and the heavy doors creaked shut behind it. Reacher heard a heavy
crossbeam slamming down into its retaining brackets on the outside and
the rattle of another chain and a padlock. He glanced across at Holly.
Then he looked down at the damp stone floor.
Reacher was squatted down, jammed into the far angle of the stall’s
wooden walls. He was waiting for the three guys to come back with
dinner. They arrived after an hour. With one Clock and the shotgun.
And one metal mess tin. Stevie walked in with it. The driver took it
from him and handed it to Holly. He stood there leering at her for a
second and then turned to face Reacher. Pointed the shotgun at him.
“Bitch eats,” he said. “You don’t.”
Reacher didn’t get up. He just shrugged through the gloom.
That’s a loss I can just about survive,” he said.
Nobody replied to that. They just strolled back out. Pushed the heavy
wooden doors shut. Dropped the crossbeam into place and chained it up.
Reacher listened to their footsteps fade away and turned to Holly.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shrugged across the distance at him.
“Some sort of a thin stew,” she said. “Or a thick soup, I guess. One
or the other. You want some?”
They give you a fork?” he asked.
“No, a spoon,” she said.
“Shit,” he said. “Can’t do anything with a damn spoon.”
“You want some?” she asked again.
“Can you reach?” he said.
She spent some time eating, then she stretched out. One arm tight
against the chain, the other pushing the mess tin across the floor.
Then she swiveled and used her good foot to slide the tin farther
across the stone. Reacher slid forward, feet first, as far as his
chain would let him go. He figured if he could stretch far enough, he
could hook his foot around the tin and drag it in toward him. But it
was hopeless. He was six-five, and his arms were about the longest the
army tailors had ever seen, but even so he came up four feet short.
He and Holly were stretched out in a perfect straight line, as near
together as their chains would let them get, but the mess tin was still
way out of his reach. “Forget it,” he said. “Get it back while you
can.” She hooked her own foot around the tin and pulled it back.
“Sorry,” she said. “You’re going to be hungry.” “I’ll survive,” he
said. “Probably awful, anyway.” “Right,” she said. “It’s shit.
Tastes like dog food.” Reacher stared through the dark at her. He was
suddenly worried.
Holly lay down apologetically on her mattress and calmly went to sleep,
but Reacher stayed awake. Not because of the stone floor. It was cold
and damp, and hard. The cobblestones were wickedly lumpy. But that
was not the reason. He was waiting for something. He was ticking off
the minutes in his head, and he was waiting. His guess was it would be
about three hours, maybe four. Way into the small hours, when
resistance is low and patience runs out.
A long wait. The thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty-first night
of his life, way down there in the bottom third of the scale, lying
awake and waiting for something to happen. Something bad. Something
he maybe had no chance of preventing. It was coming. He was certain
of that. He’d seen the signs. He lay and waited for it, ticking off
the minutes. Three hours, maybe four.
It happened after three hours and thirty-four minutes. The nameless
driver came back into the barn. Wide awake and alone. Reacher heard
his soft footsteps on the track outside. He heard the rattle of the
padlock and the chain. He heard him lift the heavy crossbar out of its
brackets. The barn door opened. A bar of bright moonlight fell across
the floor. The driver stepped through it. Reacher saw a flash of his
pink pig’s face. The guy hurried down the aisle. No weapon in his
hand.
“I’m watching you,” Reacher said, quietly. “You back off, or you’re a
dead man.”
The guy stopped opposite. He wasn’t a complete moron. He stayed well