‘What was his name?’
‘I believe it was Seymour Porterfield. I believe he told me people call him Sy.’
ELEVEN
ACROSS THE STREET Nakamura was still watching. Reacher stood up and stepped over the left-hand sentry. He looked at a tumble dryer. Bigger than people had in their homes. Good for comforters and other large items. He might have gotten Scorpio in there.
He said, ‘You want me to leave through the back door?’
Scorpio shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Go out the front.’
So Reacher stepped over the right-hand sentry and pushed out to the sidewalk. The air smelled warm and fresh. He turned right and started walking. He heard Nakamura’s car start up. He heard the wheeze of its steering, and grit under its tyres, and then it pulled alongside him and stopped. The same as Scorpio’s, except lower and bluer.
The window came down.
Black hair, dark eyes, a severe expression.
She said, ‘Get in the car.’
‘You mad at me now?’
‘I told you not to commit a crime inside my jurisdiction.’
‘We were in the laundromat. Does that even count?’
‘That’s not fair. We’re trying.’
Reacher opened the passenger door and slid inside. He racked the seat backward, for leg room. He said, ‘I apologize. I know you’re trying. Scorpio is a tough nut to crack.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘The ring came in from a guy in Wyoming named Sy Porterfield. About six weeks ago. Scorpio as good as admitted an onward connection to Jimmy Rat in Wisconsin. So he’s part of a chain, flowing west to east along the I-90 corridor.’
‘Can’t prove it.’
‘Also he pays off restaurant workers for information. Which he claims is only one of many networks he’s running. Maybe he’s the neighbourhood bookie. Maybe he lends money.’
‘Can’t prove any of it.’
‘But I’m not sure how successful he is. His personal vehicle is a piece of crap worth about a hundred dollars, and his goons had guns older than you.’
‘Did the car work?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Would the guns have worked?’
‘Probably. Revolvers are usually pretty reliable.’
‘This is South Dakota. People are thrifty. I think Arthur Scorpio is plenty successful.’
‘OK.’
‘Where are the guns now?’
Reacher took them out of his pockets and dropped them on her rear seat.
She said, ‘Thank you.’
He said, ‘Also there’s something wrong with his back room. It would have made more sense to talk to me in there. Certainly it would have made more sense for me to leave that way. He must have known you would stop me and ask me questions. Better if I went out through the alley. You wouldn’t have seen me. But he wouldn’t let me. You should check it out.’
‘We’d need a warrant.’
‘You’ve got the tap on his phone. He might say something stupid. A buck gets ten he’s calling Porterfield in Wyoming right now.’
‘Is that where you’re going?’
‘As soon as I find a map. The town is called Mule Crossing. I never heard of it.’
Nakamura took out her phone. She swiped and typed and waited, and then she said, ‘It’s down near Laramie. A wide spot in the road.’
She held out the phone to show him.
She said, ‘That’s the I-80 corridor, not I-90.’
He said, ‘Population density drops to nothing west of here. A supply chain would need to branch out, literally. Maybe there are many Porterfields, all over Wyoming and Montana and Idaho. All feeding Scorpio, like a river system. Do you monitor his visitors?’
‘We try, from time to time. We’ve seen cars and bikes in the alley. Some with out-of-state plates. People go in and out his back door.’
‘You need to get a look in his back room. It ain’t full of drums of spare detergent. That’s for damn sure. The guy has no customers.’
Nakamura was quiet a beat.
Then she said, ‘Thanks for the report.’
He said, ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Can I give you a ride somewhere?’
‘The bus depot, I guess. I’ll take whatever heads west on I-90. I’ll get out in Buffalo and go south to Laramie.’
‘That would be the Seattle bus.’
‘Yes,’ Reacher said. ‘I thought it might be.’
He got out of Nakamura’s car at the depot and said goodbye and wished her luck. He didn’t expect to see her again. He bought a ticket as far as Buffalo, and sat down to wait, with about twenty other people. They were the usual mixture. The room had pale inoffensive walls, and fluorescent squares in the ceiling. Out the picture window was an empty asphalt space, where sooner or later the Seattle bus would show up. It was on its way from Sioux Falls.
Nakamura called her friend the tech, and asked him to check with his pal at the phone company, to see who Scorpio had called in the last hour, with special focus on outgoing attempts to the 307 area code, which was Wyoming.
No need to check, the guy told her. The lieutenant had reupped electronic surveillance too. Everything on Scorpio’s land line and personal cell was going straight to a hard drive, accessible from her desktop computer.
Only one problem, the guy said.
Scorpio had made no calls at all.
Reacher saw South Dakota change to Wyoming through the bus window. He was in his favourite spot, on the left, over the rear axle. Most people avoided that location, because they feared a bumpy ride. It was everyone else’s last choice. Which made it his first.
He liked Wyoming. For its heroic geography, and its heroic climate. And its emptiness. It was the size of the United Kingdom, but it had fewer people in it than Louisville, Kentucky. The Census Bureau called most of it uninhabited. What people there were tended to be straightforward and pleasant. They were happy to leave a person alone.
Reacher country.
The first part of the state was high plains. Fall had already started. He gazed across the immense tawny distances, to the spectre of the mountains beyond. The highway was a dark black-top ribbon, mostly empty. From time to time trucks would pass the bus, slowly, sometimes spending a whole minute alongside, edging ahead imperceptibly. Reacher was eye to eye with their drivers, across their empty cabs. Old men, all of them.
My wife would say you feel guilty about something.
He looked the other way, across the aisle, at the other horizon.
Nakamura walked the length of the corridor to her lieutenant’s corner suite. He looked up, all glittering eyes and restlessness.
‘Bigfoot left,’ she said. ‘Scorpio answered his question. Next stop Wyoming.’
‘What’s in Wyoming?’
‘The ring was supplied to Scorpio by a man named Porterfield from a town named Mule Crossing. About six weeks ago.’
‘How did Bigfoot make Scorpio tell him all that?’
‘He decked the muscle. I suppose Scorpio knew he was next.’
‘Did you see it happen?’