Emerson heard the racket and came through from the office. He waited for the guy to settle down, then said, “You’ve probably figured this out for yourself by now, but we’re not interested in you delivering anything for us.”
The guy’s eyes opened wide. “What are you interested in?”
“Deliveries you made in the past.” Emerson opened the phone he had taken from the guy in St. Louis and called up the photograph of Carpenter. He held it out for the guy to see. “Specifically, deliveries you made for this man.”
“What about them? I picked up a container. Usually just one. Took it to a place in New Jersey.”
“Where did you pick up these containers?”
“It varied. One of five locations. I got told which one the day before. They’re all within an hour of here.”
“You knew what was in the containers?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. They didn’t tell. But I’m not stupid. I guess I had a good idea.”
“Good. Now, Carpenter. How do I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
Emerson opened the barrel, took a ladleful of its contents, and poured it on the floor about eighteen inches from the guy’s feet.
The guy wriggled his toes farther away. “What’s that?”
“Something to focus your mind.” Emerson took out a box of matches, struck one, and lit the little creamy puddle on fire. “Another name for it is napalm.”
Emerson took another ladleful from the barrel and stepped toward the guy. Who started to hop on the toes of one foot. His other leg was raised, ready to kick if he got the chance. Emerson flung the gel. It landed and spread out across the guy’s crotch and thighs.
The guy screamed.
“What?” Emerson said. “I haven’t lit it, yet. Tell me how to find Carpenter.”
“You can’t find him. No one can. He disappeared, like a month ago. I tried to reach him myself but I couldn’t. He’s gone. History. No more.”
“Other contacts in his organization?”
“He was the only one. It was a security thing.”
“That’s a shame. It means you’re no use to me. You’re just a piece of annoying trash. And we all know the most environmentally friendly way to dispose of trash.” Emerson took out another match.
“Wait! Listen. Three weeks ago, maybe four, a new guy came on the scene. He only interacted remotely, and he said he represented a different supplier, but I think it was the same one.”
“Why?”
“The guy already knew the kind of bona fides I would want. They came through real quick. It was the same product. The same containers. The same destination. There’ve been two pickups so far. Both places the old organization used. A third pickup is scheduled, and that’s at another place they used. You tell me – coincidence?”
“This is just dawning on you now? You weren’t suspicious before?”
“Why would I care? I figured they must have a reason for this new name. New identity. Maybe someone was muscling in. Maybe they’d had quality issues in the past. Needed a fresh start. As long as there was regular work, good money, and no feds, I was happy.”
“The third pickup that’s scheduled. When is it?”
“Today.”
“Time? Place?”
“At 1:00 p.m. Abandoned paper mill ten miles southeast of a no-bit little town called Winson.”
“Any specific procedures or protocols when you show up?”
“I just drive in and wait. Another van comes in. Their guys open my doors, slide in the container, and off we all go. Two minutes, and I don’t even have to get out of the van.”
“You use the new-looking one?”
The guy nodded.
Emerson said, “The plans for the day have changed. We’re going in your place.”
“OK. That’s cool. What do you want me to do? Lie low for a while? Leave town for a couple of months? I can do that. And I can forget your faces. Anyone asks, you were never here. We never met. OK?”
Emerson crossed to the tool chests and rummaged through their drawers until he found a tray with three-inch sides. The kind of thing mechanics use to catch oil when they drain an engine. He said, “There’s something else you need to know. One of the consignments you transported for Carpenter was destined for my son.”
“So your kid got what he needed? That’s a good thing, right? Demand has to be met somehow. But if this is about the price you paid that’s not down to me. So how about this? I donate my fee. To him. To you. To whoever you want.”
Emerson plunged the tray into the barrel and pulled it out, full. “You think the price was high?”
“I don’t know the price. I was just thinking aloud.”
“I’ll tell you the price my son paid.” Emerson darted forward and dumped the gel from the tray on the floor around the guy’s feet. “He paid with his life.”
“No. Please. Stop. Your son died? That’s horrible. I’m sorry. But it’s not my fault.”
“I think it is.” Emerson struck another match. “And I think it’s fair you pay the same.”
Hannah kept her foot on the brake and the gear stick in neutral. “How can it be a trick? The company checked out. The letter’s genuine. If you don’t show up the guy who sent it could get spooked. He seemed twitchy enough already. We may never get another chance to meet him. To find out what Danny discovered. Which could be our only link to whoever killed Sam.”
Reacher said, “Have you still got the company information on your phone?”
Hannah nodded.
Reacher said, “Call the switchboard. Ask for Alan McInnes.”
Hannah shrugged, but she did as Reacher asked.
The switchboard operator said, “I’m sorry. Mr. McInnes isn’t in the office at present. Would you like his voicemail? But I should just let you know, Mr. McInnes is in Australia this week at a conference so it could be a while before he can respond.”
Hannah hung up the call. She said, “How did you know?”
Jed Starmer wanted the bike to be safe until it was time to return it to the messenger so he lifted it over a little stone wall at the side of the road, a hundred yards short of the prison, and covered the rest of the ground on foot.
Jed had never seen a place like the prison before. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. The metal fence with its rolls of razor wire scared him. He imagined being trapped behind it. He imagined the guards in the watchtowers shooting at him. The cameras panning from side to side on their poles, tracking him if he tried to run. The floodlights shining on him if he tried to hide. He shivered, despite the warmth of the morning sun.
Jed threaded his way through a bunch of folding chairs and wandered across to a temporary fence. It had been set up with a semicircle of sawhorses around the edge of the curved road that bulged out from the front of the prison. He picked a spot in line with a little outdoor stage. He guessed that was where the action would be. It was to the side of a building he thought might be the prison’s main entrance. It was hard to be sure because a kind of tent had been set up around it. On the other side of the stage there was a car. A BMW. Black, and very shiny. It was the only vehicle he could see. It was facing a platform with two TV cameras on it. A large one on a tripod, and a small one that someone had set on the floor. The only other people who were around were wearing uniforms. They were gray with yellow trim and peaked caps, like the private cops Jed had once seen at a mall.