Three weeks?” she said. “You think they were watching me three
weeks?”
“Probably three,” he said. “You went to the cleaners every Monday,
right? Once a week? Must have taken them a while to confirm that
pattern. But they couldn’t grab you in their own vehicle. Too easy to
trace, and it probably had windows and all, not suitable for
long-distance transport of a kidnap victim. So I figure they stole
this truck, in Chicago, probably yesterday morning. Painted over
whatever writing was on the side. You notice the patch of white paint?
Fresh, didn’t match the rest? They disguised it, maybe changed the
plates. But it was still a hot truck, right? And it was their getaway
vehicle. So they didn’t want to risk it on the street. And people
getting into the back of a truck looks weird. A car is better. So
they stole the black sedan and used that instead. Switched vehicles on
that waste ground, burned the black car, and they’re away.”
Holly shrugged. Made a face.
“Doesn’t prove they stole anything,” she said.
“Yes it does,” Reacher said. “Who buys a new car with leather seats,
knowing they’re going to burn it? They’d have bought some old clunker
instead.”
She nodded, reluctantly.
“Who are these people?” she said, more to herself than to Reacher.
“Amateurs,” Reacher said. “They’re making one mistake after
another.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Burning is dumb,” he said. “Attracts attention. They think they’ve
been smart, but they haven’t. Probability is they burned their
original car, as well. I bet they burned it right near where they
stole the black sedan.”
“Sounds smart enough to me,” Holly said.
“Cops notice burning cars,” Reacher said. They’ll find the black
sedan, they’ll find out where it was stolen from, they’ll go up there
and find their original vehicle, probably still smoldering. They’re
leaving a trail, Holly. They should have parked both cars in the
long-term lot at O’Hare. They would have been there a year before
anybody noticed. Or just left them both down on the South Side
somewhere, doors open, keys in. Two minutes later, two residents down
there got themselves a new motor each. Those cars would never have
been seen again. That’s how to cover your tracks. Burning feels good,
feels like it’s real final, but it’s dumb as hell.”
Holly turned her face back and stared up at the hot metal roof. She
was asking herself: just who the hell is this guy?
FOURTEEN
THIS TIME, MCGRATH DID NOT MAKE THE TECH CHIEF COME DOWN to the third
floor. He led the charge himself up to his lab on the sixth, with the
video cassette in his hand. He burst in through the door and cleared a
space on the nearest table. Laid the cassette in the space like it was
made of solid gold. The guy hurried over and looked at it.
“I need photographs made,” McGrath told him.
The guy picked up the cassette and took it across to a bank of video
machines in the corner. Flicked a couple of switches. Three screens
lit up with white snow.
“You tell absolutely nobody what you’re seeing, OK?” McGrath said.
“OK,” the guy said. “What am I looking for?”
The last five frames,” McGrath said. That should just about cover
it.”
The tech chief didn’t use a remote. He stabbed at buttons on the
machine’s own control panel. The tape rolled backwards and the story
of Holly Johnson’s kidnap unfolded in reverse.
“Christ,” he said.
He stopped on the frame showing Holly turning away from the counter.
Then he inched the tape forward. He jumped Holly to the door, then
face to face with the tall guy, then into the muzzles of the guns, then
to the car. He rolled back and did it for a second time. Then a
third.
“Christ,” he said again.
“Don’t wear the damn tape out,” McGrath said. “I want big photographs
of those five frames. Lots of copies.”
The tech chief nodded slowly.
“I can give you laser prints right now,” he said.
He punched a couple of buttons and flicked a couple of switches. Then
he ducked away and booted up a computer on a desk across the room. The