Jed Starmer was sitting at the side of the road. The messenger’s bike was lying on the shoulder, to his left, where it had fallen after he jumped off.
Jed stared at the bike and sighed. He hadn’t really jumped off. He had intended to. He had tried to. But his legs weren’t working the way they usually did. So he had pretty much fallen off, if he was honest. Staggered, maybe, or stumbled, if he wanted to put a positive spin on it.
The thing he couldn’t put a positive spin on lay to his right. The mountain. Or really, the hill. Or the slope. He had used the minutes he’d been sitting there to rein in his imagination. He wasn’t facing Mount Everest. Or the Eiger. Or Kilimanjaro. The rise was probably no more than a hundred feet. But whether it was a hundred or thirty thousand it made no difference. There was no way Jed could ride up it. He wouldn’t even be able to push the bike to the top, the way his legs were shaking. He would just have to sit where he was. Probably for the rest of his life, since no one was going to come and help him.
Reacher figured that the prison was Winson’s equivalent of a portrait in the attic. It was ugly. Unattractive. Hidden away to the west of the town. If it was any farther away it would be in the river. But it was what kept the town alive. What made it vibrant. That was clear. There was no other industry to speak of. No other sources of employment. Nothing else to keep the local bakers and launderettes and plumbers and electricians busy on any kind of substantial scale.
The prison’s site was shaped like a D. The curved side was formed by the riverbank. Beyond it was a seventy-foot drop straight into deep, dirty, fast-flowing water. A fence ran ten feet back from the edge. It had two layers. They were twenty feet high with rolls of razor wire strung along the top. There were floodlights on stout metal poles. And cameras in protective cages. There was a fifteen-foot gap between layers, and another fence ran along the center line. It was ten feet high, and it had no wire.
The fences continued in the same way along the straight side of the site. The side facing the town. There were four watchtowers level with the outer layer of wire. And three entrances. One was in the center. It led into a building. It was a single story, built of brick, with double doors, which were closed, and a video intercom on the doorframe. That would be the visitors’ entrance, Reacher thought. The staff probably used it, too. The other entrances were at the far ends. They had full height gates rather than doors. And no signs. One was probably used for supplies. The other would be for shipping in fresh inmates.
Inside the fence, on the river side of the site, there were five buildings in a line. They were shaped like Xs. Reacher guessed they would be the cell blocks. The rest of the space was filled with twelve other buildings and three exercise areas. The buildings were all different sizes. They were plain and utilitarian. They could have been factories or warehouses if it wasn’t for the razor wire and watchtowers that surrounded them. The exercise areas were all the same size, but they were physically separate. Presumably to keep the different categories of prisoners isolated in their own allocated spaces.
The buildings and exercise areas were joined by walkways. The walls and roofs were made of wire mesh. Even from a distance Reacher could see it was thick. Substantial. Anyone would need serious tools to stand a chance of getting through it. Outside, around the buildings and between the walkways, there were some patches of grass. A surprising number, Reacher thought, for such a grim institution. There were squares. Rectangles. Ovals. And twenty feet from the base of each watchtower there was a brick-lined triangle.
The grass was well cared for. It was trimmed short. Edged neatly. And probably fed or fertilized, given the way its deep green stood out against the pale walls of the buildings and the gray blur of the wire mesh. The only other structure inside the fence was newer. It was V-shaped and shoehorned in behind the security building. It was styled like some kind of corporate headquarters and there was a three-dimensional Minerva logo on a plinth, rotating, out front. Reacher figured if any prisoners got loose that would be the first thing to get destroyed.
He said, “Did you read anything about riots happening here recently?”
Hannah said, “Nothing official. But on one of the message boards a woman was complaining about her husband getting hurt by a guard. It was during a brawl in the exercise yard. Thirty or forty guys were involved but her husband was the only one the guard laid into. She complained, and got told her husband had been trying to escape. They said they’d let it slide, but if she made trouble about his injuries he’d wind up getting his sentence extended.”
“Have there been any successful escapes?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t come across anything, anyway.”
Reacher was not surprised. The place looked well put together. According to what he read in the file he found in Angela St. Vrain’s purse, it had been built by the state. Those guys knew what they were doing when it came to locking people up. Reacher had some experience of prisons, himself. He had been a military cop. He had put plenty of people inside them. Visited suspects to take statements. Caught inmates who had broken out. Grilled them to find out how. He had even been locked up himself, a couple times.
The first precaution Reacher noticed was also the simplest. The perimeter was protected by a fence, not a wall. That meant the guards could see everyone who approached any part of the place. They could see if anyone was carrying equipment to break in with or items to throw over. And there were red triangles attached to the fences. They were spaced out at fifteen-foot intervals, and they ranged from two to six feet above the ground. Reacher was too far away to read the writing but the symbol of a stick figure flying backward after getting zapped carried a clear enough message. The fences were electrified. The outer ones would only be powerful enough to knock a person on their ass. That would serve as a warning. It would be the inner fence, all small and innocuous, sandwiched between the ones with the wire on top, that would carry the lethal voltage.
Reacher would bet there were vibration sensors in the ground that would trip if anyone got too close to the fence. Alarms that would trigger if the voltage in the fences dropped. Dogs that would be released if the power failed, or got sabotaged. The entrances would all be secured. The one for visitors and staff would be like an airport with X-ray machines and metal detectors. The vehicle gates would have an airlock arrangement so that the trucks and vans could be held between the layers of fence on their way in or out. Inside the buildings the service ducts would be too narrow for anyone to crawl in or climb up. They would have movement sensors and mesh screens, anyway. The doors and gates in the secure areas would all be centrally controlled, with no keypads for inmates to learn or guess the codes for, like you see in the movies. And if all else failed, there were the watchtowers. Two would be sufficient. The prison had four. A guard in each one with a rifle could cover the whole interior of the stockade plus five hundred feet beyond the perimeter, assuming an adequate level of equipment and training.
The area in front of the prison was laid out in a semicircle. There were swathes of grass and neat, colorful flower beds all following the same curve. They looked incongruous, like a bizarre attempt to copy the formal gardens of a European chateau. The only things missing were the fountains. But Reacher knew the real purpose was not aesthetic. It was to maintain a clear field of fire from the two central towers in the event of a breakout. Or an attempt to break in.
There was a broad paved strip around the outside of the semicircle. It was wide enough for vehicles to park in. The left was the staff area. It was half-full. Mainly with pickups. Older American models. Some were not in great shape. There were a few sedans sprinkled among them. Mainly domestic, from the cheaper end of the range. Then at the far side, separated by half a dozen empty spaces, there were three newer vehicles. A Dodge Ram in silver with chrome wheels and a shiny tread-plate tool chest slung across its load bed. A BMW sedan, larger than the one Reacher had encountered in Colorado, but also black. Its license plate read MC1. And a Mercedes, in white, with MC2 on its plate.
The visitors’ parking was to the right. There was only one car in that whole area. A VW Bug. It was metallic green. It had two soft tires. Its running board was hanging off on one side. It wasn’t clear if it had been parked or abandoned.
Hannah opened the driver’s door and turned to Reacher. “You ready? We’ve been here too long. We should go.”
Reacher nodded and climbed in alongside her. There was nothing more to see. But he was left thinking he knew how an epidemiologist must feel after staring at a sample from a patient with a baffling new disease. On the surface everything looked normal, but he knew there was something wrong. He just didn’t know what. Yet.
Bruno Hix was sitting at his desk. He was staring at his computer screen. And his own face was staring back.
The image was magnified. Hix’s mouth was gaping open. His eyes were half-shut. He looked drunk. Or demented. Or worse, ugly. Hix stamped his foot. Getting two video streams to play side by side was harder than he’d expected. One at a time was fine. But both together he just couldn’t figure out. He had called the prison’s IT expert but the guy had already quit for the day. He was at home, preparing dinner for his cats. He was supposedly coming back but he was taking his sweet time. A person could crawl faster. Hix was not happy. He needed to have a word with Riverdale. It was time for some staff changes. And soon.
Hix’s office door opened. Slowly.
Hix turned and said, “Where the…”
He saw Brockman framed in the doorway.
“Oh,” Hix said. “It’s you. Is there news?”
Brockman nodded.
Hix said, “Good news?”
Brockman said, “Just news.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Harold called. He got to the construction site. Our guys were not there.”
“They deserted their post? What happened? Were they threatened? Bribed?”
“They just disappeared. Brad’s Explorer was there, parked in exactly the same place Harold saw it earlier. But there was no sign of Brad or Wade.”
“So what happened?”
“No idea. Harold spoke to the driver of the pilot vehicle. He said there had been a weird incident. He said he was heading east, as usual, and he came across a truck blocking the road. He didn’t see the plate but it was the same model as the one Reacher stole. The same color.”
“Did he see Reacher?”
“It sounds like it. Here’s what Harold said happened. The pilot stopped, assuming the truck was trying to turn around for some reason. He figured it would get out of the way, sooner or later. But the other drivers got antsy. They surrounded the truck. Tried to push it. And got nowhere, naturally. It was just some crazy mass hysteria thing. They were still trying when a huge guy showed up from the opposite side.”
“Reacher?”
“Well, he chased these other drivers away. Ten of them. And he kicked another guy’s ass, apparently. Draw your own conclusion. Then he got in the truck and drove off.”
“What did Harold do?”
“He figured Brad and Wade had gotten knocked out and the guy was dumping them like he’d done with Pep and Tony at the truck stop. The roadblock was for cover. So Harold searched for them. He found nothing. But he’s still trying.”
“So we still don’t know where our guys are?”
“No.”
“And Reacher?”
“We don’t know where he is, either.”
“Well, obviously he got past the roadblock. He could be in town anytime. He could already be here. Call Harold. Tell him to come back. Right now.”
“What about Brad and Wade?”
“What about them? They had one job. They failed. We’re better off without them.”
Hannah had been using her phone to do some more research while Reacher was scoping out the prison. About food, this time. The next thing on their agenda.
She had found the place people said sold the best burgers in town. She suggested they head straight there, get some carryout, and take it to their hotel. That wasn’t an approach Reacher favored. He preferred to show up and see how a place looked for himself. He appreciated a good diner. And he was totally opposed to anything that smacked of running and hiding. Reacher was wired to move toward danger. To confront it. To defeat it, or die trying. It was baked into his DNA. But he could tell that Hannah was approaching her limit. She knew people were looking for them. The same group of people who had tried to kill her. It was reasonable for her to want to get off the street. To be out of sight as quickly as possible. It would have been cruel to force her to do otherwise, so Reacher didn’t argue.
The burger place was four blocks north of Main Street in a building that used to be a gas station. Its original pumps were still there, now repurposed as decorations with neon lights. The forecourt had been turned into a parking area. The tables were in the main building, behind large, curved windows and under an extravagant gull-wing roof.
The drive-through counter was where the old night-service window had been. Hannah pulled up next to it. She ordered, paid, and had a paper sack full of food in her hand inside three minutes. She had gotten one burger with a single patty, mushrooms, and truffle aioli for herself and two doubles with American cheese and nothing green for Reacher. She waited another minute for their two large coffees to come out then moved toward the exit. She entered the hotel’s address into the map on her phone and a robot voice told her to proceed to the route. Reacher didn’t find that advice helpful.
Once they were back on Main Street the phone directed them to the east, away from the center of town. The hotel was near the river, to the north. It wasn’t far as the crow flies but a ridge of trees meant there was no direct route. The sun was low in the sky. Dense branches overhead cut the available daylight further. The road was quiet. They didn’t see another vehicle for five minutes. Then a car appeared. It came closer and the shape of a lightbar solidified on its roof. It passed them. Its roof bar lit up. The narrow corridor between the trees started to pulse with red and blue. Then the car turned and sped back toward the truck.
Hannah said, “Oh, please, no. What now? What do we do?”
Reacher said, “There’s nothing to worry about. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We haven’t? Those six guys you beat up might tell a different story.”
“They’re not here. And they’re in no position to call 911. Trust me. This is just routine bullshit. It’s going to be fine.”
“What if it isn’t?”
Reacher said nothing.
Hannah pulled the truck over to the side of the road. The police car tucked in behind with its lights still flashing. The cop stayed inside for a couple more minutes. Reacher didn’t know if he was checking something, calling for reinforcements, or just trying to play mind games. He didn’t care which, as long as the cop didn’t keep it up for too long. He didn’t want his burgers to get cold.
The cop finally climbed out and approached the driver’s window. He lifted his hand. The knuckle of his middle finger was extended, ready to knock, but Hannah buzzed the window down before he made contact with the glass.
The cop said, “Good afternoon, s…miss. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Hannah shook her head. “I have no idea. I wasn’t speeding.” She glanced across at Reacher. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You’re driving a vehicle registered to an individual who, according to official records, is currently deceased.”
“Currently? Are you expecting that to change?”
The cop took a deep breath. “I’ll put this plainly. Why are you driving a dead man’s truck?”
“The dead man was my ex-husband. We were close. I had permission. I’m on his insurance. And I’m due to inherit the truck as soon as his will is read.”
“Your name, miss?”
“Hannah Hampton-Roth.”
“ID?”
“In my purse. OK if I get it?”
“Go ahead.”
Hannah took her purse from the backseat, rummaged in it for a moment, and pulled out her wallet. She opened it, then passed her driver’s license to the cop.
The cop studied the license for a moment then said, “Registration? Insurance?”
Hannah leaned across to the passenger side, opened the glove box, and took out a clear plastic pocket. The documents were inside. She straightened and handed it out of the window.
The cop said, “Wait here.” Then he walked back to his car.
Hannah stretched for the keys to switch the engine off but Reacher took her hand.
He said, “Leave it running. If the cop has his gun drawn when he gets back out, floor it. Same applies if another police cruiser shows up. Or anything that could be an unmarked car.”
The cop stayed in his car for five long minutes then returned to Hannah’s window. His gun was still in its holster. He handed the documents and the license back and said, “You’re a long way from home, miss. What brings you to Winson?”
Hannah tucked the license back into her wallet and handed the plastic pocket to Reacher. “My ex-husband has—had—friends here. I need to let them know that Sam has passed. That’s better done in person than on the phone or email, don’t you think?”
“Who were his friends?”
“Angela St. Vrain. Danny Peel. They worked with Sam before Angela and Danny moved out here.”
“Will you be staying with one of them tonight?”
“No. We’ll go to a hotel.”
“Which one?”
“We’re—”
“Still working on that,” Reacher said.
The cop said, “You didn’t think to make a reservation before you left Colorado?”
Reacher said, “No.”
“What if you’d come all this way and the hotels were all full?”
“Is that a common problem here?”
The cop was silent for a moment then he nodded toward the rear of the truck. “What happened to your window?”
Hannah sighed. “Some asshole kids tried to break in.”
“When?”
“Earlier this afternoon. At the rest area, on I-20.”
“Kids did this?”
“That’s right.”
“Did they steal anything?”
“They saw us walking back after we used the bathrooms and they ran.”
“Did you file a police report?”
“I didn’t think there was any point. We didn’t get a good look at the kids. I wouldn’t have been able to give much of a description.”
“And your tailgate?”
“What about it?”
“It has a bullet hole. Someone take a shot at you?”
Hannah shook her head. “At us? No. Sam, my ex, he was a keen marksman. He was at a range outside of town one day last week and a newbie had an accidental discharge in the parking lot when he was getting his gun out of his vehicle safe.”
“Did Sam file a report?”
“He figured there was no need. It was an accident. No one got hurt. The guy paid for the damage. If that was wrong, you can’t blame Sam. It’s up to the club to make sure the rules are followed.”
“What’s the name of the club?”
“I don’t know. I never went. Sam just called it The Gun Club. He was a corrections officer. A lot of his co-workers are members, too. It’s owned by a retired cop. I’m sure he did the right thing.”
The cop thought for a moment. Then he said, “All right. You can go. But you need to turn the truck around.”
“Thank you. But why?”
“You need somewhere to stay. The best hotel around here is the Winson Garden. It’s easy to find. Follow signs for the prison, then take a left onto Mole Street. I’ll follow. Make sure you don’t get lost.”
No one was going to come and help him. He had to face reality. So Jed Starmer forced himself onto his feet. He couldn’t stay where he was. He was too visible. At least two officers had been searching for him in Jackson. Pretty soon they would accept he had given them the slip. They would have no choice. Then they would have only one place left to look. Jed’s final destination. Winson. Which could only be reached via the road he was currently loitering right next to.
Jed still had no idea how he was going to get to the summit. He could barely stand. He felt like someone had stolen his leg bones and replaced them with modeling clay. His stomach was hurting. He couldn’t look at any object without the thing’s edges blurring and its colors twisting and dancing like it was on fire. He was a hot mess. He knew that. And he knew one other thing. He had come too far to be defeated by a hill.
Jed figured he had a couple of factors on his side. Time. And trees. There were more than twelve hours before he had to be in Winson. All he needed was rest. And someplace where he couldn’t be seen from the road. He hobbled across to the bike, which was still lying on its side. Heaved it up onto its wheels. Pushed it over to the long grass at the edge of the shoulder. Set it down. Took another couple of steps. And stopped.
Jed needed rest. But he also needed to be safe. He was heading into a forest. There could be wolves lurking around. Maybe alligators. Maybe coyotes. Maybe in giant bloodthirsty packs. Jed didn’t know what kinds of predators they had in Mississippi. And he didn’t want to find out the hard way. So he was going to have to pick his refuge with extra care.