‘Where are the stock certificates?’ she whispered.
Chester looked up at her, listlessly. ‘At my bank, in my box.’
Marilyn nodded. Came face-to-face with the fact she didn’t know which Chester’s bank was. Or where it was. Or what stock certificates were for.
‘How many are there?’
He shrugged. ‘A thousand, originally. I used three
hundred for security against the loans. I had to give them up to the lender, temporarily.’
‘And now Hobie’s got those?’
He nodded. ‘He bought the debt. They’ll messenger the security to him, today, maybe. They don’t need it any more. And I pledged him another ninety. They’re still in the box. I guess I was due to deliver them soon.’
‘So how does the transfer actually happen?’
He shrugged again, wearily, vaguely. ‘I sign the stock over to him, he takes the certificates and registers them with the Exchange, and when he’s got five hundred and one registered in his name, then he’s the majority owner.’
‘So where’s your bank?’
Chester took his first sip of coffee. ‘About three blocks from here. About five minutes’ walk. Then another five minutes to the Exchange. Call it ten minutes beginning to end, and we’re penniless and homeless on the street.’
He set the mug on the floor and lapsed back into staring. Sheryl was listless. Not drinking her coffee. Her skin looked clammy. Maybe concussed, or something. Maybe still in shock. Marilyn didn’t know. She had no experience. Her nose was awful. Black and swollen. The bruising was spreading under her eyes. Her lips were cracked and dry, from breathing through her mouth all night.
‘Try some more coffee,’ she said. ‘It’ll be good for you.’
She squatted beside her and guided her hand up to her mouth. Tilted the mug. Sheryl took a sip. Some of the hot liquid ran down her chin. She took another sip. She glanced up at Marilyn, with something in her eyes. Marilyn didn’t know what it was, but she smiled
back anyway, bright with encouragement.
‘We’ll get you to the hospital,’ she whispered.
Sheryl closed her eyes and nodded, like she was suddenly filled with relief. Marilyn knelt beside her, holding her hand, staring at the door, wondering how she was going to deliver on that promise.
‘Are you going to keep this thing?’ Jodie asked.
She was talking about the Lincoln Navigator. Reacher thought about it as he waited. They were jammed up on the approach to the Triborough.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
It was more or less brand new. Very quiet and smooth. Black metallic outside, tan leather inside, four hundred miles on the clock, still reeking of new hide and new carpet and the strong plastic smell of a box-fresh vehicle. Huge seats, each one identical with the driver’s chair, lots of fat consoles with drinks holders and little lids suggestive of secret storage spaces.
‘I think it’s gross,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Compared to what? That tiny little thing you were driving?’
‘That was much smaller than this.’
‘You’re much smaller than me.’
She was quiet for a beat.
‘It was Flutter’s,’ she said. ‘It’s tainted.’
The traffic moved, and then stopped again halfway over the Harlem River. The buildings of Midtown were far away to his left, and hazy, like a vague promise.
‘It’s just a tool,’ he said. ‘Tools have no memory.’
‘I hate him,’ she said. ‘I think more than I’ve ever hated anybody.’
He nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘The whole time we were in there I was thinking about the Hobies, up there in Brighton, alone in their little house, the look in their eyes. Sending your only boy off to war is a hell of a thing, and to be lied to and cheated afterward, Jodie, there’s no excuse for that. Swap the chronology, it could have been my folks. And he did it fifteen times. I should have hurt him worse.’
‘As long as he doesn’t do it again,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘The list of targets is shrinking. Not too many BNR families left now to fall for it.’
They made it off the bridge and headed south on Second Avenue. It was fast and clear ahead for sixty blocks.