Killing Floor (6 page)

Stevenson spoke to the desk sergeant. He became agitated. The desk sergeant put a hand on Stevenson’s arm. Stevenson shook it off and ran toward the rosewood office. He dodged desks like a football player. As he got to the office door it opened. A crowd came out. Chief Morrison. Finlay. And Baker, holding Hubble by the elbow. A light but efficient grip, the same as he’d used on me. Stevenson stared blankly at Hubble and then grabbed Finlay by the arm. Pulled him back into the office. Morrison swiveled his sweating bulk and followed them in. The door slammed. Baker walked Hubble over toward me.

Hubble looked like a different guy. He was gray and sweating. The tan had gone. He looked smaller. He looked like someone had let the air out and deflated him. He was bent up like a man racked with pain. His eyes behind the gold rims were blank and staring with panic and fear. He stood shaking as Baker unlocked the cell next to mine. He didn’t move. He was trembling. Baker caught his arm and levered him inside. He pulled the gate shut and locked it. The electric bolts snicked in. Baker walked back toward the rosewood office.

Hubble just stood where Baker had left him. Staring blankly into space. Then he slowly walked backward until he reached the rear wall of the cell. He pressed his back against it and slid to the floor. Dropped his head to his knees. Dropped his hands to the floor. I could hear the rattle of his thumb trembling on the stiff nylon carpet. Roscoe stared in at him from her desk. The sergeant at the reception counter gazed across. They were watching a man fall apart.

I HEARD RAISED VOICES IN THE ROSEWOOD OFFICE IN BACK
. The tenor of argument. The slap of a palm on a desk. The door opened and Stevenson walked out with Chief Morrison. Stevenson looked mad. He strode down the side of the open area. His neck was rigid with fury. His eyes were fixed on the front doors. He was ignoring the fat police chief. He walked straight past the reception counter and out through the heavy door into the bright afternoon. Morrison followed him.

Baker came out of the office and walked over to my cell. Didn’t speak. Just unlocked the cage and gestured me out. I shrugged my coat tighter and left the newspaper with the big photographs of the president in Pensacola on the cell floor. Stepped out and followed Baker back into the rosewood office.

Finlay was at the desk. The tape recorder was there. The stiff cords trailed. The air was still and cool. Finlay looked harassed. His tie was pulled down. He blew out a big lungful of air in a rueful hiss. I sat down in the chair and Finlay waved Baker out of the room. The door closed softly behind him.

“We got us a situation here, Mr. Reacher,” Finlay said. “A real situation.”

He lapsed into a distracted silence. I had less than a half hour before the prison bus came by. I wanted some conclusions pretty soon. Finlay looked up and focused again. Started talking, rapidly, the elegant Harvard syntax under pressure.

“We bring this Hubble guy in, right?” he said. “You maybe saw him. Banker, from Atlanta, right? Thousand-dollar Calvin Klein outfit. Gold Rolex. Very uptight guy. At first I thought he was just annoyed. Soon as I started talking he recognized my voice. From the phone call on his mobile. Accuses me of deceitful behavior. Says I shouldn’t impersonate phone company people. He’s right, of course.”

Another lapse into silence. He was struggling with his ethics problem.

“Come on, Finlay, move along,” I said. I had less than a half hour.

“OK, so he’s uptight and annoyed,” Finlay said. “I ask him if he knows you. Jack Reacher, ex-army. He says no. Never heard of you. I believe him. He starts to relax. Like all this is about some guy called Jack Reacher. He’s never heard of any guy called Jack Reacher, so he’s here for nothing. He’s cool, right?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Then I ask him if he knows a tall guy with a shaved head,” he said. “And I ask him about Pluribus. Well, my God! It’s like I stuck a poker up his ass. He went rigid. Like with shock. Totally rigid. Won’t answer. So I tell him we know the tall guy is dead. Shot to death. Well, that’s like another poker up the ass. He practically fell off the chair.”

“Go on,” I said. Twenty-five minutes before the prison bus was due.

“He’s shaking all over the place,” Finlay said. “Then I tell him we know about the phone number in the shoe. His phone number printed on a piece of paper, with the word ‘Pluribus’ printed above it. That’s another poker up the ass.”

He stopped again. He was patting his pockets, each one in turn.

“He wouldn’t say anything,” he went on. “Not a word. He was rigid with shock. All gray in the face. I thought he was having a heart attack. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish. But he wasn’t talking. So I told him we knew about the corpse getting beaten up. I asked him who else was involved. I told him we knew about hiding the body under the cardboard. He wouldn’t say a damn word. He just kept looking around. After a while I realized he was thinking like crazy. Trying to decide what to tell me. He just kept silent, thinking like mad, must have been forty minutes. The tape was running the whole time. Recorded forty minutes of silence.”

Finlay stopped again. This time for effect. He looked at me.

“Then he confessed,” he said. “I did it, he said. I shot him, he said. The guy is confessing, right? On the tape.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I ask him, do you want a lawyer?” he said. “He says no, keeps repeating he killed the guy. So I Mirandize him, loud and clear, on the tape. Then I think to myself maybe he’s crazy or something, you know? So I ask him, who did you kill? He says the tall guy with the shaved head. I ask him, how? He says, shot him in the head. I ask him, when? He says last night, about midnight. I ask him who kicked the body around? Who was the guy? What does Pluribus mean? He doesn’t answer. Goes rigid with fright all over again. Refuses to say a damn word. I say to him, I’m not sure you did anything at all. He jumps up and grabs me. He’s screaming I confess, I confess, I shot him, I shot him. I shove him back. He goes quiet.”

Finlay sat back. Folded his hands behind his head. Looked a question at me. Hubble as the shooter? I didn’t believe it. Because of his agitation. Guys who shoot somebody with an old pistol, in a fight or in a temper, a messy shot to the chest, they get agitated afterward. Guys who put two bullets in the head, with a silencer, then collect up the shell cases, they’re a different class of person. They don’t get agitated afterward. They just walk away and forget about it. Hubble was not the shooter. The way he had been dancing around in front of the reception counter proved it. But I just shrugged and smiled.

“OK,” I said. “You can let me go now, right?”

Finlay looked at me and shook his head.

“Wrong,” he said. “I don’t believe him. There were three guys involved here. You persuaded me of that yourself. So which one is Hubble claiming to be? I don’t think he’s the maniac. I can’t see enough strength in him for that. I don’t see him as the gofer. And he’s definitely not the shooter, for God’s sake. Guy like that couldn’t shoot pool.”

I nodded. Like Finlay’s partner. Worrying away at a problem.

“Got to throw his ass in the can for now,” he said. “No option. He’s confessed, couple of plausible details. But it definitely won’t hold up.”

I nodded again. Sensed there was something more to come. “Go on,” I said. With resignation.

Finlay looked at me. A level gaze.

“He wasn’t even there at midnight,” he said. “He was at some old couple’s anniversary party. A family thing. Not far from where he lives. Got there around eight last night. He’d walked down with his wife. Didn’t leave until after two o’clock in the morning. Two dozen people saw him arrive, two dozen people saw him leave. He got a ride home from his sister-in-law’s brother-in-law. He got a ride because it was already pouring rain by then.”

“Go on, Finlay,” I said. “Tell me.”

“His sister-in-law’s brother-in-law?” he said. “Drove him home, in the rain, two o’clock in the morning? Officer Stevenson.”

5

FINLAY LEANED RIGHT BACK IN HIS CHAIR. HIS LONG ARMS
were folded behind his head. He was a tall, elegant man. Educated in Boston. Civilized. Experienced. And he was sending me to jail for something I hadn’t done. He levered himself upright. Spread his hands on the desk, palms up.

“I’m sorry, Reacher,” he said to me.

“You’re sorry?” I said. “You’re sending two guys who couldn’t have done it to jail and you’re sorry?”

He shrugged. Looked unhappy about it.

“This is the way Chief Morrison wants it,” he said. “He’s calling it a done deal. Closing us down for the weekend. And he’s the boss man, right?”

“You got to be joking,” I said. “He’s an asshole. He’s calling Stevenson a liar. His own man.”

“Not exactly,” Finlay shrugged. “He’s saying it’s maybe a conspiracy, you know, maybe Hubble wasn’t literally there, but he recruited you to do it. A conspiracy, right? He reckons the confession is exaggerated because maybe Hubble’s afraid of you and is scared to finger you right away. Morrison figures you were on your way down to Hubble’s place to get paid when we hauled you in. He figures that’s why you waited the eight hours. Figures that’s why Hubble was at home today. Didn’t go to work because he was waiting around to pay you off.”

I was silent. I was worried. Chief Morrison was dangerous. His theory was plausible. Until Finlay did the checking. If Finlay did the checking.

“So, Reacher, I’m sorry,” he said. “You and Hubble stay in the bag until Monday. You’ll get through it. Over in Warburton. Bad place, but the holding pens are OK. Worse if you go there for a stretch. Much worse. Meantime, I’ll work on it before Monday. I’ll ask Officer Roscoe to come in Saturday and Sunday. She’s the pretty one outside. She’s good, the best we got. If what you say is right, you’ll be free and clear on Monday. OK?”

I stared at him. I was getting mad.

“No, Finlay, not OK,” I said. “You know I didn’t do a damn thing. You know it wasn’t me. You’re just shit scared of that useless fat bastard Morrison. So I’m going to jail because you’re just a spineless damn coward.”

He took it pretty well. His dark face flushed darker. He sat quietly for a long time. I took a deep breath and glared at him. My glare subsided to a gaze as my temper cooled. Back under control. His turn to glare at me.

“Two things, Reacher,” he said. Precise articulation. “First, if necessary I’ll take care of Chief Morrison on Monday. Second, I am not a coward. You don’t know me at all. Nothing about me.”

I gazed back at him. Six o’clock. Bus time.

“I know more than you think,” I said. “I know you’re a Harvard postgrad, you’re divorced and you quit smoking in April.”

Finlay looked blank. Baker knocked and entered to say the prison bus had arrived. Finlay got up and walked around the desk. Told Baker he would bring me out himself. Baker went back to fetch Hubble.

“How do you know that stuff?” Finlay asked me.

He was intrigued. He was losing the game.

“Easy,” I said. “You’re a smart guy, right? Educated in Boston, you told me. But when you were college age, Harvard wasn’t taking too many black guys. You’re smart, but you’re no rocket scientist, so I figure Boston U. for the first degree, right?”

“Right,” he conceded.

“And then Harvard for postgrad,” I said. “You did well at Boston U., life moved on, you got into Harvard. You talk like a Harvard guy. I figured it straight away. Ph.D. in Criminology?”

“Right,” he said again. “Criminology.”

“And then you got this job in April,” I said. “You told me that. You’ve got a pension from Boston PD, because you did your twenty. So you’ve come down here with cash to spare. But you’ve come down here with no woman, because if you had, she’d have spent some of that spare cash on new clothes for you. She probably hated that wintry tweed thing you’re wearing. She’d have junked it and put you in a Sunbelt outfit to start your new life on the right foot. But you’re still wearing that terrible old suit, so the woman is gone. She either died or divorced you, so it was a fifty-fifty guess. Looks like I guessed right.”

He nodded blankly.

“And the smoking thing is easy,” I said. “You were just stressed out and you were patting your pockets, looking for cigarettes. That means you quit fairly recently. Easy guess is you quit in April, you know, new life, new job, no more cigarettes. You figured quit now and you might beat the cancer thing.”

Finlay glared at me. A bit grudging.

“Very good, Reacher,” he said. “Elementary deduction, right?”

I shrugged. Didn’t say anything.

“So deduce who aced the guy up at the warehouse,” he said.

“I don’t care who aced any guy anywhere,” I said. “That’s your problem, not mine. And it’s the wrong question, Finlay. First you got to find out who the guy was, right?”

“So you got any way to do that, smart guy?” he asked me. “No ID, no face left, nothing from the prints, Hubble won’t say diddly?”

“Run the prints again,” I said. “I’m serious, Finlay. Get Roscoe to do it.”

“Why?” he said.

“Something wrong there,” I said.

“What something?” he asked me.

“Run them again, OK?” I said. “Will you do that?”

He just grunted. Didn’t say yes or no. I opened the office door and stepped out. Roscoe had gone. Nobody was there except Baker and Hubble over at the cells. I could see the desk sergeant outside through the front doors. He was writing on a clipboard held by the prison bus driver. As a backdrop behind the two of them was the prison bus. It was stationary in the semicircular driveway. It filled the view through the big plate-glass entrance. It was a school bus painted light gray. On it was written: State of Georgia Department of Corrections. That inscription ran the full length of the bus, under the line of windows. Under the inscription was a crest. The windows had grilles welded over them.

Finlay came out of the office behind me. Touched my elbow and walked me over to Baker. Baker was holding three sets of handcuffs hooked over his thumb. They were painted bright orange. The paint was chipped. Dull steel showed through. Baker snapped a pair of handcuffs onto each of my wrists separately. He unlocked Hubble’s cell and signaled the scared banker to come out. Hubble was blank and dazed, but he stepped out. Baker caught the dangling cuff on my left wrist and snapped it onto Hubble’s right wrist. He put the third set of cuffs on Hubble’s other wrist. Ready to go.

“Take his watch, Baker,” I said. “He’ll lose it in jail.”

He nodded. He knew what I meant. Guy like Hubble could lose a lot in jail. Baker unlatched the heavy Rolex from Hubble’s wrist. The bracelet wouldn’t slide over the handcuff, so Baker had to fiddle and fuss with taking the handcuff off and putting it back on again. The prison driver cracked the door and glared in. A man with a timetable. Baker dropped Hubble’s watch on the nearest desk. Exactly where my friend Roscoe had put her coffee cup.

“OK, guys, let’s hit the road,” Baker said.

He walked us to the doors. We went out into a dazzling hot bar of sunshine. Handcuffed together. Walking was awkward. Before crossing to the bus, Hubble stopped. He craned his neck and looked around carefully. He was being more vigilant than Baker or the prison driver. Maybe scared of a neighbor seeing him. But there was nobody around. We were three hundred yards north of the town. I could see the church steeple in the distance. We walked over to the bus through the evening warmth. My right cheek tingled in the low sun.

The driver pushed the bus door inward. Hubble shuffled sideways onto the step. I followed him. Made a clumsy turn into the aisle. The bus was empty. The driver directed Hubble into a seat. He slid over the vinyl to the window. I was pulled alongside. The driver knelt on the seat in front and clicked our outer wrists to the chromium hoop which ran across the top. He rattled each of our three cuffs in turn. Wanted to know they were secure. I didn’t blame him. I’ve done that job. Nothing worse than driving with prisoners loose behind you.

The driver walked forward to his seat. He started the engine with a loud diesel clatter. The bus filled with vibration. The air was hot. Stifling. There was no air-conditioning. None of the windows opened. I could smell fuel fumes. The gears clashed and ground and the bus moved off. I glanced out to my right. Nobody waving good-bye.

We drove north out of the police lot, turning our backs on the town, heading up toward the highway. We passed Eno’s diner after a half mile. His lot was empty. Nobody looking for an early dinner. We carried on north for a spell. Then we turned a tight left off the county road and struck out west down a road between fields. The bus settled to a noisy cruise. Endless rows of bushes flicked past. Endless drills of red earth between. Ahead of me the sun was on the way down. It was a giant red ball heading for the fields. The driver had the large sun visor down. On it were printed manufacturer’s instructions about how to operate the bus.

Hubble rocked and bounced beside me. He said nothing. He had slumped down with his face parallel to the floor. His left arm was raised because it was handcuffed to the chrome bar in front of us. His right arm rested inert between us. He still had his expensive sweater draped across his shoulders. Where the Rolex had been was a band of pale skin. The life force had just about drained out of him. He was in the grip of a paralyzing fear.

WE ROCKED AND BOUNCED FOR THE BEST PART OF ANOTHER
hour through the huge landscape. A small stand of trees flashed past on my right. Then way in the far distance I saw a structure. It sat alone in a thousand acres of flat farmland. Against the low red sun it looked like a protrusion from hell. Something forced up through the crust of the earth. It was a complex of buildings. Looked like a chemical factory or a nuclear place. Massive concrete bunkers and glittering metal walkways. Tubing running here and there with steam drifting. All surrounded with fencing punctuated by towers. As we drew closer I could see arc lights and razor wire. Searchlights and rifles in the towers. Layers of fences separated with plowed red earth. Hubble didn’t look up. I didn’t nudge him. It wasn’t the Magic Kingdom up ahead.

The bus slowed as we approached. The outermost fence was about a hundred yards out, forming a giant perimeter. It was a substantial fence. Possibly fifteen feet tall, studded along its entire length with pairs of sodium floodlights. One of each pair was trained inward across the hundred-yard breadth of plowed earth. One was trained out over the surrounding farmland. All the floodlights were lit. The whole complex blazed with yellow sodium light. Up close it was very bright. The yellow light turned the red earth to a ghastly tan.

The bus rattled to a halt. The idling engine set up a vibration. What little ventilation there had been ceased. It was stifling. Hubble finally looked up. He peered out through his gold rims. He looked around him and out the window. He groaned. It was a groan of hopeless dejection. He dropped his head.

The driver was waiting for a signal from the first gate guard. The guard was speaking into a radio. The driver blipped the engine and crunched into gear. The guard signaled to him, using his radio as a baton, waving us through. The bus ground forward into a cage. We passed a long low sign at the curb: Warburton Correctional Facility, State of Georgia Department of Corrections. Behind us a gate swung closed. We were sealed in a wire cage. It was roofed with wire. At the far end a gate swung open. The bus ground through.

We drove the hundred yards to the next fence. There was another vehicle cage. The bus went in, waited and drove on out. We drove right into the heart of the prison. We stopped opposite a concrete bunker. The reception area. The engine noise beat against the concrete surrounding us. Then it shut down and the vibration and clatter died away to silence. The driver swung out of his seat and walked up the aisle, stooping, pulling himself like a climber on the seat backs. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the cuffs fixing us to the seat in front.

“OK, boys, let’s go,” he grinned. “Party time.”

We hauled ourselves out of our seat and shuffled down the bus. My left arm was pulled back by Hubble. The driver stopped us at the front. He removed all three sets of handcuffs and dropped them in a bin next to his cab. Hauled on a lever and sprang the door. We got out of the bus. A door opened opposite and a guard stepped out. Called us over. He was eating a donut and spoke with his mouth full. A sugar mustache frosted his lip. He was a pretty casual guy. We went through the door into a small concrete chamber. It was filthy. Deal chairs surrounded a painted table. Another guard sat on the table reading from a battered clipboard.

“Sit down, OK?” he said. We sat. He stood up. His partner with the donut locked the outer door and joined him.

“Here’s the deal,” said the clipboard guy. “You guys are Reacher and Hubble. In from Margrave. Not convicted of any crime. In custody pending investigation. No bail application for either of you. Hear what I say? Not convicted of any crime. That’s the important thing. Excuses you from a lot of shit in here, OK? No uniform, no processing, no big deal, you understand? Nice accommodations on the top floor.”

“Right,” said the donut guy. “Thing is, if you were convicts, we’d be poking and prodding and hitting on you, and you’d get the uniform, and we’d shove you on the convict floors with the other animals and we’d just sit back and watch the fun, right?”

“Right,” his partner said. “So what we’re saying is this. We ain’t here to give you a hard time, so don’t you boys be giving us a hard time neither, you understand? This damn facility ain’t got the manpower. Governor laid off about a half of the staff, OK? Got to meet the budget, right? Got to cut the deficit, right? So we ain’t got the men to do the job the way it ought to be done. Trying to do our job with a half a crew on every shift, right? So what I’m saying is we shove you in there, and we don’t want to see you again until we pull you out on Monday. No hassle, right? We ain’t got the manpower for hassle. We ain’t got the manpower for hassle on the convict floors, let alone hassle on the holding floor, you understand? Yo, Hubble, you understand?”