s the difference? Them then or you later? Because she knew I was agitated.’

‘And then what?’

‘I asked for another week. They gave me forty-eight hours.’

‘So they came back again? Tonight?’

‘Yes. They did it all over again.’

‘So who was the guy in the restaurant? One of them?’

‘No, he wasn’t one of them. I told you, I never saw him before.’

Jonas Duncan said, ‘He was a passer-by. Like we figured. From what he said at the time, to the boy. A passer-by full of the wrong end of the stick on this occasion.’

Jacob said, ‘Well, at least
he’s
out of our hair.’

Then they heard faint sounds outside. Tyres on gravel. A vehicle, on their driveway. It came slow, whining in a low gear. It seemed to stop halfway. The engine kept on running. There was a pause, and then a ragged thump, dull, percussive, somehow mixed with the sound of breath expelled, and then another pause, and another sound. Then the vehicle drove away, faster this time, with acceleration and gear changes, and the world went quiet again.

Jonas Duncan was first out the door. From fifty yards he could see strange humped shapes in the moonlight. From twenty he saw what they were. From five he saw what condition they were in. He said, ‘Not out of our hair. Not exactly. Not yet.’

Jacob Duncan said, ‘Who the hell
is
this guy?’

Seth Duncan and his uncle Jasper didn’t speak.

Reacher parked the pick-up truck next to the wrecked Subaru and found the motel owner waiting at his door. Mr Vincent. His hair looked black in the light.

‘Changing the locks?’ Reacher asked him.

The guy said, ‘I hope I won’t have to.’

‘But?’

‘I can’t let you stay here.’

Reacher said, ‘I paid thirty dollars.’

‘I’ll refund it, of course.’

‘That’s not the point. A deal is a deal. I didn’t damage anything.’

Vincent said nothing.

Reacher said, ‘They already know I’m here. Where else could I be?’

‘It was OK before.’

‘Before what?’

‘Before they told me not to let you stay here. Ignorance of the law is no offence. But I can’t defy them now. Not after they informed me.’

‘When did they inform you?’

‘Two minutes ago. By phone.’

‘You always do what they tell you?’

Vincent didn’t answer.

‘Dumb question, I suppose,’ Reacher said.

‘I’d lose everything I’ve worked for. And my family before me. All those years.’

‘Since 1969?’ Reacher asked.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Just a lucky guess. The moon landing and all. The Apollo programme.’

‘Do you remember 1969?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘I loved it. So many things were going on. I don’t know what happened afterwards. It really seemed like the start of a new era.’

‘It was,’ Reacher said. ‘Just not the era you expected.’

‘I’m sorry about this.’

‘You going to offer to drive me down to the Interstate now?’

‘I can’t do that either. We’re not supposed to help you in any way at all.’

‘We?’

‘Any of us. They’re putting the word out.’

‘Well, I seem to have inherited a truck,’ Reacher said. ‘I can drive myself.’

‘Don’t,’ Vincent said. ‘They’ll report it stolen. The county police will stop you. You won’t get halfway there.’

‘The Duncans control the cops too?’

‘No, not really. But a stolen truck is a stolen truck, isn’t it?’

‘They
want
me to stay here?’

‘They do now. You started a war. They want to finish it.’

TWELVE

R
EACHER STOOD IN THE COLD BETWEEN THE TRUCK AND THE
motel cabin and looked all around. There was nothing much to see. The blue glow of the neon reached only as far as the dead Subaru, and then it faded away. Overhead was a moon and a billion chilly stars.

Reacher said, ‘You still got coffee in the pot?’

Vincent said, ‘I can’t serve you.’

‘I won’t rat you out.’

‘They might be watching.’

‘They’re driving two guys sixty miles to the hospital.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘This is the last place they’ll look. They told you to move me on. They’ll assume you obeyed.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll move on, to spare you the embarrassment. You can keep the thirty bucks, because this isn’t your fault. In return I want a cup of coffee and some answers.’

*     *     *

The lounge was dark, except for a lone work light behind the bar. No more soft reds and pinks. Just a harsh fluorescent tube, with a pronounced flicker and a green colour cast and a noisy component. The music was off and the room was silent, apart from the buzz of the light and the rush of air in the heating system. Vincent filled the Bunn machine with water and spooned ground coffee from a can the size of a drum into a paper filter the size of a hat. He set it going and Reacher listened to the water gulping and hissing and watched the precious brown liquid streaming down into the flask.

Reacher said, ‘Start at the beginning.’

Vincent said, ‘The beginning is a long time ago.’

‘It always is.’

‘They’re an old family.’

‘They always are.’

‘The first one I knew was old man Duncan. He was a farmer, from a long line of farmers. I guess the first one came here on a land grant. Maybe after the Civil War. They grew corn and beans and built up a big acreage. The old man inherited it all. He had three sons, Jacob, Jasper, and Jonas. It was an open secret that the boys hated farming. But they kept the place going until the old man died. So as not to break his heart. Then they sold up. They went into the trucking business. Much less work. They split up their place and sold it off to their neighbours. Which made sense all around. What was a big spread back in the days of horses and mules wasn’t so big any more, with tractors and all, and economies of scale. Land prices were high back then, but the boys sweetened the deals. They gave discounts, if their neighbours signed up to use Duncan Transportation to haul away their harvests. Which again made sense all around. Everyone was getting what they wanted. Everyone was happy.’

‘Until?’

‘Things went sour kind of slowly. There was a dispute with one of the neighbours. Ancient history now. This was twenty-five years ago, probably. But it was an acrimonious situation. It festered all one summer, and then that guy didn’t get his crop hauled away. The Duncans just wouldn’t do it. It rotted on the ground. The guy didn’t get paid that year.’

‘He couldn’t find someone else to haul it?’

‘By then the Duncans had the county all sewn up. Not worth it for some other outfit to come all the way here just for one load.’

‘The guy couldn’t haul it himself?’

‘They had all sold their trucks. No need for them, as far as they could see, because of the contracts, and they needed the money for mortgages anyway.’

‘The guy could have rented. One time only.’

‘He wouldn’t have gotten out of his gate. The fine print said only a Duncan truck could haul anything off a farm. No way to contest it, not in court, and definitely not on the ground, because the football players were on the scene by then. The first generation. They must be old men themselves by now.’

‘Total control,’ Reacher said.

Vincent nodded.

‘And very simple,’ he said. ‘You can work all year, but you need your harvest trucked away, or it’s the same thing as sitting on your butt and growing nothing. Farmers live season to season. They can’t afford to lose a whole crop. The Duncans found the perfect pinch-point. Whether by accident or design, I don’t really know. But as soon as they realized what they had, they sure started enjoying it.’

‘How?’

‘Nothing real bad. People pay a little over the odds, and they mind their manners. That’s about all, really.’

‘You too, right?’

Vincent nodded again. ‘This place needed some fixing, ten years ago. The Duncans loaned me the money, interest free, if I signed up with them for my deliveries.’

‘And you’re still paying.’

‘We’re all still paying.’

‘Why sit still and take it?’

‘You want a revolution? That’s not going to happen. People have got to eat. And the Duncans are smart. No one thing is really that bad. You understand?’

‘Like a frog in warm water,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s how the doctor’s wife described it to me.’

‘That’s how we all describe it.’

‘You still get boiled to death in the end.’

‘Long time coming.’ Vincent turned away and filled a mug with coffee. Another NASA logo. He pushed it across the bar. He said, ‘My mother was related to Neil Armstrong. The first man on the moon. Fifteenth cousin or something.’

Reacher sniffed the steam and tried the coffee. It was excellent. It was fresh, hot, and strong. Vincent said, ‘President Nixon had a speech prepared, you know, just in case they got stuck up there. In case they couldn’t lift off the surface. Can you imagine? Just sitting there, looking up at Earth in the sky, waiting for the air to run out?’

Reacher said, ‘Aren’t there laws? Monopolies, or restraint of trade or something?’

Vincent said, ‘Going to a lawyer is the same thing as going bankrupt. A lawsuit takes what? Two, three years? Two or three years without your crop getting hauled is suicide. And have you ever worked on a farm? Or run a motel? Believe me, at the end of the day you don’t feel like cracking the law books. You feel like getting some sleep.’

Reacher said, ‘Wrecking the doctor’s car wasn’t a small thing.’

Vincent said, ‘I agree. It was worse than usual. We’re all a little unsettled by that.’

‘All?’

‘We all talk to each other. There’s a phone tree. You know, for when something happens. We share information.’

‘And what are people saying?’

‘The feeling is maybe the doctor deserved it. He was way out of line.’

‘For treating his patient?’

‘She wasn’t sick. It was an intervention.’

‘I think you’re all sick,’ Reacher said. ‘I think you’re all a bunch of spineless cowards. How hard would it be to do something? One guy on his own, I agree, that’s difficult. But if everyone banded together and called another trucker, they’d come. Why wouldn’t they? If there’s enough business here for the Duncans, there’s enough for someone else.’

‘The Duncans might sue.’

‘Let them. Then they’ve got three years of legal bills and no income. The shoe would be on the other foot.’

‘I don’t think another trucker would take the business. They carve things up. They don’t poach, in a place like this.’

‘You could try.’

Vincent didn’t answer.

‘Whatever,’ Reacher said. ‘I really don’t care who gets an ear of corn hauled away, or how, or if, or when. Or a bushel of beans. Or a peck or a quart or however the hell you measure beans. You can sort it out for yourselves. Or not. It’s up to you. I’m on my way to Virginia.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ Vincent said. ‘Not here. People have been scared so long they can’t even remember what it’s like not to be scared any more.’

Reacher said nothing.

Vincent asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

Reacher said, ‘That depends on the Duncans. Plan A is to hitch a ride out of here. But if they want a war, then plan B is to win it. I’ll keep on dumping football players on their driveway until they got none left. Then I’ll walk on up and pay them a visit. Their choice.’

‘Stick to plan A. Just go. That’s my advice.’

‘Show me some traffic and I might.’

‘I need something from you.’

‘Like what?’

‘Your room key. I’m sorry.’

Reacher dug it out of his pocket and placed it on the bar. A big brass item, marked with a figure six.

Vincent said, ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’

‘Better that you don’t know,’ Reacher said. ‘The Duncans might ask you. And you’d tell them, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d have to,’ Vincent said.

*     *     *

There was no more conversation. Reacher finished his coffee and walked out of the lounge, back to the truck. The winch cable had bent the light bar on the roof, so that from the front the whole thing looked a little cross-eyed. But the key turned and the engine started. Reacher drove out of the motel lot. If in doubt, turn left, was his motto. So he headed south, rolling slow, lights off, letting his eyes adjust to the night-time gloom, looking for a direction to follow.