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First port of call was the helicopter. The pilot was still staring out the window. Reacher gestured that he needed a word and the guy ducked back out of his seat and crouched down in the open doorway.
Reacher said, “Your clients just canceled the return leg of their booking. You can go now. Best if you forget what you’ve seen here. Scrub your flight logs and pretend today never happened. This is government work. Could get messy for you.”
He turned away and behind him he heard the door slam shut. The engines started with a whirring scream and the gearbox clunked and meshed and the rotor started turning. A minute later there was a deafening roar and a storm of sand and dust and the big machine heaved itself into the air and scurried away, nose down, low and fast across the empty landscape.
Reacher’s burner rang in his pocket. Turner. She said, “We heard the helicopter.”
“I sent it away.”
“Hennessy?”
“Not on board.”
“You OK?”
“Never better. How are things there?”
“We’re making progress.”
“Give me half an hour,” Reacher said. “Call the kid in the motel and tell him to bring his snowplow to the data centers. Tell him his corporate security friend needs to use it.”
He clicked off and walked back to the channel between the buildings. He dragged Hennessy’s body around to the rear fence and propped it against the bars. Then the lookout. Then the guy who had been guarding Julia. Then the three sentries, one after the other. He left them all sitting in a line, shoulder to shoulder, heads lolling, as if they had taken a break and fallen asleep in the sun. He gathered up Sergeant Kennedy’s weapons and repacked the black bags. He left them at the dead men’s feet, as if they were theirs, not his. He walked down the channel, along the endless length of the building, all the way to the road out front. He sat down to wait, with his back against the fence, and the low sun warm on the side of his face. He had guessed right. The gravel yielded to a sitting person’s shape. It was comfortable.
Chapter 45
The first to arrive was the kid from the motel, in his snowplow. It was an old pickup truck, painted with red oxide primer, with winter tires and an aftermarket blade on the front. It looked out of place, on a warm August day. The kid climbed out and said, “Why was there a helicopter here?”
“My software consultant flew in on it,” Reacher said. “I need her input. It’s a very urgent matter. So urgent she had to bring her daughter. Too short-notice to get a babysitter.”
“Want me to stick around and drive the plow for you?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you agree to take my advice.”
“What advice?”
“Summertown is about to attract attention. Anywhere from journalists and news crews up to three-letter agencies and congressional inquiries. Probably all of the above. You’re the only place for miles around. You could have a hundred percent occupancy for months and months. You could make a fortune. But not if you shoot your mouth off about what you’ve seen. The three-letter agencies will haul you in as a person of interest. Your dad, too. You’ll be talking to the feds for months and months, not making money. So my advice is forget everything you ever saw and play real dumb.”
The kid paused a beat.
“Sure,” he said. “We could take that advice.”
Over his shoulder Reacher saw the blue Dodge pickup start back from the diner. A left turn out of the lot, into the wide sweep of the service road.
“OK,” Reacher said. “Wait in your truck. I’ll tell you when I need you.”
The blue Dodge rolled toward him, slow and cautious. Elwood driving, obviously. It got there eventually and parked nose to tail with the snowplow on the curb. Julia Bisley was in the back, with Amanda cradled in her lap. They both looked better. No more bewildered fright, no more silent scream. An hour in a diner fixed most things. A universal truth. Reacher opened their door. Amanda stared up at him. At first blankly.
“Hey kid,” he said.
She recognized him. She smiled a big delighted smile and held her arms out.
“May I?” he asked.
