Killing Floor

I headed back out to the parking lot. I wanted to break into the red truck and get a look inside. But I saw there was no chance of doing it out there in the lot. No chance at all. People were walking around and a couple of police cruisers were loafing about. The whole place was lit up with bright lights. Breaking into that truck was going to have to wait.

I walked back to the buildings. Crammed myself into a phone booth and dialed the station house in Margrave. Finlay answered right away. I heard his deep Harvard tones. He’d been sitting by the phone, waiting for me to check in.

“Where are you?” he said.

“Not far from Memphis,” I said. “I watched a truck load up and I’m sticking with it until I get a chance to look inside. The driver’s the Kliner kid.”

“OK,” he said. “I heard from Picard. Roscoe’s safely installed. Fast asleep now, if she’s got any sense. He said she sends her love.”

“Send mine back if you get the chance,” I said. “Take care, Harvard guy.”

“Take care yourself,” he said. Hung up.

I strolled back to the Cadillac. Got in and waited. It was a half hour before the Kliner kid came out again. I saw him walk back toward the red truck. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked like he’d had a good di

He drove right up to the row of motel cabins. Parked the red truck up against the second cabin from the end. Right in the glow of a big light on a pole. He got out and locked up. Took a key from his pocket and opened up the cabin. Went in and shut the door. I saw the light go on and the blind come down. He’d had the key in his pocket. He hadn’t gone into the office. He must have booked the room when he was inside for di

It gave me a problem. I needed to see inside the truck. I needed the evidence. I needed to know I was in the right. And I needed to know soon. Sunday was forty-eight hours away. I had things to do before Sunday. A lot of things. I was going to have to break into the truck, right there in the glare of the light on the pole. While the psychopathic Kliner kid was ten feet away in his motel room. Not the safest thing in the world to do. I was going to have to wait a while to do it. Until the kid was sound asleep and wouldn’t hear the boom and scrape as I went to work.

I waited a half hour. Couldn’t wait anymore. I started the old Cadillac and moved it through the stillness. The tappets were out and the pistons were slapping. The motor was making a hell of a noise in the silence. I parked the car tight up to the red truck. Nose in, facing the kid’s motel room door. I climbed out across the passenger seat. Stood still and listened. Nothing.

I took Morrison’s switchblade from my jacket pocket and stepped up onto the Cadillac’s front fender. Stepped onto the hood and up over the windshield. Up onto the Cadillac’s roof. Stood still, up high. Listened hard. Nothing. I leaned over to the truck and hauled myself upward onto its roof.

A panel truck like that has a translucent roof. It’s some kind of a fiberglass sheet. They make the roof out of it, or at least a sort of skylight set into the sheetmetal. It’s there to let a dim light down into the cargo area. Helps with loading and unloading. Maybe it’s lighter in weight. Maybe cheaper. Manufacturer will do anything to save a buck. The roof is the best way into a truck like that.

My upper body was flat on the fiberglass panel and my feet were scrabbling for the Cadillac’s gutter. I reached out as far as I could and sprang the switchblade. Stabbed it down through the plastic panel, right in the center of the roof. Used the blade to saw a flap about ten inches deep, eighteen inches wide. I could push it down and peer in. Like looking down through a shallow slot.

The light in the motel room snapped on. The window blind threw a yellow square of light out over the Cadillac. Over the side of the red truck. Over my legs. I grunted and pushed off. Swam out onto the truck’s roof. Lay flat and silent. Held my breath.

The motel room door opened. The Kliner kid came out. Stared at the Cadillac. Stooped and looked inside. Walked around and checked the truck. Checked the cab doors. Tugged the handles. The vehicle shook and rocked under me. He walked around to the back and tried the rear doors. Tugged the handles. I heard the doors rattle against their locks.

He walked a circuit of the truck. I lay there and listened to the crack of his footsteps below. He checked the Cadillac again. Then he went back inside. The room door slammed. The light snapped off. The yellow square of light died.

I waited five minutes. Just lay there up on the roof and waited. Then I hauled myself up onto my elbows. Reached for the slot in the fiberglass that I’d just cut. Forced the flap down and hooked my fingers in. Dragged myself over and peered through.

The truck was empty. Totally empty. Nothing in it at all.

24

IT WAS OVER FOUR HUNDRED MILES BACK TO THE MARGRAVE station house. I drove all of them as fast as I dared. I needed to see Finlay. Needed to lay out a brand-new theory for him. I slotted the old Cadillac into a space right next to Teale’s brand-new model. Went inside and nodded to the desk guy. He nodded back.

“Finlay here?” I asked him.

“In back,” he told me. “The mayor’s with him.”

I skirted the reception counter and ran through the squad room to the rosewood office. Finlay was in there with Teale. Finlay had bad news for me. I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. Teale looked at me, surprised.

“You back in the army, Mr. Reacher?” he said.

Took me a second to catch on. He was talking about my fatigues and the camouflage jacket. I looked him up and down. He was in a shiny gray suit with embroidered patterns all over it. Bootlace tie with a silver clasp.

“Don’t you be talking to me about clothes, asshole,” I said.

He looked down at himself in surprise. Brushed off a speck that hadn’t been there. Glared up at me.

“I could have you arrested for language like that,” he said.

“And I could tear your head off,” I said to him. “And then I could stick it up your ratty old ass.”

We stood and glared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Teale gripped his heavy cane like he wanted to raise it up and hit me with it. I could see his hand tightening around it and his glance darting toward my head. But in the end he just stalked out of the office and slammed the door. I reopened it a crack and peered out after him. He was picking up a phone at one of the squad room desks. He was going to call Kliner. He was going to ask him when the hell he was going to do something about me. I shut the door again and turned to Finlay.

“What’s the problem?” I asked him.

“Serious shit,” he said. “But did you get a look in the truck?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” I said. “What’s the problem here?”

“You want the small problem first?” he said. “Or the big problem?”

“Small first,” I said.

“Picard’s keeping Roscoe another day,” he said. “No option.”

“Shit,” I said. “I wanted to see her. She happy with that?”

“According to Picard she is,” he said.

“Shit,” I said again. “So what’s the big problem?”

“Somebody’s ahead of us,” he whispered.

“Ahead of us?” I asked him. “What do you mean?”

“Your brother’s list?” he said. “The initials and the note about Sherman Stoller’s garage? First thing is there’s a telex in from the Atlanta PD this morning. Stoller’s house burned down in the night. Out by the golf course, where you went with Roscoe? Totally destroyed, garage and all. Torched. Somebody threw gasoline all over the place.”