“You can give me a ride to Denver. There’s a Greyhound station there.”
* * *
—
Lev Emerson’s message did make its way to the front man. It reached him almost immediately. And it found him in a trusting frame of mind. Or a greedy one. Emerson wasn’t sure which. And he didn’t care either way. Because the guy replied. No hesitation. No delay. It was nothing fancy. Just a time. A location. And a date.
Emerson sent his confirmation. The meeting was locked in. For the following day. At 10:00 a.m.
Emerson looked across the table at Graeber. He said, “Fetch a barrel. A big one. We have some mixing to do.”
Chapter 20
Curtis Riverdale spent more than an hour in Unit S1. He checked that everything would be ready for Friday afternoon. The equipment. The right people, with the right specialized skills. And he verified the arrangements for transport. That was the part that worried him the most. It made him nervous because it wasn’t under his direct control. In his gut he would have liked to run the whole operation. The entire show, from soup to nuts. But in his head he understood the value of compartmentalization. It was better all-around if no one at Minerva knew where the packages they sent out were going to end up. And it was better still if the guys who dealt with the final customers had no idea where the merchandise came from. The last thing Riverdale wanted was for the mess to land on Minerva’s doorstep if anyone down the line wound up with a bad outcome.
When Riverdale was finally satisfied he left S1 and started toward the first of the three general population units. The one that housed the most interesting inmates. He set out at speed but when he was halfway along the fenced-in walkway that connected the buildings he paused for a moment. He had realized something. If everything went according to plan on Friday it would be the first time a prisoner had moved from one category to another. It would be the first time. And, he hoped, the last. All it did was increase the risk they ran. For no good reason. And in Riverdale’s opinion, unnecessary risks should always be avoided.
Some people within the Minerva corporation misinterpreted Riverdale’s attitude. Damon Brockman was one of them. He took it as a sign that Riverdale was timid. Cautious. Even cowardly. He didn’t see that Riverdale was just a survivor. He was on to a good thing at Winson. He had worked hard for the opportunities his job offered him. And he was ready and willing to defend his position. To do whatever was necessary to save his skin.
If Brockman had been quicker he could have gotten a different perspective on the whole situation. He could have talked to the warden he had brought in to replace Riverdale. If only the new guy had paid more attention to the food that was brought to him from the prison kitchen. To its subtle, extra layer of flavor.
The food that was brought to him exclusively by members of Riverdale’s old guard.
* * *
—
Hannah Hampton drove fast. She was aggressive. But plenty of other drivers around her on I-25 were faster. And crazier. They were constantly zipping past her on both sides. Cutting in front. Crowding close up behind. Reacher saw trucks abandoned in the median, facing the wrong way. Cars sitting on the shoulder with their fronts and rears stove in. There were even a couple of SUVs in the fields next to the highway. One was upside down, on its roof.
Hannah saw Reacher looking at the wrecks. She said, “Must have rained recently. People down here don’t know how to drive in the rain.”
Reacher said, “It’s not raining now.”
Hannah shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about this place you’re going. Winson. It sounds pretty small. Off the beaten track. Do you think you can get all the way there on a Greyhound?”
“Probably not. But I’ll get close.”
“What will you do then?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll figure something out.”
Hannah hit her turn signal and pulled across to the right. A sign said the route to central Denver was coming up in a mile. Hannah slowed down, ready for the exit curve. Then she switched her foot onto the gas and swerved back onto the highway.
“Screw it,” she said. “Forget the bus. I’m taking you all the way to Mississippi.”
Reacher looked at her. “You sure? It must be twelve hundred miles.”
“So what? This is Sam’s truck. The tank’s full. He paid for the diesel. He wouldn’t want it to be wasted.”
“Burning up a dead guy’s fuel doesn’t seem like the best of reasons.”
“It’s not the only reason. I’ve got to leave town for a while, anyway. You told me that. Winson’s as good a place to go as anywhere. Probably. When we get there I can go see Danny Peel. Tell him about Sam in person. That’s got to be better than breaking the news on the phone. And I can check that Angela’s kid is OK.”