He didn’t want to look like a kid.
* * *
—
Back in L.A., Jed’s foster mother had not slept.
She had gone to bed at her regular time but she was too angry to get any rest. Too angry, and too busy listening for Jed’s furtive footsteps. She figured he was out somewhere, carousing with friends. Or worse, with a girl. He must have thought he could break his curfew and do who knew what kind of immoral things without anyone noticing. That he could sneak back home in the middle of the night and act like nothing had happened.
He was wrong.
She was going to show him exactly how wrong.
She spent hours lying still and writing sermons in her head. Rehearsing the lectures she would give him. The admonishments. The punishments. She was practically exhausted by all the thinking when her morning alarm went off. By then the time and her tiredness were turning her anger into worry. Jed still wasn’t back. It wasn’t like him to stay out all night. She started to think about calling the local hospitals. Maybe the police. Then her worry morphed into full-blown fear. She went to get dressed and found her emergency fund was gone. But twenty-dollar bills don’t just disappear. They must have been taken. She checked Jed’s closet. Some of his clothes were missing. A strange selection, not what she would have picked if she were taking a trip, but there were definitely gaps. And to seal the deal, when she looked in the bathroom, Jed’s toothbrush was gone.
Jed had run away with her money. There was no other explanation. The ungrateful, thieving brat.
Jed’s foster mother abandoned the process of getting ready for work. She fetched the phone. Called her boss. Said she was too sick to come in that day. Then she dialed 911 and had a different kind of conversation.
Jed had been desperate not to break the law. To avoid the police coming after him. It hadn’t dawned on him there were other reasons for that to happen. He’d been too focused on chasing his new goal. On starting his new life.
* * *
—
Lev Emerson hadn’t slept much that night, either.
He had spent fourteen hours in his car, with Graeber, blasting north from Georgia through Tennessee and Kentucky and Indiana and then across the corner of Illinois until they reached the outskirts of Chicago. They had split the driving, which was good for safety. But not good for Emerson’s state of mind. He had called his wife when he was still on the bridge in Savannah, watching the fire he had set. Her voice had been distant and mechanical, the way a dead person sounds in a dream. She had told him about Kyle. Their son. His rehabilitation had been going so well. Until suddenly it wasn’t. That afternoon. His body just shut down. First his liver, of course. Then one system after another. A cascade of total catastrophic failures. She had called the doctor right away but it was already too late. Nothing could be done. Kyle had shriveled and shrunk and slipped away right in front of her. She had been powerless to stop him.
Kyle was only twenty-two. It wasn’t right. Not after everything they’d done to help him. Not after the amount of money they’d spent.
While Emerson was behind the wheel he had other things to focus on. Not crashing. Not getting pulled over with the needle north of 120. Straightening that kind of thing out can cause serious delays. But when Graeber was driving Emerson found it harder to control his emotions. His wife’s words echoed in his head. Memories of his son crowded in after them. Along with the regrets. So many regrets. And so much reluctance to face the scene he knew must await him at home.
Graeber’s car was parked in Emerson’s garage. He had left it there when they set off for Georgia. Emerson had driven the last leg so he hit the remote, waited for the door to clank up and out of the way, and pulled in alongside it. Graeber reached for the door handle but before he got out he turned to his boss. “What do you want us to do?”
Emerson thought for a moment. About the things he would have to handle when he went inside the house. How long they would take. Then he said, “Call Shevchenko. He owes us, big-time. Tell him we need a plane. Today. And maybe a chopper, tomorrow or the next day. Then meet me at the warehouse. In two hours. Bring the others. And pack a bag.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find the people who sold the thing that killed my son.”
Chapter 13
Jack Reacher slept lightly in his replacement room. He woke himself at 9:00 a.m. He showered. He got dressed. And he had just folded his toothbrush, ready to leave, when there was a heavy knock at his door.
“Jack Reacher? This is Detective Harewood, Gerrardsville PD. Are you in there? We need to talk.”