“The same reason you looked in Sam’s. A friend was gone. She was checking to see if there was anything important that needed to be handled. She recognized his handwriting. Figured there was something fishy. Maybe he’d mentioned finding something out to her, before. Maybe she made the connection herself. We’ll never know.”
Hannah was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “The timing fits, I guess. She got the envelope Saturday morning. Emailed Sam Saturday afternoon. Left Winson Sunday, because she needed to find someone to watch her kid. It was maybe late-ish in the day when she got on the road. And because she was one person, traveling on her own with no one to share the driving, she needed an extra overnight stop. Which got her to Gerrardsville Tuesday morning.”
Reacher nodded. “It fits.”
“And someone from Minerva knew you looked in the envelope Angela had before they got it back. They tried to stop you getting here. They failed. So they used another envelope addressed to Danny to trick you into leaving again. They probably figured if you looked in one, you’d look in another.”
“It almost worked.”
“That part’s fine. But here’s what I don’t get. The first envelope was full of stuff about this Begovic guy’s successful appeal. Which appears to be legit. Now, Angela told Sam the thing she was into had to do with accounting. What’s the connection between accounting and Begovic?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“Maybe we should try and figure that out instead of going to the ceremony.”
“I’m going to the ceremony. You don’t have to.”
“What could we possibly learn there? And it could be dangerous. Minerva people are bound to recognize us.”
“That would be dangerous. For them.”
“How about this? We could watch it online. Minerva has its own YouTube channel. There’s no need to go in person.”
“There is.”
“What?”
“Someone tried very hard to stop me.”
Chapter 41
Reacher counted thirty-nine people outside the prison, aside from Hannah and himself.
He knew why eleven of them were there. Jed Starmer had come to see his dad get released. The two camera operators and six security guards were getting paid. Bruno Hix, who had introduced himself as Minerva’s founder and CEO, was enjoying the sound of his own voice. And Damon Brockman, who also claimed to be a founder, was standing on the stage, looking smug. Reacher was less sure about the other twenty-eight. He couldn’t understand what kind of carrot or stick would make it worth the waste of their time.
Things livened up a little with just over ten minutes on the clock. Hix had been waffling about percentages and quoting philosophers, one minute waving his arms like he worked in an auction house, the next standing stiff and still like someone was shoving a stick up his ass. Then he stopped talking mid-statistic. An old pickup truck trundled into sight behind the crowd. Six people were perched in its load bed. The driver honked his horn and the nearest spectators moved out of the way. For a moment it looked set to make a run at the barrier. Reacher moved alongside Jed Starmer in case there was trouble. Then the truck stopped. The six guys jumped down. They produced placards that were covered with slogans about justice and profit. One showed a cartoon with Lady Justice’s scales weighed down with dollar bills. A guy raised a bullhorn. He started yelling demands that the prison close. The crowd didn’t like that. The mood turned ugly. Jeering broke out. The protestors were getting shoved and jostled. The security guards ran over to the fence, nightsticks drawn.
Hix jumped down from the stage, microphone in hand, and strode across to the fence. He said, “Stop. Let the people speak.”
The guy with the bullhorn took the microphone. He was silent for a moment, then mumbled his way through a litany of complaints and accusations.
Hix nodded and pulled a series of concerned expressions, then he took the microphone back and the sound immediately became clear and louder. He said, “My young friends, I’m glad you came here today. I’m glad—” Hix locked eyes with Reacher and suddenly he couldn’t find his voice. He stuttered and spluttered for a moment, then tore his gaze away. “I’m glad you care about fairness and humanity. If you were outside another correctional corporation’s facility, there’s a very good chance you’d be right. But here, I’m glad to say, you’re wrong. Minerva cares for the health of those who reside within our walls. Minerva cares for safety. For education. For unlocking potential. And”—Hix turned and dashed back to the stage—“we care about righting wrongs wherever we find them. But don’t just take my word for it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Anton Begovic.”