The guy just looked at him.
“Dumb question, right?” the employer said. “You’re a carpenter and I’m asking you if you got a saw? Just show me your best saw.”
The guy stood still for a moment, then he ducked down and pulled a power saw from the stack of tools. A big thing in dull metal, wicked circular blade, fresh sawdust caked all around it.
“Crosscut?” the employer asked. “Good for ripping through real tough stuff?”
The guy nodded.
“It does the job,” he said, cautiously.
“OK, here’s the deal,” the employer said. “We need a demonstration.”
“Of the saw?” the guy asked.
“Of the room,” the employer said.
“The room?” the guy repeated.
“Supposed to be nobody can get out of it,” the employer said. “That’s the idea behind it, right?”
“You designed it,” the guy said.
“But did you build it right?” the employer said. “That’s what I’m asking here. We need a trial run. A demonstration to prove it serves its purpose.”
“OK, how?” the guy asked.
“You go in there,” the employer said. “See if you can get out by morning. You built it, right? So you know all the weak spots. If anybody can get out, you can, that’s for damn sure, right?”
The guy was quiet for a long moment. Trying to understand.
“And if I can?” he asked.
The employer shrugged.
“Then you don’t get paid,” he said. “Because you didn’t build it right.”
The guy went quiet again. Wondering if the employer was joking.
“You spot the flaw in my logic?” the employer asked. “The way you’re figuring it right now, it’s in your interest just to sit there on your ass all night, then tomorrow you say to me no sir, I couldn’t get out of there, no sir, not at all.”
The carpenter laughed a short nervous laugh.
“That’s how I was thinking,” he said.
“So what you need is an incentive,” the employer said. “Understand? To make sure you try real hard to get out.”
The carpenter glanced up at the blanked-off second-story corner. When he glanced back down, there was a dull black automatic in the employer’s hand.
“There’s a sack in the truck,” the employer said. “Go get it, OK?”
The carpenter just looked around, astonished. The employer pointed the gun at his head.
“Get the sack,” he said quietly.
There was nothing in the pickup bed. There was a burlap sack on the passenger seat. Wrapped into a package maybe a foot and a half long. It was heavy. Felt like reaching into a freezer at the market and pulling out a side of pig.
“Open it up,” the employer called. “Take a look.”
The carpenter peeled back the burlap. First thing he saw was a finger. Icy white, because the blood had drained. Yellow workman’s calluses standing out, big and obvious.
“I’m going to put you in the room now,” the employer called to him. “You don’t get out by morning, I’m going to do that to you, OK? With your own damn saw, because mine went dull doing those.”
9
REACHER LAY QUIETLY on the dirty straw in his stall in the cow barn. Not asleep, but his body was shut down to the point where he might as well have been. Every muscle was relaxed and his breathing was slow and even. His eyes were closed because the barn was dark and there was nothing to see. But his mind was wide awake. Not racing, but just powering steadily along with that special nighttime intensity you get in the absence of any other distractions.
He was doing two things at once. First, he was keeping track of time. It was nearly two hours since he had last looked at his watch, but he knew what time it was to within about twenty seconds. It was an old skill, born of many long wakeful nights on active service. When you’re waiting for something to happen, you close your body down like a beach house in winter and you let your mind lock onto the steady pace of the passing seconds. It’s like suspended animation. It saves energy and it lifts the responsibility for your heartbeat away from your unconscious brain and passes it on to some kind of a hidden clock. Makes a huge black space for thinking in. But it keeps you just awake enough to be ready for whatever you need to be ready for. And it means you always know what time it is.
The second simultaneous thing Reacher was doing was playing around with a little mental arithmetic. He was multiplying big numbers in his head. He was thirty-seven years and eight months old, just about to the day. Thirty- seven multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five was thirteen thousand five hundred and five. Plus twelve days for twelve leap years was thirteen thousand five hundred and seventeen. Eight months counting from his birthday in October forward to this date in June was two hundred and forty-three days. Total of thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty days since he was born. Thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty days, thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty nights. He was trying to place this particular night somewhere on that endless scale. In terms of how bad it was.
Truth was, it wasn’t the best night he had ever passed, but it was a long way from being the worst. A very long way. The first four or so years of his life, he couldn’t remember anything at all, which left about twelve thousand three hundred nights to account for. Probability was, this particular night was up there in the top third. Without even trying hard, he could have reeled off thousands of nights worse than this one. Tonight, he was warm, comfortable, uninjured, not under any immediate threat, and he’d been fed. Not well, but he felt that came from a lack of skill rather than from active malice. So physically he had no complaints.
Mentally, it was a different story. He was suspended in a vacuum just as impenetrable as the darkness inside the cow barn. The problem was the total lack of information. He was not a guy who necessarily felt uncomfortable with some lack of information. He was the son of a Marine officer and he had lived the military life literally all the way since birth. Therefore confusion and unpredictability were what he was accustomed to. But tonight, there was just too much missing.
He didn’t know where he was. Whether by accident or by design, the three kidnappers had given him absolutely no clue at all where they were headed. It made him feel adrift. His particular problem was, living the military life from birth, out of those thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty days of his life, he’d spent probably much less than a fifth of them actually inside the United States. He was as American as the President, but he’d lived and served all over the world most of his life. Outside the United States. It had left him knowing his own country about as well as the average seven-year-old knows it. So he couldn’t decode the subtle rhythms and feel and smells of America as well as he wanted to. It was possible that somebody else could interpret the unseen contours of the invisible landscape or the feel of the air or the temperature of the night and say yes, I’m in this state now or that state now. It was possible people could do that. But Reacher couldn’t. It gave him a problem.
Added to that he had no idea who the kidnappers were. Or what their business was. Or what their intentions were. He’d studied them closely, every opportunity he’d had. Conclusions were difficult. The evidence was all contradictory. Three of them, youngish, maybe somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, fit, trained to act together with a measure of efficiency. They were almost military, but not quite. They were organized, but not official. Their appearance shrieked: amateurs.
Because they were so neat. They all had new clothes, plain chain store cottons and poplins, fresh haircuts. Their weapons were fresh out of the box. The Glocks were brand-new. The shotgun was brand-new, packing grease still visible. Those factors meant they weren’t any kind of professionals. Because professionals do this stuff every day. Whoever they are, Special Forces, CIA, FBI, detectives, it’s their job. They wear working clothes. They use weapons they signed out last year, the year before, tried and trusted weapons, chipped weapons, scratched
