Sinclair said, “Prior to which he married a German girl and had a kid. Who he returned to twenty years ago after just six years away. Yet Wiley feels connected. This is a weird relationship.”
By then the view out the window was agricultural, in a flat, perfect, close-to-the-city kind of a way. The fields were as neat as vegetable gardens, and not much larger. Every road and every street had a name, neatly lettered in gothic script, black on cream. The passing villages were very small. Not much more than crowded and crooked crossroads. There were barns and outbuildings here and there, but smaller and fewer than Reacher expected. It wasn’t what he had pictured. It was less private and more orderly. It was clean and tidy. Not densely but uniformly populated. Everything was pretty close to everything else.
Bishop said, “Next but one dot on the map and we’re there.”
The next but one dot was a little larger than previous versions. A little denser. They picked up the name of Arnold Mason’s road at a free-for-all five-way in the center of town. It hooked back west of north, away from Bremen in the distance. It was lined left and right with tiny pocket-handkerchief farms, no more than small and perfectly neat houses with a few immaculate acres. There were sheds, but no barns.
Each farm had a name. All appropriately modest. All no doubt picked out by the owners, with a measure of pride. Reacher watched for Gelb Bauernhof, and suddenly understood what it meant. It was German for Yellow Farm. Yellow in Spanish was Amarillo. Where Arnold Mason was born. Amarillo, Texas. The guy had named his farm for where he grew up.
They found it fifth on the right. They were going slow, to read the names. So they got a good look. Not much to see. Maybe four acres planted in perfect lines, growing something dark green, possibly cabbages, and a small neat house, and a small neat stand-alone garage, and a small neat stand-alone shed, set back a little ways. And that was it. The garage would take a Mercedes station wagon. The shed would take a small tractor or a ride-on machine. Neither one would take a stolen furniture truck.
Bishop stopped the car a mile down the road.
Reacher said, “I should go back and knock on the door.”
Sinclair said, “That’s a risk.”
“Wiley isn’t there. No new van. No old van, either.”
“That doesn’t prove Uncle Arnold isn’t involved somehow.”
“He won’t shoot me straight off the bat. He’ll play dumb. He’ll try to talk his way out of it. I’ll let him, if necessary. I agree, if the vans were here it would be different.”
“Wiley might arrive while you’re in there.”
“It’s a possibility. But unlikely. If it happens, I’m sure Sergeant Neagley will think of something.”
“We should all go.”
“Works for me,” Reacher said.
Bishop said nothing.
“Arnold Mason is an American citizen,” Sinclair said. “You’re from the consulate. You’re entitled to make contact.”
Bishop said, “We can’t afford to screw this up.”
“We’ll shut it down at the first sign of trouble.”
“Don’t stand close together,” Reacher said. “Not at first, anyway. Not until we’re sure.”
Bishop turned the car around on the narrow road.
—
Gelb Bauernhof was a property about a hundred yards wide by two hundred deep. Like a high-end suburban lot in America. But a farm nonetheless. Albeit in miniature. There was nothing yellow about it. The sky was gray, and the dirt was brown, and the cabbages were army green. Bishop turned in at the driveway. Which was dirt, hand scraped to a consistent camber. The big blue Opel hissed over it. The garage was dead ahead. The house was to the left. About eighty yards from the street.
Bishop rolled on. There was no reaction. He stopped where a footpath left the driveway and led to the house. Now twenty yards away. Still no reaction.
Then a man came out of the house.
He left the front door open, and took two steps, and stood on the path and watched. He was about Reacher’s own age. Maybe thirty-five. He stood tall and straight. Fair hair, a shapeless gray sweater, and shapeless gray pants.
Nothing on his feet.
Reacher said, “I’ll go first.”
He got out of the car slowly, and took a step. The guy on the path just watched. Another step. All good. So Reacher kept on going, a step at a time, until he was face to face with the guy. Like a salesman calling. Or a neighbor in need of advice.
Reacher said, “I need to speak with Arnold Peter Mason.”
The guy didn’t answer. Didn’t react at all. Like he hadn’t heard. He was looking past Reacher’s shoulder into the middle distance. Nothing there but cabbages.
Reacher said, “Herr Mason?”
The guy looked at him. Blue eyes. Empty. Nothing going on back there. The lights were on, but no one was home. The handicapped son. Same age as Wiley. Same generation as the so-called nephew. Thirty-five years old, but still a dependent.