Then came the lists, of plain names and old occupations, and the world of nearly ninety years before seemed to rise up all around. There were button makers, and hat makers, and glove makers, and turpentine farmers, and laborers, and locomotive engineers, and silk spinners, and tin mill workers. There was a separate section titled Unusual Occupations For Children. Most were optimistically classified as apprentices. Or helpers. There were blacksmiths and brick masons and engine hostlers and ladlers and pourers and smelter boys.
There were no Reachers. Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year Stan was two.
He wheeled his way back to the top and started again, this time paying particular attention to the dependent children column. Maybe there had been a gruesome accident, and orphan baby Stan had been taken in by unrelated but kindly neighbors. Maybe they had noted his birth name as a tribute.
There were no dependent children separately identified as Stan Reacher. Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year he was supposed to be two.
Reacher found the place in the top left of the screen, with the three little buttons, red, orange, green, like a tiny traffic signal laid on its side. He clicked twice on red and the document went away. He opened up the right-hand icon, and he found the sixteenth census, different Secretary, different Director, but the same substantial improvements since the last time around. Then came the lists, now just eighty years old instead of ninety, the difference faintly discernable, with more jobs in factories, and fewer on the land.
But still no Reachers.
Not in Laconia, New Hampshire, the year Stan Reacher was supposed to be twelve.
He clicked twice on the little red button and the document went away.
Chapter 5
Shorty tried the key one more time, but again nothing happened. There was nothing but a soft mechanical click, which was just the physical key itself, turning inside the barrel on the steering column. A soft little click no one ever heard, because normally it was drowned out instantly by the sounds of a car bursting into life. Same thing with the click of a trigger, ahead of a gunshot.
But not that morning. The Honda felt dead. Like a sick old dog, gone in the night. A whole different condition. No response at all. Some kind of charge gone out of it.
Patty said, “I think we better call a mechanic.”
Peter looked over her shoulder. She turned, and she saw the other three guys walking up toward them. From the house, or the barn. The main man was in the lead, as always. Mark, who had checked them in the night before. Who had invited them to dinner. The guy with the smile. Behind him was Steven, and then Robert. They arrived and Mark said, “How are we doing this morning?”
Peter said, “Not great.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Can’t tell. It’s dead as a doornail. I guess something fried.”
“We should call a mechanic,” Patty said. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
“It started last night,” Shorty said. “First turn of the key.”
Mark smiled and said, “Yes, it did.”
“Now it’s dead. Just saying. I know this car. I’ve had it a long time. It has good days and bad days, but it never dies.”
Mark was quiet for a long moment.
Then he smiled again and said, “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.”
“Maybe poking around in there made it worse.”
“You think Peter broke it?”
“Something did, between last night and right now. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe it was Peter, and maybe it wasn’t. Doesn’t even matter anymore. Because the thing is, you guys poking around in there is pretty much the same thing as you guys assuming responsibility for it. Because you’re a motel. I’m sure there are innkeeper laws. Safekeeping of guest property, all that kind of issue.”
Again Mark went quiet.
“He doesn’t mean it,” Patty said. “He’s upset, is all.”
Mark just shook his head, hardly moving at all, as if he was shrugging off the smallest of things. He looked at Shorty and said, “Stress is a hard thing to deal with, I agree. I think we all know that. But equally I think we all know the smart play here is to establish a minimum amount of courtesy, in all our mutual dealings. Wouldn’t you say? A little respect. Maybe a little humility, too. Maybe a little acceptance of responsibility. Your car hasn’t been well looked after, has it?”
Shorty didn’t answer.
“The clock is ticking,” Mark said. “Midday is on its way. Which is when last night becomes tonight, in the motel business, at which time you will owe us another fifty dollars, which I can see in Patty’s face you don’t want to pay, or can’t pay, so a speedy reply would help you much more than it would help me. But fast or slow, the choice is yours.”
Patty said, “OK, our car is not well maintained.”
“Hey,” Shorty said.
“Well it isn’t,” she said. “I bet this is the first time the hood was up since you bought it.”
“I didn’t buy it. I got given it.”
“Who by?”
“My uncle.”
“Then I bet this is the first time the hood was up since it left the factory.”
Shorty said nothing.
Mark looked at him and said, “Patty sees things from a third-party perspective. Which implies a measure of objectivity. So I’m sure she’s absolutely right. I’m sure it’s that simple. You’re a busy man. Who has the time? Some things get neglected.”
“I guess,” Shorty said.
“But you need to say it out loud. We need to hear it from your own lips, in your own words.”
“What?”
“So we can all get off on the right foot.”
“The right foot of what?”
“We need to establish a friendly relationship, Mr. Fleck.”
“Why?”
“Well, for instance, last night we fed you dinner. And, also for instance, about an hour from now you’re going to ask us to feed you breakfast. Because what other choice do you have? All we ask in return is that you give as well as take.”
“Give what?”
“An honest account of your own part in your predicament.”
“What for?”
“It would be like putting some chips on the table, I suppose. At the start of the game. It would be like an emotional stake in our friendly relationship. We opened ourselves to you, when we had you at our table, and now we ask that you return the favor.”