Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor Read Online Free PDF Page A

no-account little place? You should be taking your pension, going out fishing. Cape Cod or wherever. What’s your story?”
    “That’s my business, Mr. Reacher,” he said. “Answer my question.”
    I shrugged.
    “Ask the army,” I said.
    “I will,” he said. “You can be damn sure of that. Did you get an honorable discharge?”
    “Would they give me severance if I didn’t?” I said.
    “Why should I believe they gave you a dime?” he said. “You live like a damn vagrant. Honorable discharge? Yes or no?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
    He made another note. Thought for a while.
    “How did it make you feel, being let go?” he asked.
    I thought about it. Shrugged at him.
    “Didn’t make me feel like anything,” I said. “Made me feel like I was in the army, and now I’m not in the army.”
    “Do you feel bitter?” he said. “Let down?”
    “No,” I said. “Should I?”
    “No problems at all?” he asked. Like there had to be something.
    I felt like I had to give him some kind of an answer. But I couldn’t think of anything. I had been in the service since the day I was born. Now I was out. Being out felt great. Felt like freedom. Like all my life I’d had a slight headache. Not noticing until it was gone. My only problem was making a living. How to make a living without giving up the freedom was not an easy trick. I hadn’t earned a cent in six months. That was my only problem. But I wasn’t about to tell Finlay that. He’d see it as a motive. He’d think I had decided to bankroll my vagrant lifestyle by robbing people. At warehouses. And then killing them.
    “I guess the transition is hard to manage,” I said. “Especially since I had the life as a kid, too.”
    Finlay nodded. Considered my answer.
    “Why you in particular?” he said. “Did you volunteer to muster out?”
    “I never volunteer for anything,” I said. “Soldier’s basic rule.”
    Another silence.
    “Did you specialize?” he asked. “In the service?”
    “General duties, initially,” I said. “That’s the system. Then I handled secrets security for five years. Then the last six years, I handled something else.”
    Let him ask.
    “What was that?” he asked.
    “Homicide investigation,” I said.
    Finlay leaned right back. Grunted. Did the steepled fingers thing again. He gazed at me and exhaled. Sat forward. Pointed a finger at me.
    “Right,” he said. “I’m going to check you out. We’ve got your prints. Those should be on file with the army. We’ll get your service record. All of it. All the details. We’ll check with the bus company. Check your ticket. Find the driver, find the passengers. If what you say is right, we’ll know soon enough. And if it’s true, it may let you off the hook. Obviously, certain details of timing and methodology will determine the matter. Those details are as yet unclear.”
    He paused and exhaled again. Looked right at me.
    “In the meantime, I’m a cautious man,” he said. “On the face of it, you look bad. A drifter. A vagrant. No address, no history. Your story may be bullshit. You may be a fugitive. You may have been murdering people left and right in a dozen states. I just don’t know. I can’t be expected to give you the benefit of the doubt. Right now, why should I even have any doubt? You stay locked up until we know for sure, OK?”
    It was what I had expected. It was exactly what I would have said. But I just looked at him and shook my head.
    “You’re a cautious guy?” I said. “That’s for damn sure.”
    He looked back at me.
    “If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you lunch on Monday,” he said. “At Eno’s place, to make up for today.”
    I shook my head again.
    “I’m not looking for a buddy down here,” I said.
    Finlay just shrugged. Clicked off the tape recorder. Rewound. Took out the tape. Wrote on it. He buzzed the intercom on the big rosewood desk. Asked Baker to come back in. I waited. It was still cold. But I had finally dried out. The