Hannah coasted to the side of the road. Reacher climbed out, walked back, and opened the mailbox lid. The junk was still there. Four envelopes, all loose. Also in the box was an elastic band. The kind mail carriers use to hold all the correspondence for the same address together. Someone had removed it and set the separate letters free.
Reacher cut across the muddy lot toward the garage. He let himself in and picked up the maintenance log Danny had kept for the Stingray. He flicked through until he found a number of specific characters. Two capitals. The rest lower case. Then he walked back to the VW, climbed in, and said, “We’re not going to Hattiesburg.”
Chapter 40
The coffee was strong, but it still couldn’t keep Lev Emerson awake long enough to reach the state line. He had no choice but to let Graeber drive for a while. He was counting on only napping for a couple of hours, just until he got his second wind, but when he woke up five hours had passed. The van was parked outside a square brick building, four miles north of Vicksburg, Mississippi. The building was the last in a line of three in a paved compound a stone’s throw from the river. It was surrounded by trees and a rusty chain-link fence. There was a single-width gate, which hadn’t been locked. Each building had two entrances. A vehicle door to the left, tall and wide enough for a van or small truck. And a personnel door to the right. Each had four windows in its second floor, square and dark beneath their crumbling concrete lintels.
Graeber waited for Emerson to get his bearings, then said, “Morning, boss.”
Emerson grunted and checked his mug for any last dregs of coffee.
Graeber said, “The other two buildings are deserted. This one doesn’t look much better but the locks are new. They’re solid. It’s in use.”
“Any sign of the guy?”
“Not yet.”
Emerson checked his watch. It was 8:30. He grunted again, a little louder this time.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later a car appeared at the gate. A huge wallowing Cadillac coupe from the 1970s. It was burgundy. Its paint was shiny. It was well cared for. A guy climbed out. He could have been the same age as the car. He was a little under six feet tall, stocky, with a round face and brown curly hair. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans. He shoved the gate open. Drove through. Closed the gate. Continued to the last building in line, and swung in next to Emerson’s van.
Emerson worked on the principle that if something wasn’t broken there was no need to fix it. He waited for Graeber to jump out with a clipboard in his hand, approach the guy from the Cadillac, and say he needed a quote to get a special consignment delivered. Then Emerson slipped out through the passenger door, looped around the back of the van, and clamped a rag soaked in chloroform over the guy’s mouth and nose. He didn’t hold it in place as long as he had done in St. Louis, the day before. They didn’t have to move the guy very far. They just wanted to keep him compliant while they got set up. And because no one could notice what they were doing, there was no need for subtlety. So they let him fall to the ground when the chemical had done its job and dragged him toward the building.
Graeber took the keys from the guy’s pocket and found the one he needed to open the vehicle door. There were two vans inside. Both were black. One was a few years old and displayed the kind of dents and scuffs that accrue during a life spent earning a living. The other looked almost unused. The first was empty. The second had an air-conditioning unit on its roof and its cargo area was fitted out with full length roll-out racks on both sides.
The far end of the space was set up as a mechanical bay. There were three giant toolboxes on wheels along the wall. Oil stains on the floor. And a hoist attached to a girder on the ceiling with chains hanging down for removing engines. The cogs looked seized and rusty like they hadn’t seen much action for many years.
Graeber reversed both vans out into the courtyard and then watched the guy from the Cadillac while they waited for him to regain consciousness. Emerson searched the office, which was walled off in the remaining quarter of the building’s first floor. He found all the usual administrative stuff. A calendar on the wall. A computer on the desk. Paperwork and stationery items in the drawers. But nothing that gave any insights into the confidential side of the guy’s business. The only thing of interest was a pod-style coffee machine on a low file cabinet. Emerson used it to make a mug for himself and another for Graeber.
* * *
—
When the Cadillac guy woke up he was naked. He was on tiptoes in a pool of congealed oil. His arms were above his head, cable tied to the chains from the engine hoist. A barrel he had never seen before was standing in front of him, just too far away to kick. There was a ladle on top of it. The kind they use in restaurants. The guy was silent for a moment. He stayed still. Confusion creased his face. Then anger took over. He yelled. He yanked on the chains. He tugged them from side to side. He kicked out in all directions. But all he did was hurt his wrists and skin the balls of his feet.