Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

to go up to Atlanta and look. I knew. I knew what Kliner was stockpiling at his warehouse. I knew what all those trucks were bringing in every day. I knew what Joe’s heading had meant. E Unum Pluribus. I knew why he’d chosen that reversed motto. I knew everything, with twenty-four hours still to go. The whole thing, from beginning to end. From top to bottom. From the inside out. And it was one hell of a clever operation. Old Professor Kelstein had said the paper was unobtainable. But Kliner had proved him wrong. Kliner had found a way of obtaining it. A very simple way.
    I jumped up from the desk and ran down to the basement. Wrenched open the dryer door and pulled my clothes out. Dressed hopping from foot to foot on the concrete floor. Left the towel where it fell. Ran back up to the kitchen. Loaded up my jacket with the things I was going to need. Ran outside, leaving the splintered door swinging. Ran over the gravel to the Bentley. Started it up and threaded it backward down the drive. Roared off down Beckman and squealed a left onto Main Street. Gunned it through the silent town and out beyond the diner. Howled another left onto the Warburton road and pushed the stately old car along as fast as I dared.
    The Bentley’s headlights were dim. Twenty-year-old design. The night was patchy. Dawn was hours away and the last of the trailing storm clouds were scudding across the moon. The road was never quite straight. The camber was off and the surface was lumpy. And slick with storm water. The old car was sliding and wallowing. So I cut the speed back to a cruise. Figured it was smarter to take an extra ten minutes than to go plowing off into a field. I didn’t want to join Joe. I didn’t want to be another Reacher brother who knew, but who was dead.
    I passed the copse of trees. It was just a darker patch against the dark sky. Miles away, I could see the perimeter lights of the prison. They were blazing out over the night landscape. I cruised past. Then for miles I could see their glow in the mirror, behind me. Then I was over the bridge, through Franklin, out of Georgia, into Alabama. I rushed past the old roadhouse Roscoe and I had been in. The Pond. It was closed up and dark. Another mile, I was at the motel. I left the motor running and ducked into the office to rouse the night guy.
    “You got a guest called Finlay here?” I asked him.
    He rubbed his eyes and looked at the register.
    “Eleven,” he said.
    The whole place had that night look on it. Slowed down and silent and asleep. I found Finlay’s cabin. Number eleven. His police Chevy was parked up outside. I made a lot of noise banging on his door. Had to keep banging for a while. Then I heard an irritated groan. Couldn’t make out any words. I banged some more.
    “Come on, Finlay,” I called.
    “Who’s there?” I heard him shout.
    “It’s Reacher,” I said. “Open the damn door.”
    There was a pause. Then the door opened. Finlay was standing there. I’d woken him up. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and boxer shorts. I was amazed. I realized I had expected him to be sleeping in his tweed suit. With the mole-skin vest.
    “What the hell do you want?” he said.
    “Something to show you,” I told him.
    He stood yawning and blinking.
    “What the hell time is it?” he said.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Five o’clock, six, maybe. Get dressed. We’re going somewhere.”
    “Going where?” he said.
    “Atlanta,” I said. “Something to show you.”
    “What something?” he said. “Just tell me, can’t you?”
    “Get dressed, Finlay,” I said again. “Got to go.”
    He grunted, but he went to get dressed. Took him a while. Fifteen minutes, maybe. He disappeared into the bathroom. Went in there looking like a normal sort of a guy, just woken up. Came out looking like Finlay. Tweed suit and all.
    “OK,” he said. “This better be damn good, Reacher.”
    We went out into the night. I walked over to the car while he locked his cabin door. Then he joined me.
    “You driving?” he said.
    “Why?” I said. “You got a problem with that?”
    He looked irritable as hell. Glared at the gleaming Bentley.
    “Don’t like people driving me,” he said. “You want to let me drive?”
    “I don’t care who drives,” I said. “Just get in the damn car, will you?”
    He got in the driver’s side and I handed him the keys. I was happy enough to do that. I was very tired. He started the Bentley up and backed it out of the lot.