The Albanian guy went still.
Reacher put the guitar back in its stand.
“I apologize,” he said. “I hope I didn’t damage it.”
“Don’t worry,” Barton said. “It’s a Fender Precision. It’s a ten-pound plank of wood. I got it from a pawn shop in Memphis, Tennessee, for thirty-four dollars. I’m sure worse things have happened in its life.”
The clock in Reacher’s head showed ten past four in the morning. The guy on the floor was still breathing. But in a shallow, desperate kind of a way, with a reedy plastic wheeze, in and out, in and out, as fast as he could. Like panting. But without getting anywhere. Probably the fault of the strap button on the bottom of the guitar, punching a half-inch ahead of the mass of the body itself. Probably clipped a vital component. Larynx, or pharynx, or some other kind of essential structure, made of cartilage and spelled with letters from late in the alphabet. The guy’s eyes were rolled up in his head. His fingers were scrabbling gently against the floor, as if trying to get a grip or a purchase on something. Reacher squatted down and went through his pockets, and took his gun, and his phone, and his wallet, and his car keys. The gun was another Glock 17, not recent vintage, worn, but well maintained. The phone was a flat black thing with a glass screen, the same as every other phone. The wallet was a black leather item molded by time into the shape of a potato. It was stuffed with hundreds of dollars in cash, and a raft of cards, and a local in-state driver’s license, with the guy’s picture on it, and the name Gezim Hoxha. He was forty-seven years old. He drove a Chrysler, according to the logo on his car keys.
Hogan asked, “What are we going to do with him?”
Abby said, “We can’t let him go.”
“We can’t keep him here.”
Barton said, “He needs medical attention.”
“No,” Reacher said. “He waived that right when he knocked on the door.”
“That’s harsh, man.”
“Would he take me to the hospital? Or you? The shoe on the other foot. That’s what sets the bar. Anyway, we can’t. Hospitals ask too many questions.”
“We can answer their questions. We were in the right. He pushed his way in. He was a home invader.”
“Try telling that to a cop getting a grand a week under the table. Could go either way. Could take years. We don’t have time.”
“He might die.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“I would trade him for the Shevicks’ daughter. If you asked me to put a value on things. Anyway, he hasn’t died so far. Maybe not in the peak of condition, but he’s hanging in there.”
“So what are we going to do with him?”
“We need to stash him somewhere. Just temporarily. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of harm’s way. Until we know for sure, one way or the other.”
“Know what?”
“What his long-term fate is likely to be.”
Silence for a beat.
Then Barton asked, “Where could we stash him?”
“In the trunk of his car,” Reacher said. “He’ll be safe and secure. Maybe not very comfortable, but a crick in the neck is the least of his problems right now.”
“He could get out,” Hogan said. “They have a safety device now. A plastic handle that glows in the dark. It pops the trunk from the inside.”
“Not in a gangster car,” Reacher said. “I’m sure they removed it.”
He lifted the guy under the arms, and Hogan lifted him by the feet, and they carried him out to the hallway, where Abby scooted ahead and opened the street door. She craned out in the dark and checked left and right. She waved an all-clear, and Reacher and Hogan lurched out with the guy, across the sidewalk. The car on the curb was a black sedan, with a low roof and a high waistline, which made the windows look shallow from top to bottom, like slots. They reminded Reacher of the vision ports in the side of an armored vehicle. Abby put her hand in Reacher’s pocket and found the guy’s key. She blipped it and the trunk lid raised up. Reacher dumped the guy’s shoulders in first, and then Hogan shuffled around and folded the guy’s legs in afterward. Reacher checked all around the inside of the lock. No glow-in-the-dark handle. Removed.
Hogan stepped away. Reacher looked down at the guy. Gezim Hoxha. Forty-seven years old. Once a police detective in Tirana. He closed the trunk lid on him, and stepped away to join the others. Once a police detective in the United States Army.
Hogan said, “We can’t leave the car here. Not right outside the house. Especially not with their boy in the trunk. Sooner or later they’ll cruise by and spot it and check it.”
Reacher nodded.
“Abby and I need to use it,” he said. “We’ll park it someplace else when we’re done.”
“You’re going to drive around with him in the trunk?”
“Keep your enemies close.”
“Where are we going?” Abby asked.
“When the guy in the trunk talked about people getting banned from playing in their clubs, I thought, yeah, that’s obviously a problem, because they got to eat. Then I remembered saying the same words to you once before. When we stopped at the gas station deli counter, on the way to visit with the Shevicks. You asked were they OK with that. I said they got to eat. Their cupboards are always bare. Especially now. I bet they haven’t left the house since the Ukrainians arrived out front. I know how people are. They would be shy and embarrassed and scared to walk past the car, and certainly neither one would let the other do it alone, and they wouldn’t do it together, either, because then the house would be empty behind them, and they would be suspicious the Ukrainians would sneak in and rummage through their underwear drawers. So all things considered, I bet they didn’t eat anything yesterday, and won’t eat anything today. We need to take them some food.”
“What about the car out front of their house?”
“We’ll go in the back. Probably through someone else’s yard. We’ll do the last part on foot.”
* * *
—
First they drove to the giant supermarket on the road out of town. Like most such places it was open all night, cold, empty, vast, cavernous, flooded with bright hard light. They rolled a cart the size of a bathtub through the aisles, and they filled it up with four of everything they could think of. Reacher paid at the check-out register, all in cash, all from Gezim Hoxha’s potato-shaped wallet. It seemed like the least the guy could do, under the circumstances. They packed the groceries carefully, into six balanced bags. Doing the last part on foot meant carrying them, maybe a decent distance, maybe over gates and fences.