Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

vulnerability is wide open right now. An exposure. It’s been very risky, getting worse all the time. But now it could go either way. If we get through it, nobody will ever know anything. But if we don’t get through it, it’ll be the biggest sensation you ever heard of, believe me. Either way, it’s going to be a close call.”
    I looked at him. He didn’t look to me much like the sort of a guy who could cause the biggest sensation I ever heard of.
    “So how long is this exposure going to last?” I asked him.
    “It’s nearly over,” he said. “Maybe a week. A week tomorrow is my guess. Next Sunday. Maybe I’ll live to see it.”
    “So after next Sunday you’re not vulnerable anymore?” I said. “Why not? What’s going to happen next Sunday?”
    He shook his head and turned his face away. It was like if he couldn’t see me, I wasn’t there, asking him questions.
    “What does Pluribus mean?” I asked him.
    He wouldn’t answer. Just kept on shaking his head. His eyes were screwed shut with terror.
    “Is it a code for something?” I said.
    He wasn’t hearing me. The conversation was over. I gave it up and we lapsed back into silence. That suited me well enough. I didn’t want to know anything more. I didn’t want to know anything at all. Being an outsider and knowing Hubble’s business didn’t seem to be a very smart combination. It hadn’t done the tall guy with the shaved head a whole lot of good. I wasn’t interested in sharing the same fate as him, dead at a warehouse gate, partially hidden under some old cardboard, two holes in my head, all my bones smashed. I just wanted to pass the time until Monday, and then get the hell out. By next Sunday, I planned to be a very long way away indeed.
    “OK, Hubble,” I said. “No more questions.”
    He shrugged and nodded. Sat silent for a long time. Then he spoke, quietly, with a lot of resignation in his voice.
    “Thanks,” he said. “It’s better that way.”

    I WAS ROLLED OVER ON THE NARROW COT TRYING TO FLOAT away into some kind of limbo. But Hubble was restless. He was tossing and turning and blowing tight sighs. He was coming close to irritating me again. I turned to face him.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very uptight. It was doing me good just to talk to somebody. I’d go crazy in here on my own. Can’t we talk about something else? What about you? Tell me about yourself. Who are you, Reacher?”
    I shrugged at him.
    “I’m nobody,” I said. “Just a guy passing through. I’ll be gone on Monday.”
    “Nobody’s nobody,” he said. “We’ve all got a story. Tell me.”
    So I talked for a while, lying on my bed, running through the last six months. He lay on his bed, looking at the concrete ceiling, listening, keeping his mind off his problems. I told him about leaving from the Pentagon. Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. Museums, music, cheap hotels, bars, buses and trains. Solitude. Traveling through the land of my citizenship like a cheap tourist. Seeing most things for the first time. Looking at the history I’d learned in dusty schoolrooms half a world away. Looking at the big things that had shaped the nation. Battlefields, factories, declarations, revolutions. Looking for the small things. Birthplaces, clubs, roads, legends. The big things and the small things which were supposed to represent home. I’d found some of them.
    I told Hubble about the long hop through the endless plains and deltas all the way down from Chicago to New Orleans. Sliding around the Gulf Coast as far as Tampa. Then the Greyhound blasting north toward Atlanta. The crazy decision to bail out near Margrave. The long walk in the rain yesterday morning. Following a whim. Following some half-remembered note from my brother saying he’d been through some little place where Blind Blake might have died over sixty years ago. As I told him about it, I felt pretty stupid. Hubble was scuffling with a nightmare and I was following a meaningless pilgrimage. But he understood the urge.
    “I did that once,” he said. “On our honeymoon. We went to Europe. We stopped off in New York and I spent half a day looking for the Dakota building, you know, where John Lennon was shot. Then we spent three days in England walking around Liverpool, looking for the Cavern Club. Where the Beatles started out. Couldn’t find it. I guess they knocked it down.”
    He talked on for a while. Mostly about