I scrambled up the yard of earth and crunched over the ballast stones and stood on a tie. To my right the track ran straight all the way south to the Gulf. To my left it ran straight north, all the way to wherever it went. I could see the road crossing far in the distance, and the old water tower. The rails either side of me were burnished bright by the passage of iron wheels. Ahead of me were more low trees and bushes, and beyond them was a field, and beyond the field were houses.
I heard a helicopter, somewhere east and a little north. I scanned the horizon and saw a Blackhawk in the air, about three miles away. Heading for Kelham, I assumed. I listened to the whap-whap-whap of its rotor and the whine of its turbine, and I watched it maintain direction but lose height as it came in to land. Then I scrambled down the far side of the earth berm and headed onward through the next belt of trees.
I hiked across the field that came next and stepped over a wire and found myself on a street I figured was parallel with Emmeline McClatchy's. In fact I could see the back of the house with the beer signs in the windows. The ad-hoc bar. But between it and me were other houses, all surrounded by yards. Private property. In the yard dead ahead of me two guys were sitting in white plastic chairs. Old men. They were watching me. By the look of them they were taking a break from some kind of hard physical labor. I stopped at their fence line and asked, "Would you do me a favor?"
They didn't answer in words, but they cocked their chins up like they were listening. I said, "Would you let me walk through your yard? I need to get to the next street."
The guy on the left asked, "Why?" He had a fringe of white beard, but no mustache.
I said, "I'm visiting with a person who lives there."
"Who?"
"Emmeline McClatchy."
"You with the army?"
I said, "Yes, I am."
"Then Emmeline doesn't want a visit from you. Nor does anyone else around here."
"Why not?"
"Because of Bruce Lindsay, most recently."
"Was he a friend of yours?"
"He surely was."
"Bullshit," I said. "He told me he had no friends. You all called him deformed and shunned him and made his life a misery. So don't get up on your high horse now."
"You got some mouth on you, son."
"More than just a mouth."
"You going to shoot us too?"
"I'm sorely tempted."
The old guy cracked a grin. "Come on through. But be nice to Emmeline. This thing with Bruce Lindsay shook her up all over again."
I walked the depth of their yard and heard the Blackhawk again, taking off from Kelham, far in the distance. A short visit for somebody, or a delivery, or a pickup. I saw it rise above the treetops, a distant speck, nose down, accelerating north.
I stepped over a wire fence at the end of the yard. Now I was in the bar's lot. Still private, technically, but in principle bars welcome passersby rather than run them off. And the place was deserted, anyway. I looped past the building and made it out to the street unmolested.
And saw an army Humvee easing to a stop outside the McClatchy house.
58
A Humvee is a very wide vehicle, and it was on a very narrow dirt road. It almost filled it, ditch to ditch. It was painted in standard green and black camouflage colors, and it was very clean. Maybe brand new.
I walked toward it and it came to a stop and the motor shut off. The driver's door opened and a guy climbed down. He was in woodland-pattern BDUs and clean boots. Since before the start of my career, battledress uniform had been worn with subdued name tapes and badges of rank, and like everything else in the army the definition of subdued had been specified within an inch of its life, to the point where names and ranks were unreadable from more than three or four feet away. An officer-led initiative, for sure. Officers worried about snipers picking them off first. The result was I had no idea who had just gotten out of the Humvee. Could have been a private first class, could have been a two-star general. Three-stars and above don't drive themselves. Not usually. Not on business. Not off duty either. They don't do much of anything themselves.
But I had a clear premonition about who the guy was. An easy conclusion, actually. Who else was authorized to be out and about? He even looked like me. Same kind of height, same kind of build, similar coloring. It was like looking in a mirror, except he was five years my junior, and it showed in the way he moved. He was bouncing around with plenty of energy. An impartial judge would have said he looked young and overexuberant. The same judge would have said I looked old and overtired. Such was the contrast between us.
He watched me approach, curious about who I was, curious about a white man in a black neighborhood. I let him gawp until I was six feet away. My eyesight is as good as it ever was, and I can read subdued tapes from further than I should, especially on bright sunlit Mississippi afternoons.
His tapes said: Munro. U.S. Army.
He had little tan oak leaves on his collar, to show he was a major. He had a field cap on his head, the same camouflage pattern as his blouse and his pants. He had fine lines around his eyes, which were about the only evidence he wasn't born yesterday.
I had the advantage, because my shirt was plain. Civilian issue. No name tape. So I stood there for a moment in silence. I could smell diesel from his ride, and rubber from its tires. I could hear its engine tick as it cooled. I could hear the breeze in Emmeline McClatchy's shade tree.
Then I stuck out my hand and said, "Jack Reacher."
He took it and said, "Duncan Munro."
I asked, "What brings you here?"
He said, "Let's sit in the truck a spell."
A Humvee is equally wide inside, but most of the space is taken up by a gigantic transmission tunnel. The front seats are small and far apart. It was like sitting in adjacent traffic lanes. I think the separation suited both our moods.
Munro said, "The situation is changing."
I said, "The situation is always changing. Get used to it."
"The officer in question has been relieved of his command."
"Reed Riley?"
"We're not supposed to use that name."
"Who's going to know? You think this truck is wired for sound?"
"I'm just trying to maintain protocol."
"Was that him in the Blackhawk?"
Munro nodded. "He's on his way back to Benning. Then they're going to move him on and hide him away somewhere."
"Why?"
"There was some big panic two hours ago. The phone lines were burning up. I don't know why."
"Kelham just lost its quarantine force, that's why."
"That again? There never was a quarantine force. I told you that."
"I just met them. Bunch of civilian yahoos."
"Like Ruby Ridge?"
"But less professional."
"Why do people do stupid shit like that?"
"They envy our glamorous lives."
"What happened to them?"
"I chased them away."
"So then someone felt he had to withdraw Riley. You're not going to be popular."
"I don't want to be popular. I want to get the job done. This is the army, not high school."
"He's a senator's son. He's making his name. Did you know the Marine Corps employs lobbyists?"
I said, "I heard that."
"This was our version."
I looked out my window at the McClatchy place, at its low roof, its mud-stained siding, its mean windows, its spreading tree. I asked, "Why did you come here?"