Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

department a hell of a lot. Gives me a mortgage subsidy, just because I’m with the department.”
    “Gives Teale a lot of power,” I said. “And what’s the story with the Kliner boy? He tried to warn me off you. Made out he had a prior claim.”
    She shuddered.
    “He’s a jerk,” she said. “I avoid him when I can. You should do the same.”
    She drove on, looking edgy. Kept glancing around, startled. Like she felt under threat. Like someone was going to jump out in front of the car and gun us down. Her quiet life in the Georgia countryside was over. Four men in the night up at her house had shattered that.
    We pulled into Eno’s gravel lot and the big Chevy rocked gently on its soft springs. I slid out of the low seat and we crunched across the gravel together to Eno’s door. It was a gray day. The night rain had chilled the air and left rags of cloud all over the sky. The siding on the diner reflected the dullness. It was cold. It felt like a new season.
    We went in. The place was empty. We took a booth and the woman with glasses brought us coffee. We ordered eggs and bacon with all kinds of extras on the side. A black pickup was pulling into the lot outside. Same black pickup as I’d seen three times before. Different driver. Not the Kliner kid. This was an older guy. Maybe approaching sixty, but bone-hard and lean. Iron-gray hair shaved close to his scalp. He was dressed like a rancher in denim. Looked like he lived outdoors in the sun. Even through Eno’s window I could sense his power and feel the glare in his eyes. Roscoe nudged me and nodded at the guy.
    “That’s Kliner,” she said. “The old man himself.”
    He pushed in through the door and stood for a moment. Looked left, looked right, and moved in to the lunch counter. Eno came around from the kitchen. The two of them talked quietly. Heads bent together. Then Kliner stood up again. Turned to the door. Stopped and looked left, looked right. Rested his gaze on Roscoe for a second. His face was lean and flat and hard. His mouth was a line carved into it. Then he moved his eyes onto me. I felt like I was being illuminated by a searchlight. His lips parted in a curious smile. He had amazing teeth. Long canines, canted inward, and flat square incisors. Yellow, like an old wolf. His lips closed again and he snapped his gaze away. Pulled the door and crunched over the gravel to his truck. Took off with the roar of a big motor and a spray of small stones.
    I watched him go and turned to Roscoe.
    “So tell me more about these Kliner people,” I said.
    She still looked edgy.
    “Why?” she said. “We’re fighting for our lives here and you want to talk about the Kliners?”
    “I’m looking for information,” I said. “Kliner’s name crops up everywhere. He looks like an interesting guy. His son is a piece of work. And I saw his wife. She looked unhappy. I’m wondering if all that’s got anything to do with anything.”
    She shrugged and shook her head.
    “I don’t see how,” she said. “They’re newcomers, only been here five years. The family made a fortune in cotton processing, generations back, over in Mississippi. Invented some kind of a new chemical thing, some kind of a new formula. Chlorine or sodium something, I don’t know for sure. Made a huge fortune, but they ran into trouble with the EPA over there, you know, about five years ago, pollution or something. There were fish dying all the way down to New Orleans because of dumping into the river.”
    “So what happened?” I asked her.
    “Kliner moved the whole plant,” she said. “The company was his by then. He shut down the whole Mississippi operation and set it up again in Venezuela or somewhere. Then he tried to diversify. He turned up here in Georgia five years ago with this warehouse thing, consumer goods, electronics or something.”
    “So they’re not local?” I said.
    “Never saw them before five years ago,” she said. “Don’t know much about them. But I never heard anything bad. Kliner’s probably a tough guy, maybe even ruthless, but he’s OK as long as you’re not a fish, I guess.”
    “So why is his wife so scared?” I said.
    Roscoe made a face.
    “She’s not scared,” she said. “She’s sick. Maybe she’s scared because she’s sick. She’s going to die, right? That’s not Kliner’s fault.”
    The waitress arrived with the food. We ate in silence. The portions were huge. The fried stuff was great. The eggs were delicious. This guy