next car in line, but his eyes came to rest on Reacher’s face, and his own eyes widened a little, as if in sympathy or wonder or appreciation, and he said, ‘Ouch.’
‘My nose?’ Reacher said.
‘That must have stung.’
‘You should see the other guy.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Not in your state.’
‘That’s good to know,’ the trooper said. ‘You drive safe tonight, sir.’
Reacher asked, ‘Who are you looking for, captain?’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m only a sergeant.’
‘OK, who are you looking for, sergeant?’
The guy paused.
Then he smiled.
‘Not you,’ he said. ‘That’s for sure. Not you.’
And then he moved a foot towards the rear of the car, ready to greet the next in line, and Reacher buzzed his window up and threaded through the improvised chicane, and then he got settled in his seat and took off again, accelerating through forty, fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour, with nothing at all in front of him except darkness and the white Dodge’s tail lights already half a mile ahead.
FIFTEEN
THE ADDRESS MISSY Smith had given to Sheriff Goodman turned out to be what is left when a family farm gets sold to a homebuilding corporation. The farmland itself had been added to some giant remote holding, but a shallow acre had been retained alongside the road and a row of four small ranch houses had been built on it. They were maybe twenty years old. In the moonlight they all looked bravely maintained and in reasonable shape. They were all identical. They all had white siding, grey roofs, front lawns, short straight driveways, and mailboxes at the kerb, on stout wooden posts.
But there was one clear difference between them.
Three of the houses had cars on their driveways.
The fourth didn’t.
And the fourth was the address Missy Smith had given to Sheriff Goodman.
‘Not good,’ Sorenson said.
‘No,’ Goodman said.
All four houses were dark, as was to be expected in the middle of the night. But somehow the house with no car looked darker than the other three. It looked quiet, and undisturbed, and empty.
Sorenson climbed out of the car. The road was nothing more than an old farm track, blacktopped over. It was badly drained. Rain and run-off from the fields had left mud in the gutters. Sorenson stepped over it and waited at the mouth of the empty driveway. Goodman stepped over the mud and joined her there. Sorenson checked the mailbox. Reflex habit. It was empty, as was to be expected for an evening worker. An evening worker picks up her mail before going to work, not after.
The mailbox was white, like all the others. It had a name on it, spelled out in small stick-on letters. The name was Delfuenso.
‘What’s her first name?’ Sorenson asked.
Goodman said, ‘Karen.’
Sorenson said, ‘Go knock on the door, just to be sure.’
Goodman went.
He knocked.
No response.
He knocked again, long and loud.
No response.
Sorenson cut across the lawn to the neighbour’s door. She rang the bell, once, twice, three times. She took out her ID, and held it ready. She waited. Two minutes later the door opened and she saw a guy in pyjamas. He was middle-aged and grey. She asked him if he had seen his neighbour come home that night.
The guy in pyjamas said no, he hadn’t.
She asked him if his neighbour lived alone.
The guy said yes, she did. She was divorced.
She asked him if his neighbour owned a car.
The guy said yes, she did. A pretty decent one, too. Not more than a few years old. Bought with money from the divorce. Just saying.
She asked him if his neighbour always drove to work.
The guy said yes, she did. It was that or walk.
She asked him if his neighbour’s car was usually parked on the driveway.
The guy said yes it was, all day long before work, and all night long after work. It was parked right there on top of the oily patch they could see if they stepped over and looked real close, because of how a leaky transmission was the car’s only
‘My nose?’ Reacher said.
‘That must have stung.’
‘You should see the other guy.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Not in your state.’
‘That’s good to know,’ the trooper said. ‘You drive safe tonight, sir.’
Reacher asked, ‘Who are you looking for, captain?’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m only a sergeant.’
‘OK, who are you looking for, sergeant?’
The guy paused.
Then he smiled.
‘Not you,’ he said. ‘That’s for sure. Not you.’
And then he moved a foot towards the rear of the car, ready to greet the next in line, and Reacher buzzed his window up and threaded through the improvised chicane, and then he got settled in his seat and took off again, accelerating through forty, fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour, with nothing at all in front of him except darkness and the white Dodge’s tail lights already half a mile ahead.
FIFTEEN
THE ADDRESS MISSY Smith had given to Sheriff Goodman turned out to be what is left when a family farm gets sold to a homebuilding corporation. The farmland itself had been added to some giant remote holding, but a shallow acre had been retained alongside the road and a row of four small ranch houses had been built on it. They were maybe twenty years old. In the moonlight they all looked bravely maintained and in reasonable shape. They were all identical. They all had white siding, grey roofs, front lawns, short straight driveways, and mailboxes at the kerb, on stout wooden posts.
But there was one clear difference between them.
Three of the houses had cars on their driveways.
The fourth didn’t.
And the fourth was the address Missy Smith had given to Sheriff Goodman.
‘Not good,’ Sorenson said.
‘No,’ Goodman said.
All four houses were dark, as was to be expected in the middle of the night. But somehow the house with no car looked darker than the other three. It looked quiet, and undisturbed, and empty.
Sorenson climbed out of the car. The road was nothing more than an old farm track, blacktopped over. It was badly drained. Rain and run-off from the fields had left mud in the gutters. Sorenson stepped over it and waited at the mouth of the empty driveway. Goodman stepped over the mud and joined her there. Sorenson checked the mailbox. Reflex habit. It was empty, as was to be expected for an evening worker. An evening worker picks up her mail before going to work, not after.
The mailbox was white, like all the others. It had a name on it, spelled out in small stick-on letters. The name was Delfuenso.
‘What’s her first name?’ Sorenson asked.
Goodman said, ‘Karen.’
Sorenson said, ‘Go knock on the door, just to be sure.’
Goodman went.
He knocked.
No response.
He knocked again, long and loud.
No response.
Sorenson cut across the lawn to the neighbour’s door. She rang the bell, once, twice, three times. She took out her ID, and held it ready. She waited. Two minutes later the door opened and she saw a guy in pyjamas. He was middle-aged and grey. She asked him if he had seen his neighbour come home that night.
The guy in pyjamas said no, he hadn’t.
She asked him if his neighbour lived alone.
The guy said yes, she did. She was divorced.
She asked him if his neighbour owned a car.
The guy said yes, she did. A pretty decent one, too. Not more than a few years old. Bought with money from the divorce. Just saying.
She asked him if his neighbour always drove to work.
The guy said yes, she did. It was that or walk.
She asked him if his neighbour’s car was usually parked on the driveway.
The guy said yes it was, all day long before work, and all night long after work. It was parked right there on top of the oily patch they could see if they stepped over and looked real close, because of how a leaky transmission was the car’s only
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