Chapter 17
They stepped out of the hotel into the cold Michigan night.
The sky hung low and heavy, the kind of gray-black ceiling that promised snow before morning.
Simmons winced. He'd wrapped ice in a hand towel and pressed it against the side of his face on the drive back. Now the swelling had set in fully. One eye was blackened, a cheekbone had bruised purple, and his lips were split and swollen.
Joe glanced at him. "How's the head?"
"Best I can come up with is that it’s still attached," Simmons said.
They reached the truck and Joe slid behind the wheel.
They had gotten a call from Winthrow, and she had given them their marching orders in no uncertain terms: Find something. Anything. And find it fast.
They'd lost their CI. The operation was compromised. Their timeline had just shrunk from days to hours.
Simmons let out a slow breath, fogging the air. "What's the plan now?"
"We eat," Joe said.
Simmons blinked. "My teeth are too loose."
“Soup, then. You're no good half concussed and running on vending-machine potato chips."
Joe keyed the ignition. Simmons slid into the passenger seat and let the door close softly behind him, careful to avoid jarring his ribs.
They pulled out onto the road, the truck's headlights cutting through the dark and across empty stretches of county forest. A sign ahead advertised FOOD · COFFEE · OPEN 24 HOURS, its neon arrow buzzing in the wind.
Joe took the turn.
The diner sat alone on a bend in the road, glowing like an island in the emptiness. A couple of pickups in the lot. Semis parked across the gravel shoulder. The kind of place that had been here fifty years and would still be here fifty more.
Inside, light and warmth poured out the moment they opened the door.
The waitress looked up once, clocked Simmons' bruised face, and made the kind of judgment only someone who'd worked night shifts for twenty years could make: None of my business.
They found a booth near the back. Simmons slid in stiffly.
The waitress came over. "Coffee?"
They both nodded.
She poured two cups and walked away.
Joe looked around the diner—two truckers arguing softly at the counter, a couple in hunting jackets finishing their late dinner, the radio playing something indistinguishable near the register.
Then he looked at Simmons.
"All right," Joe said. "Eat something. Then we figure out our next move."
Simmons picked up the menu, but Joe already knew what he wanted. In a place like this, the most popular item was your best bet.
Cheeseburger. Coffee. A slice of pie.
He placed the order. Simmons followed with one of his own.
The moment the waitress left, Joe slid out of the booth.
"Where you going?" Simmons asked.
"Two minutes," Joe said. "Make a list of everything that doesn't make sense so far."
Simmons frowned. "That's a long list."
"Start at the top."
Joe pointed toward the back hallway.
"I'm making a call."
Joe left the table and headed for the back hallway. The restrooms were down a short corridor that held only a payphone bolted to the wall. Chrome handset. Yellowed keypad. A taped sign above it: OUTGOING CALLS ONLY.
Perfect.
Reacher checked the hallway once, then picked up the receiver. The dial tone buzzed with static. He fed coins into the slot and dialed a number he still knew by heart.
Two rings. Then a clipped voice answered.
"Pentagon directory."
"Major Sorenson, Army G-2," Reacher said.
A pause. Then: "One moment."
Clicks. More static. Then another voice came on—older, rasped from too much coffee and too many nights on duty.
"Reacher?" Sorenson said. "Jesus, I haven't heard from you since Berlin."
"Yeah," Joe said. "Sorry for calling like this."
"When a guy like you calls out of the blue, there's no 'sorry.' Just a problem. So what is it?"
Reacher kept his voice low. "I need information on someone we both knew. Bill Kinsman."
Sorenson exhaled slowly, like he was looking around his office before talking. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything you can find. After-action assignments. Last known address. Family, if he's got any. Travel orders. Redactions. Suspicious transfers. Anything in his record that doesn't add up. I need a trail."
"You trying to find him?"
"Yes."
Sorenson muttered something under his breath Reacher couldn't quite catch. Then: "Why now?"
"Let’s just say his name came up in a room where it shouldn't."
That got Sorenson's full attention. Reacher could hear it in the silence.
"All right," the major said finally. "But listen carefully: anything I dig up stays off paper. Not one footstep in the official system. If anyone sees me pulling his file, I'm done. You understand that?"
"I do."
"And if Kinsman is mixed up in something…" Sorenson trailed off. "Hell, Joe. He saved your life once."
"I remember," Reacher said. "That's why I need to know where he went."
Sorenson's chair creaked as he leaned back. "Give me until tomorrow. That's the best I can do without raising eyebrows."
"Tomorrow's fine."
"And Reacher?"
"Yeah."
"This call never happened. If anyone asks, we haven't spoken since '88. And if what I find smells wrong, you'll be the first—and only—person I tell."
"Fair enough."
The line went dead.
Reacher hung up the handset, took a breath, and glanced down the hallway.
Then he walked back to the booth, sat down, and picked up his coffee.
Simmons watched him carefully. "You get what you needed?"
"No," Reacher said. "But I might tomorrow."
The waitress appeared with two plates. Set them down without ceremony. Joe's cheeseburger was thick and simple—bun, patty, cheese, pickles. The way it should be. Simmons had ordered the same.
They ate in silence for a minute.
Joe took measured bites. Chewed thoroughly. The burger was good. Hot, greasy, exactly what he needed. He'd eat the whole thing, then the pie.
Simmons ate more slowly, favoring the side of his mouth that wasn't split.
After a few minutes, Joe nodded at the napkin Simmons had been writing on. "Let me see that list."
Simmons slid it across the table.
Joe read while he ate.
When he finished reading, he took another bite. "Good list."
"Thanks," Simmons said. "Any of it make sense to you?"
"Some."
Joe set the list down. "The CI was tortured for information. They wanted to know what he'd told us, who he'd talked to. That's standard."
"But they didn't search the place properly," Simmons said.
"Right. Which means either they got interrupted, or they already had what they needed."
Simmons frowned. "So why torture him?"
"Confirmation. Or punishment." Joe took a drink of coffee. "Maybe both."
He tapped the napkin. "Volkov is the real question. Why write it down? Why hide it?"
"He was hiding the money. Maybe the paper was there by accident," Simmons offered.
"Maybe. Or he was scared someone would find it on him." Joe thought about that. "Which means he didn't trust his own people."
"Or he was planning to run."
Joe nodded slowly.
The waitress refilled their coffee cups. They waited until she walked away.
"What about the locals?"
"They must have known we were coming," Joe said. "Someone tipped them. Could be militia. Could be a sympathetic sheriff. Could be someone monitoring phones."
"Great."
Joe finished his burger. Pulled the pie closer. Apple. One slice. He ate it the same way he ate everything else—methodically, completely.
Simmons pushed his plate aside. He'd eaten maybe half. "So what's our move?"
Joe didn't answer right away. He finished the pie. Drained his coffee.
Then he looked up.
"I have an idea."