The Lincoln stopped next to the porch and the suspension settled and the engine died. Nobody inside the car moved for a moment. Then three doors opened up and all three people spilled out and Bobby and Ellie clattered down the porch steps toward them. Reacher moved back from the rail. Carmen stood up slowly and stepped forward and took his place there.
Sloop Greer left his door open and stretched in the sun like anyone would after a year and a half in a cell and six hours on the road. His face and hands were white with prison pallor and he was overweight from the starchy food, but he was Bobby's brother. There was no doubt about that. He had the same hair, the same face, the same bones, the same posture. Bobby stepped straight in front of him and held his arms wide and hugged him hard. Sloop hugged back and they staggered around and whooped and clapped each other on the back like they were on a lawn in front of a frat house and somebody had done something big in a game of college football.
Ellie froze and hung back, like she was suddenly confused by the noise and the commotion. Sloop let Bobby go and squatted down and held his arms out to her. Reacher turned and watched Carmen's face. It was locked up tight. Ellie stood in the dirt, shy and motionless, knuckles in her mouth, and then she made some kind of a mental connection and launched herself into Sloop's embrace. He whirled her up into the air and hugged her. Kissed her cheek. Danced her around and around in a circle. Carmen made a small sound in her throat and looked away.
Sloop set Ellie down on the ground and looked up into the porch and smiled triumphantly. Behind him Bobby was talking to his mother and Hack Walker. They were huddled together behind the car. Sloop was holding out his hand, beckoning to his wife. She backed away from the porch rail, deep into the shadow.
"Maybe you should talk to him after all," she whispered.
"Make your mind up," Reacher whispered back.
"Let me see how it goes," she said.
She took a deep breath and forced a smile and skipped down the steps. Took Sloop's hands and folded herself into his arms. They kissed, long enough that nobody would think they were brother and sister, but not long enough that anybody would think there was real passion there. Behind the car Bobby and his mother had detached themselves from Hack and were walking around the hood and heading for the porch. Bobby had a worried look on his face and Rusty was fanning herself with her hand and looking hard in Reacher's direction, all the way up the steps.
"I hear Bobby invited you to lunch," she said quietly, at the top.
"Very gracious of him," Reacher said.
"Yes, it was. Very gracious. But it's going to be a purely family thing today."
"Is it?" Reacher said.
"Not even Hack is staying," she added, like it was final proof of something.
Reacher said nothing.
"So I'm sorry," she said. "But the maid will bring your meals down to the bunkhouse, in the usual way. You boys can get together again tomorrow."
Reacher was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"O.K.," he said. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
Rusty smiled and Bobby avoided his eye. They walked into the house and Reacher went down the steps into the yard, out into the midday heat. It was like a furnace. Hack Walker was on his own next to the Lincoln, getting ready to leave.
"Hot enough for you?" he asked, with his politician's smile.
"I'll survive," Reacher said.
"Going to be a storm."
"So people say."
Walker nodded. "Reacher, right?"
Reacher nodded. "So everything went O.K. in Abilene, I guess."
"Like clockwork," Hack said. "But I'm tired, believe me. Texas is a big, big place. You can forget that, sometimes. You can drive forever. So I'm leaving these folks to their celebrations and hitting the rack. Gratefully, let me tell you."
Reacher nodded again. "So I'll see you around, maybe."
"Don't forget to vote in November," Hack replied. "For me, preferably." He used the same bashful expression he had used the night before. Then he paused at the car door and waved across the roof to Sloop. Sloop made a gun with his fingers and leveled it at Hack and pursed his lips like he was supplying the sound of the shot. Hack slid into the car and fired it up and backed into a turn and headed for the gate. He paused a second and made a right and accelerated away and a moment later Reacher was watching a new cone of dust drifting north along the road.
Then he turned back and saw Sloop strolling up across the yard, holding Ellie's hand in his right and Carmen's in his left. His eyes were screwed tight against the sun. Carmen was saying nothing and Ellie was saying a lot. They all walked straight past him and up the steps, three abreast. They paused at the door and Sloop turned his right shoulder to allow Ellie in ahead of him. He followed her across the threshold and then turned his shoulder the other way to pull Carmen in after him. The door closed on them hard enough to raise a puff of hot dust off the porch floorboards.
* * *
Reacher saw nobody except the maid for nearly three hours. He stayed inside the bunkhouse and she brought him lunch and then came back to collect the plate an hour later. Time to time he would watch the house from the high bathroom window, but it was closed up tight and he saw nothing at all. Then late in the afternoon he heard voices behind the horse barn and walked up there and found Sloop and Carmen and Ellie out and about, taking the air. It was still very hot. Maybe hotter than ever. Sloop looked restless. He was sweating. He was scuffing his shoes through the dirt. Carmen looked very nervous. Her face was slightly red. Maybe tension, maybe strain. Maybe the fearsome heat. But it wasn't impossible she'd been slapped a couple of times, either.
"Ellie, come with me to see your pony," she said.
"I saw him this morning, Mommy," Ellie said.
Carmen held out her hand. "But I didn't. So let's go see him again."
Ellie looked mystified for a second, and then she took Carmen's hand. They stepped behind Sloop and set off slowly for the front of the barn. Carmen turned her head and mouthed talk to him as she walked. Sloop turned around and watched them go. Turned back and looked at Reacher, like he was seeing him for the first time.
"Sloop Greer," he said, and held out his hand.
Up close, he was an older, wiser version of Bobby. A little older, maybe a lot wiser. There was intelligence in his eyes. Not necessarily a pleasant sort of intelligence. It wasn't hard to imagine some cruelty there. Reacher shook his hand. It was big-boned, but soft. It was a bully's hand, not a fighter's.
"Jack Reacher," he said. "How was prison?"
There was a split-second flash of surprise in the eyes. Then it was replaced by instant calm. Good self-control, Reacher thought.
"It was pretty awful," Sloop said. "You been in yourself?"
Quick, too.
"On the other side of the bars from you," Reacher said.
Sloop nodded. "Bobby told me you were a cop. Now you're an itinerant worker."
"I have to be. I didn't have a rich daddy."
Sloop paused a beat. "You were military, right? In the army?"
"Right, the army."
"I never cared much for the military, myself."
"So I gathered."
"Yeah, how?"
"Well, I hear you opted out of paying for it."
Another flash in the eyes, quickly gone. Not easy to rile, Reacher thought. But a spell in prison teaches anybody to keep things well below the surface.
"Shame you spoiled it by crying uncle and getting out early."
"You think?"
Reacher nodded. "If you can't do the time, then don't do the crime."
"You got out of the army. So maybe you couldn't do the time either."
Reacher smiled. Thanks for the opening, he thought.
"I had no choice," he said. "Fact is, they threw me out."
"Yeah, why?"
"I broke the law, too."
"Yeah, how?"
"Some scumbag of a colonel was beating up on his wife. Nice young woman. He was a furtive type of a guy, did it all in secret. So I couldn't prove it. But I wasn't about to let him get away with it. That wouldn't have been right. Because I don't like men who hit women. So one night, I caught him on his own. No witnesses. He's in a wheelchair now. Drinks through a straw. Wears a bib, because he drools all the time."
Sloop said nothing. He was so silent, the skin at the inside corners of his eyes turned dark purple. Walk away now, Reacher thought, and you're confessing it to me. But Sloop stayed exactly where he was, very still, staring into space, seeing nothing. Then he recovered. The eyes came back into focus. Not quickly, but not too slowly, either. A smart guy.
"Well, that makes me feel better," he said. "About withholding my taxes. They might have ended up in your pocket."
"You don't approve?"
"No, I don't," Sloop said.
"Of who?"
"Either of you," Sloop said. "You, or the other guy."
Then he turned and walked away.
Reacher went back to the bunkhouse. The maid brought him dinner and came back for the plate. Full darkness fell outside and the night insects started up with their crazy chant. He lay down on his bed and sweated. The temperature stayed rock-steady around a hundred degrees. He heard isolated coyote howls again, and cougar screams, and the invisible beating of bats' wings.
Then he heard a light tread on the bunkhouse stair. He sat up in time to see Carmen come up into the room. She had one hand pressed flat on her chest, like she was out of breath, or panicking, or both.
"Sloop talked to Bobby," she said. "For ages."
"Did he hit you?" Reacher asked.
Her hand went up to her cheek.
"No," she said.
"Did he?"
She looked away.
"Well, just once," she said. "Not hard."
"I should go break his arms."
"He called the sheriff."
"Who did?"
"Sloop."
"When?"
"Just now. He talked to Bobby, and then he called."
"About me?"
She nodded. "He wants you out of here."
"It's O.K.," Reacher said. "The sheriff won't do anything."
"You think?"
Reacher nodded. "I squared him away, before."
She paused a beat. "I've got to get back now. He thinks I'm with Ellie."
"You want me to come with you?"
"Not yet. Let me talk to him first."
"Don't let him hit you again, Carmen. Come get me, soon as you need me. Or make noise, O.K.? Scream and shout."
She started back down the stairs.
"I will," she said. "I promise. You sure about the sheriff?"
"Don't worry," he said. "The sheriff won't do a thing."
* * *
But the sheriff did one thing. He passed the problem to the state police. Reacher found that out ninety minutes later, when a Texas Ranger cruiser turned in under the gate, looking for him. Somebody directed it all the way down past the barns and in behind the bunkhouse. He heard its motor and the sound of its tires crushing the dust on the track. He got off of his bed and went down the stairs and when he got to the bottom he was lit up by the spotlight mounted in front of its windshield. It shone in past the parked farm tractors and picked him out in a bright cone of light. The car doors opened and two Rangers got out.
They were not similar to the sheriff. Not in any way. They were in a different class altogether. They were young and fit and professional. Both of them were medium height, both of them were halfway between lean and muscled. Both had military-style buzz cuts. Both had immaculate uniforms. One was a sergeant and the other was a trooper. The trooper was Hispanic. He was holding a shotgun.
"What?" Reacher called.
"Step to the hood of the car," the sergeant called back.
Reacher kept his hands clear of his body and walked to the car.
"Assume the position," the sergeant said.
Reacher put his palms on the fender and leaned down. The sheet metal was hot from the engine. The trooper covered him with the shotgun and the sergeant patted him down.
"O.K., get in the car," he said.
Reacher didn't move.
"What's this about?" he asked.
"A request from a property owner to remove a trespasser."
"I'm not a trespasser. I work here."
"Well, I guess they just terminated you. So now you're a trespasser. And we're going to remove you."
"That's a state police job?"
"Small community like this, we're on call to help the local guys, their days off, or serious crimes."
"Trespassing is a serious crime?"
"No, Sunday is the Echo sheriff's day off."
The moths had found the spotlight. They fluttered in and crowded the lens, landing and taking off again when the heat of the bulb got to them. They batted against Reacher's right arm. They felt dry and papery and surprisingly heavy.
"O.K., I'll leave," he said. "I'll walk out to the road."
"Then you'll be a vagrant on a county highway. That's against the law, too, around here, especially during the hours of darkness."
"So where are we going?"
"You have to leave the county. We'll let you out in Pecos."
"They owe me money. I never got paid."
"So get in the car. We'll stop at the house."
Reacher glanced left at the trooper, and the shotgun. Both of them looked businesslike. He glanced right, at the sergeant. He had his hand on the butt of his gun. He saw in his mind the two Greer boys, two versions of the same face, both of them grinning, smug and triumphant. But it was Rusty he saw mouthing checkmate at him.
"There's a problem here," he said. "The daughter-in-law is getting smacked around by her husband. It's an ongoing situation. He just got out of prison today."
"She made a complaint?"
"She's scared to. The sheriff's a good old boy and she's a Hispanic woman from California."
"Nothing we can do without a complaint."
Reacher glanced the other way at the trooper, who just shrugged.
"Like the man told you," he said. "Nothing we can do without we hear about it."
"You're hearing about it now," Reacher said. "I'm telling you."
The trooper shook his head. "Needs to come from the victim."
"Get in the car," the sergeant said.
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, we do."
"I need to be here. For the woman's sake."
"Listen, pal, we were informed you're trespassing. So all we got is a question of whether you're wanted here, or whether you're not. And apparently, you're not."
"The woman wants me here. Like her bodyguard."
"Is she the property owner?"
"No, she isn't."
"Are you employed by her? Like officially?"
Reacher shrugged. "More or less."
"She paying you? You got a contract we can see?"
Reacher said nothing.
"So get in the car."
"She's in danger."
"We get a call, we'll come running."
"She can't call. Or if she does, the sheriff won't pass it on."
"Then there's nothing we can do. Now get in the car."
Reacher said nothing. The sergeant opened the rear door. Then he paused.
"You could come back tomorrow," he said, quietly. "No law says a man can't try to get himself rehired."
Reacher took a second look at the shotgun. It was a big handsome Ithaca with a muzzle wide enough to stick his thumb in. He took a second look at the sergeant's handgun. It was a Glock, secured into an oiled leather holster by a strap that would take about half a second to unfasten.
"But right now, get in the car."
Checkmate.
"O.K.," Reacher said. "But I'm not happy."
"Very few of our passengers are," the sergeant said back.
He used his hand on the top of Reacher's head and folded him into the back seat. It was cold in there. There was a heavy wire barrier in front of him. Either side, the door handles and the window winders had been removed. Small squares of aluminum had been riveted over the holes in the trim. The seat was vinyl. There was a smell of disinfectant and a heavy stink from an air freshener shaped like a pine tree hanging from the mirror in front. There was a radar device built up on top of the dash and quiet radio chatter coming from a unit underneath it. The sergeant and the trooper swung in together in front and drove him up to the house. All the Greers except Ellie were on the porch to see him go. They were standing in a line at the rail, first Rusty, then Bobby, then Sloop and Carmen. They were all smiling. All except Carmen.
The sergeant stopped the car at the foot of the steps and buzzed his window down. "This guy says you owe him wages," he called.
There was silence for a second. Just the sound of the insects. "So tell him to sue us," Bobby called back.
Reacher leaned forward to the metal grille.
"Carmen!" he shouted. "Si hay un problema, llama directamente a estos hombres!"
The sergeant turned his head. "What?"
"Nothing."
"So what do you want to do?" the sergeant asked. "About your money?"
"Forget about it," Reacher said.
The sergeant buzzed his window up again and pulled out toward the gate. Reacher craned his neck and saw them all turn to watch him go, all except for Carmen, who stood absolutely still and stared rigidly ahead at the spot where the car had just been. The sergeant made a right onto the road and Reacher turned his head the other way and saw them all filing back into the house. Then the sergeant accelerated hard and they were lost to sight.
"What was that you called out to them?" he asked.
Reacher said nothing.
The trooper answered for him. "It was Spanish," he said. "For the woman. It meant 'Carmen, if there's trouble, call these guys direct.' Terrible accent."
Reacher said nothing.
They drove the same sixty miles he had covered the other way in the white Cadillac, back to the crossroads hamlet with Ellie's school and the gas station and the old diner. The sergeant stuck to a lazy fifty-five all the way, and it took an hour and five minutes. When they got there, everything was closed up tight. There were lights burning in two of the houses, and nothing else. Then they drove the stretch where Carmen had chased the school bus. Nobody talked. Reacher sprawled sideways on the vinyl bench and watched the darkness. Another twenty minutes north he saw the turn where Carmen had come down out of the hills. They didn't take it. They just kept on going, heading for the main highway, and then Pecos beyond it.
They never got there. The radio call came in a mile short of the county line. An hour and thirty-five minutes into the ride. The call was bored and laconic and loud with static. A woman dispatcher's voice.
"Blue Five, Blue Five" it said.
The trooper unhooked the microphone and stretched the cord and clicked the switch.
"Blue Five, copy, over," he said.
"Required at the Red House Ranch immediately, sixty miles south of north Echo crossroads, domestic disturbance reported, over."
"Copy, nature of incident, over?"
"Unclear at this time, believed violent, over."
"Well, shit," the sergeant said.
"Copy, on our way, out," the trooper said. He replaced the microphone. Turned around. "So she understood your Spanish. I guess your accent wasn't too far off, after all."
Reacher said nothing. The sergeant turned his head.
"Look on the bright side, pal," he said. "Now we can do something about it."
"I warned you," Reacher said. "And you should have damn well listened to me. So if she's hurt bad, it's on you. Pal."
The sergeant said nothing to that. Just jammed on the brakes and pulled a wide slow turn across the whole of the road, shoulder to shoulder. Got it pointing straight south again and hustled. He got it up to a hundred on the straightaways, kept it at ninety on the curves. He didn't use the lights or the siren. Didn't even slow at the crossroads. He didn't need to. The chances of meeting traffic on that road were worse than winning the lottery.
They were back again exactly two hours and thirty minutes after they left. Ninety-five minutes north, fifty-five minutes south. First thing they saw was the sheriff's secondhand cruiser, dumped at an angle in the yard, door open, light bar flashing. The sergeant slewed through the dirt and jammed to a stop right behind it.
"Hell's he doing here?" he said. "It's his day off."
There was nobody in sight. The trooper opened his door. The sergeant shut down the motor and did the same.
"Let me out," Reacher said.
"No dice, pal," the sergeant said back. "You stay right there."
They got out and walked together to the porch steps. They went up. Across the boards. They pushed the door. It was open. They went inside. The door swung shut behind them. Reacher waited. Five minutes. Seven. Ten. The car grew warm. Then hot. There was silence. No sound at all beyond random static from the radio and the ticking of the insects.
The trooper came out alone after about twelve minutes. Walked slowly back to his side of the car and opened his door and leaned in for the microphone.
"Is she O.K.?" Reacher asked.
The guy nodded, sourly.
"She's fine," he said. "At least physically. But she's in a shitload of trouble."
"Why?"
"Because the call wasn't about him attacking her. It was the other way around. She shot him. He's dead. So we just arrested her."
Sloop Greer left his door open and stretched in the sun like anyone would after a year and a half in a cell and six hours on the road. His face and hands were white with prison pallor and he was overweight from the starchy food, but he was Bobby's brother. There was no doubt about that. He had the same hair, the same face, the same bones, the same posture. Bobby stepped straight in front of him and held his arms wide and hugged him hard. Sloop hugged back and they staggered around and whooped and clapped each other on the back like they were on a lawn in front of a frat house and somebody had done something big in a game of college football.
Ellie froze and hung back, like she was suddenly confused by the noise and the commotion. Sloop let Bobby go and squatted down and held his arms out to her. Reacher turned and watched Carmen's face. It was locked up tight. Ellie stood in the dirt, shy and motionless, knuckles in her mouth, and then she made some kind of a mental connection and launched herself into Sloop's embrace. He whirled her up into the air and hugged her. Kissed her cheek. Danced her around and around in a circle. Carmen made a small sound in her throat and looked away.
Sloop set Ellie down on the ground and looked up into the porch and smiled triumphantly. Behind him Bobby was talking to his mother and Hack Walker. They were huddled together behind the car. Sloop was holding out his hand, beckoning to his wife. She backed away from the porch rail, deep into the shadow.
"Maybe you should talk to him after all," she whispered.
"Make your mind up," Reacher whispered back.
"Let me see how it goes," she said.
She took a deep breath and forced a smile and skipped down the steps. Took Sloop's hands and folded herself into his arms. They kissed, long enough that nobody would think they were brother and sister, but not long enough that anybody would think there was real passion there. Behind the car Bobby and his mother had detached themselves from Hack and were walking around the hood and heading for the porch. Bobby had a worried look on his face and Rusty was fanning herself with her hand and looking hard in Reacher's direction, all the way up the steps.
"I hear Bobby invited you to lunch," she said quietly, at the top.
"Very gracious of him," Reacher said.
"Yes, it was. Very gracious. But it's going to be a purely family thing today."
"Is it?" Reacher said.
"Not even Hack is staying," she added, like it was final proof of something.
Reacher said nothing.
"So I'm sorry," she said. "But the maid will bring your meals down to the bunkhouse, in the usual way. You boys can get together again tomorrow."
Reacher was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"O.K.," he said. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
Rusty smiled and Bobby avoided his eye. They walked into the house and Reacher went down the steps into the yard, out into the midday heat. It was like a furnace. Hack Walker was on his own next to the Lincoln, getting ready to leave.
"Hot enough for you?" he asked, with his politician's smile.
"I'll survive," Reacher said.
"Going to be a storm."
"So people say."
Walker nodded. "Reacher, right?"
Reacher nodded. "So everything went O.K. in Abilene, I guess."
"Like clockwork," Hack said. "But I'm tired, believe me. Texas is a big, big place. You can forget that, sometimes. You can drive forever. So I'm leaving these folks to their celebrations and hitting the rack. Gratefully, let me tell you."
Reacher nodded again. "So I'll see you around, maybe."
"Don't forget to vote in November," Hack replied. "For me, preferably." He used the same bashful expression he had used the night before. Then he paused at the car door and waved across the roof to Sloop. Sloop made a gun with his fingers and leveled it at Hack and pursed his lips like he was supplying the sound of the shot. Hack slid into the car and fired it up and backed into a turn and headed for the gate. He paused a second and made a right and accelerated away and a moment later Reacher was watching a new cone of dust drifting north along the road.
Then he turned back and saw Sloop strolling up across the yard, holding Ellie's hand in his right and Carmen's in his left. His eyes were screwed tight against the sun. Carmen was saying nothing and Ellie was saying a lot. They all walked straight past him and up the steps, three abreast. They paused at the door and Sloop turned his right shoulder to allow Ellie in ahead of him. He followed her across the threshold and then turned his shoulder the other way to pull Carmen in after him. The door closed on them hard enough to raise a puff of hot dust off the porch floorboards.
* * *
Reacher saw nobody except the maid for nearly three hours. He stayed inside the bunkhouse and she brought him lunch and then came back to collect the plate an hour later. Time to time he would watch the house from the high bathroom window, but it was closed up tight and he saw nothing at all. Then late in the afternoon he heard voices behind the horse barn and walked up there and found Sloop and Carmen and Ellie out and about, taking the air. It was still very hot. Maybe hotter than ever. Sloop looked restless. He was sweating. He was scuffing his shoes through the dirt. Carmen looked very nervous. Her face was slightly red. Maybe tension, maybe strain. Maybe the fearsome heat. But it wasn't impossible she'd been slapped a couple of times, either.
"Ellie, come with me to see your pony," she said.
"I saw him this morning, Mommy," Ellie said.
Carmen held out her hand. "But I didn't. So let's go see him again."
Ellie looked mystified for a second, and then she took Carmen's hand. They stepped behind Sloop and set off slowly for the front of the barn. Carmen turned her head and mouthed talk to him as she walked. Sloop turned around and watched them go. Turned back and looked at Reacher, like he was seeing him for the first time.
"Sloop Greer," he said, and held out his hand.
Up close, he was an older, wiser version of Bobby. A little older, maybe a lot wiser. There was intelligence in his eyes. Not necessarily a pleasant sort of intelligence. It wasn't hard to imagine some cruelty there. Reacher shook his hand. It was big-boned, but soft. It was a bully's hand, not a fighter's.
"Jack Reacher," he said. "How was prison?"
There was a split-second flash of surprise in the eyes. Then it was replaced by instant calm. Good self-control, Reacher thought.
"It was pretty awful," Sloop said. "You been in yourself?"
Quick, too.
"On the other side of the bars from you," Reacher said.
Sloop nodded. "Bobby told me you were a cop. Now you're an itinerant worker."
"I have to be. I didn't have a rich daddy."
Sloop paused a beat. "You were military, right? In the army?"
"Right, the army."
"I never cared much for the military, myself."
"So I gathered."
"Yeah, how?"
"Well, I hear you opted out of paying for it."
Another flash in the eyes, quickly gone. Not easy to rile, Reacher thought. But a spell in prison teaches anybody to keep things well below the surface.
"Shame you spoiled it by crying uncle and getting out early."
"You think?"
Reacher nodded. "If you can't do the time, then don't do the crime."
"You got out of the army. So maybe you couldn't do the time either."
Reacher smiled. Thanks for the opening, he thought.
"I had no choice," he said. "Fact is, they threw me out."
"Yeah, why?"
"I broke the law, too."
"Yeah, how?"
"Some scumbag of a colonel was beating up on his wife. Nice young woman. He was a furtive type of a guy, did it all in secret. So I couldn't prove it. But I wasn't about to let him get away with it. That wouldn't have been right. Because I don't like men who hit women. So one night, I caught him on his own. No witnesses. He's in a wheelchair now. Drinks through a straw. Wears a bib, because he drools all the time."
Sloop said nothing. He was so silent, the skin at the inside corners of his eyes turned dark purple. Walk away now, Reacher thought, and you're confessing it to me. But Sloop stayed exactly where he was, very still, staring into space, seeing nothing. Then he recovered. The eyes came back into focus. Not quickly, but not too slowly, either. A smart guy.
"Well, that makes me feel better," he said. "About withholding my taxes. They might have ended up in your pocket."
"You don't approve?"
"No, I don't," Sloop said.
"Of who?"
"Either of you," Sloop said. "You, or the other guy."
Then he turned and walked away.
Reacher went back to the bunkhouse. The maid brought him dinner and came back for the plate. Full darkness fell outside and the night insects started up with their crazy chant. He lay down on his bed and sweated. The temperature stayed rock-steady around a hundred degrees. He heard isolated coyote howls again, and cougar screams, and the invisible beating of bats' wings.
Then he heard a light tread on the bunkhouse stair. He sat up in time to see Carmen come up into the room. She had one hand pressed flat on her chest, like she was out of breath, or panicking, or both.
"Sloop talked to Bobby," she said. "For ages."
"Did he hit you?" Reacher asked.
Her hand went up to her cheek.
"No," she said.
"Did he?"
She looked away.
"Well, just once," she said. "Not hard."
"I should go break his arms."
"He called the sheriff."
"Who did?"
"Sloop."
"When?"
"Just now. He talked to Bobby, and then he called."
"About me?"
She nodded. "He wants you out of here."
"It's O.K.," Reacher said. "The sheriff won't do anything."
"You think?"
Reacher nodded. "I squared him away, before."
She paused a beat. "I've got to get back now. He thinks I'm with Ellie."
"You want me to come with you?"
"Not yet. Let me talk to him first."
"Don't let him hit you again, Carmen. Come get me, soon as you need me. Or make noise, O.K.? Scream and shout."
She started back down the stairs.
"I will," she said. "I promise. You sure about the sheriff?"
"Don't worry," he said. "The sheriff won't do a thing."
* * *
But the sheriff did one thing. He passed the problem to the state police. Reacher found that out ninety minutes later, when a Texas Ranger cruiser turned in under the gate, looking for him. Somebody directed it all the way down past the barns and in behind the bunkhouse. He heard its motor and the sound of its tires crushing the dust on the track. He got off of his bed and went down the stairs and when he got to the bottom he was lit up by the spotlight mounted in front of its windshield. It shone in past the parked farm tractors and picked him out in a bright cone of light. The car doors opened and two Rangers got out.
They were not similar to the sheriff. Not in any way. They were in a different class altogether. They were young and fit and professional. Both of them were medium height, both of them were halfway between lean and muscled. Both had military-style buzz cuts. Both had immaculate uniforms. One was a sergeant and the other was a trooper. The trooper was Hispanic. He was holding a shotgun.
"What?" Reacher called.
"Step to the hood of the car," the sergeant called back.
Reacher kept his hands clear of his body and walked to the car.
"Assume the position," the sergeant said.
Reacher put his palms on the fender and leaned down. The sheet metal was hot from the engine. The trooper covered him with the shotgun and the sergeant patted him down.
"O.K., get in the car," he said.
Reacher didn't move.
"What's this about?" he asked.
"A request from a property owner to remove a trespasser."
"I'm not a trespasser. I work here."
"Well, I guess they just terminated you. So now you're a trespasser. And we're going to remove you."
"That's a state police job?"
"Small community like this, we're on call to help the local guys, their days off, or serious crimes."
"Trespassing is a serious crime?"
"No, Sunday is the Echo sheriff's day off."
The moths had found the spotlight. They fluttered in and crowded the lens, landing and taking off again when the heat of the bulb got to them. They batted against Reacher's right arm. They felt dry and papery and surprisingly heavy.
"O.K., I'll leave," he said. "I'll walk out to the road."
"Then you'll be a vagrant on a county highway. That's against the law, too, around here, especially during the hours of darkness."
"So where are we going?"
"You have to leave the county. We'll let you out in Pecos."
"They owe me money. I never got paid."
"So get in the car. We'll stop at the house."
Reacher glanced left at the trooper, and the shotgun. Both of them looked businesslike. He glanced right, at the sergeant. He had his hand on the butt of his gun. He saw in his mind the two Greer boys, two versions of the same face, both of them grinning, smug and triumphant. But it was Rusty he saw mouthing checkmate at him.
"There's a problem here," he said. "The daughter-in-law is getting smacked around by her husband. It's an ongoing situation. He just got out of prison today."
"She made a complaint?"
"She's scared to. The sheriff's a good old boy and she's a Hispanic woman from California."
"Nothing we can do without a complaint."
Reacher glanced the other way at the trooper, who just shrugged.
"Like the man told you," he said. "Nothing we can do without we hear about it."
"You're hearing about it now," Reacher said. "I'm telling you."
The trooper shook his head. "Needs to come from the victim."
"Get in the car," the sergeant said.
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, we do."
"I need to be here. For the woman's sake."
"Listen, pal, we were informed you're trespassing. So all we got is a question of whether you're wanted here, or whether you're not. And apparently, you're not."
"The woman wants me here. Like her bodyguard."
"Is she the property owner?"
"No, she isn't."
"Are you employed by her? Like officially?"
Reacher shrugged. "More or less."
"She paying you? You got a contract we can see?"
Reacher said nothing.
"So get in the car."
"She's in danger."
"We get a call, we'll come running."
"She can't call. Or if she does, the sheriff won't pass it on."
"Then there's nothing we can do. Now get in the car."
Reacher said nothing. The sergeant opened the rear door. Then he paused.
"You could come back tomorrow," he said, quietly. "No law says a man can't try to get himself rehired."
Reacher took a second look at the shotgun. It was a big handsome Ithaca with a muzzle wide enough to stick his thumb in. He took a second look at the sergeant's handgun. It was a Glock, secured into an oiled leather holster by a strap that would take about half a second to unfasten.
"But right now, get in the car."
Checkmate.
"O.K.," Reacher said. "But I'm not happy."
"Very few of our passengers are," the sergeant said back.
He used his hand on the top of Reacher's head and folded him into the back seat. It was cold in there. There was a heavy wire barrier in front of him. Either side, the door handles and the window winders had been removed. Small squares of aluminum had been riveted over the holes in the trim. The seat was vinyl. There was a smell of disinfectant and a heavy stink from an air freshener shaped like a pine tree hanging from the mirror in front. There was a radar device built up on top of the dash and quiet radio chatter coming from a unit underneath it. The sergeant and the trooper swung in together in front and drove him up to the house. All the Greers except Ellie were on the porch to see him go. They were standing in a line at the rail, first Rusty, then Bobby, then Sloop and Carmen. They were all smiling. All except Carmen.
The sergeant stopped the car at the foot of the steps and buzzed his window down. "This guy says you owe him wages," he called.
There was silence for a second. Just the sound of the insects. "So tell him to sue us," Bobby called back.
Reacher leaned forward to the metal grille.
"Carmen!" he shouted. "Si hay un problema, llama directamente a estos hombres!"
The sergeant turned his head. "What?"
"Nothing."
"So what do you want to do?" the sergeant asked. "About your money?"
"Forget about it," Reacher said.
The sergeant buzzed his window up again and pulled out toward the gate. Reacher craned his neck and saw them all turn to watch him go, all except for Carmen, who stood absolutely still and stared rigidly ahead at the spot where the car had just been. The sergeant made a right onto the road and Reacher turned his head the other way and saw them all filing back into the house. Then the sergeant accelerated hard and they were lost to sight.
"What was that you called out to them?" he asked.
Reacher said nothing.
The trooper answered for him. "It was Spanish," he said. "For the woman. It meant 'Carmen, if there's trouble, call these guys direct.' Terrible accent."
Reacher said nothing.
They drove the same sixty miles he had covered the other way in the white Cadillac, back to the crossroads hamlet with Ellie's school and the gas station and the old diner. The sergeant stuck to a lazy fifty-five all the way, and it took an hour and five minutes. When they got there, everything was closed up tight. There were lights burning in two of the houses, and nothing else. Then they drove the stretch where Carmen had chased the school bus. Nobody talked. Reacher sprawled sideways on the vinyl bench and watched the darkness. Another twenty minutes north he saw the turn where Carmen had come down out of the hills. They didn't take it. They just kept on going, heading for the main highway, and then Pecos beyond it.
They never got there. The radio call came in a mile short of the county line. An hour and thirty-five minutes into the ride. The call was bored and laconic and loud with static. A woman dispatcher's voice.
"Blue Five, Blue Five" it said.
The trooper unhooked the microphone and stretched the cord and clicked the switch.
"Blue Five, copy, over," he said.
"Required at the Red House Ranch immediately, sixty miles south of north Echo crossroads, domestic disturbance reported, over."
"Copy, nature of incident, over?"
"Unclear at this time, believed violent, over."
"Well, shit," the sergeant said.
"Copy, on our way, out," the trooper said. He replaced the microphone. Turned around. "So she understood your Spanish. I guess your accent wasn't too far off, after all."
Reacher said nothing. The sergeant turned his head.
"Look on the bright side, pal," he said. "Now we can do something about it."
"I warned you," Reacher said. "And you should have damn well listened to me. So if she's hurt bad, it's on you. Pal."
The sergeant said nothing to that. Just jammed on the brakes and pulled a wide slow turn across the whole of the road, shoulder to shoulder. Got it pointing straight south again and hustled. He got it up to a hundred on the straightaways, kept it at ninety on the curves. He didn't use the lights or the siren. Didn't even slow at the crossroads. He didn't need to. The chances of meeting traffic on that road were worse than winning the lottery.
They were back again exactly two hours and thirty minutes after they left. Ninety-five minutes north, fifty-five minutes south. First thing they saw was the sheriff's secondhand cruiser, dumped at an angle in the yard, door open, light bar flashing. The sergeant slewed through the dirt and jammed to a stop right behind it.
"Hell's he doing here?" he said. "It's his day off."
There was nobody in sight. The trooper opened his door. The sergeant shut down the motor and did the same.
"Let me out," Reacher said.
"No dice, pal," the sergeant said back. "You stay right there."
They got out and walked together to the porch steps. They went up. Across the boards. They pushed the door. It was open. They went inside. The door swung shut behind them. Reacher waited. Five minutes. Seven. Ten. The car grew warm. Then hot. There was silence. No sound at all beyond random static from the radio and the ticking of the insects.
The trooper came out alone after about twelve minutes. Walked slowly back to his side of the car and opened his door and leaned in for the microphone.
"Is she O.K.?" Reacher asked.
The guy nodded, sourly.
"She's fine," he said. "At least physically. But she's in a shitload of trouble."
"Why?"
"Because the call wasn't about him attacking her. It was the other way around. She shot him. He's dead. So we just arrested her."
