The guy kept on crawling. He made it to the front of the stage. Stretched up. One hand scrabbled for grip on the wooden surface. The other grabbed the rim of an ice trough. The guy tried to haul himself up but only managed to pull the trough off the stage. It was full of cream-colored gel. The gel flooded across his chest. It flowed down to the front of his pants and mingled with the blood that had soaked into the material. He fell back. Rolled over. Clawed his way onto his knees. Straightened his back. Pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and turned to look at Reacher.
“Now I’m glad you didn’t shoot these assholes.” The guy took out a match. “Now they’ll get what they deserve.”
The guy struck the match. A flame flared at its tip. He seemed mesmerized by it for a moment. Then his knees buckled. He toppled backward again. He dropped the match. It landed on his stomach. It was still alight.
Reacher jumped away. It was an instinctive response. A reaction to fire that was baked deep into the back of his brain. Impossible to resist. He felt the heat on his face and arms. Heard a crump sound. Thought he heard the guy laugh. Thought he could see him smile. Then he raised the SIG and shot him between the eyes.
The guy’s body lay still. The flames danced on.
* * *
—
Reacher heard two sets of footsteps approaching. Both were cautious. And they were separate. Maurice appeared on the porch first. Then Begovic. Maurice stood still. Begovic jumped down and headed toward the stage. Toward his former captors. Then he changed course. He crossed to where Jed was lying and stood and looked down at the kid.
Maurice said quietly, “Are they dead?”
Reacher pointed to the burned-up guys. “Those two are. The others are drugged. They’ll be fine.”
“Should we cut the Minerva guys down?”
Reacher shook his head. “Not yet. There’s one more person hiding in the woodwork. Maybe more than one. We need these guys as bait.”
Chapter 47
Reacher carried Hannah through the gap in the gates and laid her down in the back of the van he’d taken from the prison. Begovic followed and placed Jed next to her. Maurice trailed along at the rear. He didn’t want to be left alone in the yard with the dead bodies.
Reacher closed the van’s doors and turned to Begovic. “Can you drive?”
Begovic said, “I guess. I used to be able to. But that was fifteen years ago.”
“The principle hasn’t changed.” Reacher held out the keys. “Go half a mile up the road. Then pull over and stay there until I join you.”
* * *
—
Reacher waited until the van was moving then asked Maurice for his phone. He dialed 911. The emergency operator answered after two rings.
Reacher said, “I need the police. And if you can do it, a priest. A guy’s had an accident in his yard. His name’s Bruno Hix. He keeps talking about something bad he got involved in. Says he wants to make a confession.”
The operator said, “Sir, what’s the address where the accident happened?”
Reacher read the details from a plaque on the wall at the side of Hix’s gates.
“Your name, sir?”
“Chivington. John.”
“OK, sir. I can’t help you with the priest. But I will send the police. And the paramedics. Hang in there. Help will be with you shortly.”
Reacher ended the call and handed the phone back to Maurice.
Maurice said, “What now? Should I stay? Or go?”
“That’s up to you. Are you only interested in Minerva? Or do you have time for an exposé on dirty cops?”
* * *
—
One police car arrived, seven minutes later. A Dodge Charger. Brand-new. Unmarked. It had a dome light flashing on the dash and it was moving fast. It slid to a stop at the side of the black van that had its nose embedded in Hix’s gate. The driver’s door opened. An officer jumped out. He was pushing sixty. His uniform was crisp. It was neatly pressed, but it was tight around his gut. He drew his gun and hurried toward the house.
The cop skirted the building and stepped onto the back porch. He glanced at the two burned corpses. Emerson’s was still smoldering. Then he jumped down, hurried across the grass, and hauled himself up onto the stage. Hix was starting to regain consciousness. The cop slapped Hix’s face. Over and over. A flurry of short, sharp blows. He said, “Bruno, what the hell happened? Who called 911?”
Hix didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
“Who are these dead guys? How come you’re all strung up like this? Where the hell are your clothes?”