“How do you know that’s false?”
“Because I’ve been there. It’s another way of saying Yankee Stadium. And the guy used a false name, too. He signed the register as John Smith.”
“Smith? Could be his real name.”
Dr. Houllier shook his head. He took a Ziploc bag from the top drawer of his desk and handed it to Dendoncker. “See for yourself. This was in his pocket.”
Dendoncker popped the seal and fished out a passport. It was crumpled and worn. He turned to the second page. Personal Information. “This has expired.”
“Doesn’t matter. The ID’s still valid. And look at the photo. It’s old, but it’s a match.”
“OK. Let’s see. Name: Reacher. Jack, none. Nationality: United States of America. Place of birth: Berlin, West Germany. Interesting.” Dendoncker looked back at the body on the rack. At the scar on its abdomen. “Maybe he wasn’t looking for Michael. Maybe he was looking for me. It’s a good job that crazy bitch killed him after all.” Dendoncker turned away and tossed the passport in a trash can next to Dr. Houllier’s desk. “Observations?”
Dr. Houllier held out one of his special forms. The one he’d just finished filling in. Dendoncker read each comment twice then crumpled the paper and dropped it into the trash, on top of the passport.
“Burn those.” He turned to the two guys he arrived with. “Get rid of the body. Dump it in the usual place.”
Chapter 2
I first encountered the woman with the limp two days earlier. We met on a road outside the town with the dimly lit compound and the medical center where Dr. Houllier worked. The whole area was deserted. I was on foot. She was in a Jeep. It looked like it was ex-military. Old. Maybe Vietnam War era. Its stenciled markings were too faded to read. Its olive drab paintwork was caked and crusted with pale dust. It had no roof. No doors. Its windshield was folded forward, but not latched. The racks and straps for holding fuel cans and tools were empty and slack. The tread on its tires was worn way below the recommended minimum. Its motor wasn’t running. Its spare wheel was missing. Not the kind of thing anyone would call a well-maintained vehicle.
The sun was high in the sky. I guess a thermometer would have said it was a little over eighty but the lack of shade made it feel much hotter. Sweat was trickling down my back. The wind was picking up and grit was stinging my face. Walking hadn’t been part of my plan when I woke up that morning. But plans change. And not always for the better. It looked like the woman’s plans had taken an unwelcome turn as well. A fair chunk of the Jeep’s remaining rubber was now streaked across the faded blacktop from where she’d skidded. She’d gone right off the road and plowed into the trunk of a tree. A stunted, twisted, ugly thing with hardly any leaves. It wasn’t going to win any prizes for appearance. That was for sure. But it was clearly resilient. It was the only thing growing taller than knee height for miles in either direction. If the driver had lost control at any other point she would have wound up in the rough scrub on either side of the road. Probably been able to reverse right back out. The landscape looked like a bunch of giants had shoved their hands under a coarse green blanket and stretched their fingers wide.
How the woman had hit that exact spot was a mystery. Maybe the sun had blinded her. Maybe an animal had run out, or a bird had swooped down. It was unlikely that another vehicle had been involved. Maybe she was depressed and had done it on purpose. But whatever had caused her accident, that was a problem for another time.
The woman was slumped over the steering wheel. Her left arm was stretched forward across the flattened windshield. Her hand was open like she was reaching out to the tree for help. Her right arm was folded into her abdomen. She was facing down, into the footwell. She was completely inert. There was no sign of bleeding. No sign of any other injuries, which was good. But there was also no sound of breathing. I figured I should check for a pulse or some other indication she was alive so I stepped in close to the side of the Jeep. I reached for her neck, slowly and gently. I brushed her hair aside and homed in on her carotid. Then she sat up. Fast. She twisted around to face me. Used her left hand to bat my arm away. And her right to point a pistol at my gut.
She waited a beat, presumably to make sure I wasn’t about to freak out. She wanted my full attention. That was clear. Then she said, “Move back. One step only.” Her voice was firm but calm, with no hint of panic or doubt.
I moved back. One step. I made it a large one. And I realized why she’d been looking down through the steering wheel at the floor of the vehicle. There was a piece of mirror wedged between the gas pedal and the transmission tunnel. She must have cut it to the right size and positioned it to give an early warning of anyone who approached her.