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“Wait. Hix is home. So’s his number two. And some other guy.”

Reacher ignored him and kept moving.

Maurice scurried after Reacher. “Wait. Please. I have to ask you. Are you working on a story? Because if you are—”

Reacher said, “Are you a journalist?”

Maurice nodded.

“I’m not. I’m not going to steal your thunder. So stay here. Lie low. Keep quiet. Don’t attract any attention. Somebody’s life is at stake.”

“Somebody’s? Lots of people’s.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’re here because of the drugs, right? That’s why you’re going after Hix. What happened? Did you lose a family member? A friend? In a Minerva prison?”

Reacher grabbed Maurice’s arm and dragged him back, deeper into the trees. “Tell me what you know. All of it. Now. The nutshell version.”

“It’s like this. Minerva’s an octopus, right? An evil one. On the surface all progressive and enlightened. But the truth? Tentacles everywhere. They cherry-pick inmates. Put them to work. All kinds of ways. Including refining drugs. They do it in their disused segregation units. Supply their own populations. Which is why their death rate is so high. They deny it, but it’s true. And they’ve expanded. They supply other markets now, too.”

Drugs made sense, Reacher thought. All prisons have a problem with them. Maybe Minerva saw it as an opportunity. It could be big business. And guys involved in that trade are the kind who find themselves needing new identities from time to time. He said, “Where’s your proof?”

“Death rates. I’ve got that documented. Nothing else. Yet.”

“I’m going to visit with Hix, right now. The subject may come up. Anything concrete I find, it’s all yours.”

Chapter 42

Reacher left the cover of the trees and approached the house from the southeast. Toward the rear corner. He climbed up onto the porch railing and wrapped his left arm around the column that supported the balcony. He used his right hand to slip the coiled-up blankets from around his neck. He held one end and swung the rest of the length around in an arc. Once. Twice. Then as it neared the top of its third rotation he snapped it in toward the house and straight back out, like a lion tamer with an oversized whip. The tip curled around the column and dropped straight down the other side. Reacher caught it with his left hand. He brought his hands close and gripped both strands together. He shifted the soles of his feet onto the face of the column. Moved his left hand up and pulled. Took a step vertically with his right foot. Moved his right hand. Stepped with his left foot. He kept going until he could grab the upper rail then he hauled himself up and over and rolled onto the balcony.

Reacher got to his feet. He stood still and listened. He heard nothing.

Along the side of the house a row of glass doors led out to the balcony. There were four. Maybe from bedrooms. They were all closed and, inside, white drapes were drawn across them. For privacy. Or to combat the heat.

Reacher moved around to the back of the house. The balcony boards were solid. His feet made no noise. He looked down into the yard. It was an even space, fifty feet square, carved out from the trees and covered with grass. Hix must have been getting ready for a party. There was a bar to the left with a line of silver buckets for ice, tables with trays of plastic cups, and two giant trash cans done up to look like Greek urns. In the center of the lawn a space had been covered to make a temporary dance floor. And there was a stage to the right with a drum kit, microphone stands, and a lighting gantry extending across its whole width.

Reacher continued around the balcony until he found what he was looking for. A sash window with frosted glass. A bathroom. He took out his ATM card and pushed it up into the jamb between the upper and lower panes. He worked it from side to side until the latch eased around and disengaged. He lifted the lower section an inch and looked inside. He saw a tub. A sink. A toilet. But no people. He opened the window the rest of the way and climbed through. He crossed to the door. Opened it a crack. Saw no one. He carried on to the landing. It was a broad U shape with an ornate rail around the open side, like an internal version of the balcony. The hallway was below. The stairs were at the far end. Voices were echoing up from the first floor. Three men. They sounded familiar. And they sounded angry.

—

Reacher crept down the stairs. He kept to one side, where the treads were least likely to creak. Made it to the hallway and crossed to the first door to the right. The men were yelling on the other side. Reacher recognized the voices from the ceremony at the prison.

Brockman said, “It’s your fault. If you hadn’t lost your nerve and hidden away like a scared little kid we—”