The guy said, “Hold it. That’s close enough.”
Reacher kept moving. He closed the gap to ten feet.
The guy’s hand hovered over the grip of his pistol. He said, “Stop. Keep your hands where I can see them. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. We just need to talk.”
Reacher closed the gap to four feet. Then he said, “Anyone else.”
“What?” the guy said.
“Someone already got hurt. The woman you pushed. Was there a need for that?”
The guy’s mouth opened and closed but no words came out.
Reacher said, “Down on the ground. Fingers laced behind your head.”
The guy didn’t respond.
“Maybe there is no need for anyone else to get hurt,” Reacher said. “And by anyone, I mean you. It all depends on what you do next.”
The guy went for his gun. He was fast. But not fast enough. Reacher grabbed the guy’s wrist and whipped it away to his right, spinning him around so he was facing the wall.
“Stop.” The guy’s voice was suddenly shrill. “Wait. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to see how you like it,” Reacher said. “There’s no bus. But there are bricks. They’ll have to do.”
Reacher let go of the guy’s wrist. Moved his hand up. Planted it between the guy’s shoulder blades. And pushed. It was a huge motion. Savage. Wild. Way more than sufficient. The guy tried to save himself but he had no chance. The force was overwhelming. He smashed into the wall, face-first, and flopped onto the ground like the bones in his legs had dissolved. Blood was sluicing down from the gashes in his forehead. His nose was broken. There was a serious chance he could suffocate. Or drown.
Neither of those outcomes would have worried Reacher too much.
Chapter 5
Reacher’s plan had been to scoop the guy up and carry him back to the bus. That way he’d be ready for when the police arrived. But when he retrieved the trash bag, he paused. The woman’s purse was inside. And something in her purse was worth killing for. Reacher had been an investigator in the army for thirteen years. Old habits die hard. And he couldn’t hear any sirens yet. He knew he had a little time.
Reacher picked up the fallen gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then he wrestled the guy into the recovery position at the foot of the wall and started with his pockets. There was nothing with a name or an address, as Reacher expected, but the guy did have a bunch of keys. Reacher selected the sharpest one and used it to hack a pair of rough, broad strips from around the top of the trash bag. He wrapped the strips around his hands and took out the purse. It was eighteen inches square, made from some kind of faux leather, tan color, with a long narrow shoulder strap as well as regular handles. One side was speckled with blood. The opening was secured with a zipper. Reacher unfastened it. He rummaged inside. The first thing he pulled out was the woman’s wallet. It held a Mississippi driver’s license with the name Angela St. Vrain and an address in a town called Winson. There were three dollars in singles. A wad of receipts from a supermarket and a drugstore. And a photograph of Angela with a little girl. Maybe three years old. The family resemblance was clear. Mother and daughter. Reacher had no doubt.
Reacher set the wallet on the ground and delved back into the purse. He pulled out a laminated card on a pale blue lanyard. A work ID. It showed that Angela was a prison employee of some kind. At a place called the Minerva Correctional Facility, which was also in Winson, Mississippi. He found a hairbrush and a bunch of makeup and other personal items. A key ring, with three keys on it. And an envelope. It was regular manila style. Letter size. But it was addressed to someone else. Another resident of Winson, Mississippi, called Danny Peel. And it had been opened.
The envelope contained one black-and-white photograph—a mug shot dated sixteen years ago—and a stack of papers. The photograph was of a young adult male. His face was drawn and pinched and he had a smattering of close-cropped hair. A recent cut, Reacher thought, based on the pale skin shining through the stubble. He was also drawn to the kid’s eyes. They were set close together, and they were wide open, looking half-frightened, half-confused. And the kid had another unusual feature. One of his earlobes was missing. His left. It looked like it had been sliced off. Its edge was straight and raw and a scar was visible on his neck, running around the back of his head. Done by a straight razor, Reacher thought. Someone must have slashed at the kid, going for his throat, and the kid must have twisted and hunched and pulled away. Not fast enough to avoid getting cut. But fast enough to not get killed. Which was something, Reacher thought. Maybe.