IT WAS IN a mud room near the back door. In a closet where snow clothes were kept. A pair of snow pants had slipped off a hanger. Some kind of stiff nylon. They had hit the floor like spears, and then half crumpled and half stayed rigid, like wobbly legs, like a cartoon picture of a guy who just received a nasty shock. They had toppled backward and had ended up half propped in the corner. Reacher moved them, purely out of habit, and behind them he found a pair of women’s snow boots. A technical product, with hooks and loops. A woman’s size six. Which was small.
He said, ‘Boots in the closet is a thing, right? She spent quality time here.’
‘If it was her. Could have been anybody.’
‘I agree. But it’s evidence a guy two separate people described as a loner living alone actually had a companion in his house. Which should have tilted the investigation a little, when such a guy shows up dead. Maybe we can forgive the sheriff. He had a preconceived notion. And I bet everyone in Wyoming has a closet like that. Hard to see what you always see. But whoever came along afterwards should have seen it. They should have had fresh eyes. Makes me wonder who they were. And what they were doing. Maybe they didn’t really look at anything. Maybe it really was a fast in-and-out, to get something back. Has to be. Nothing else has been touched.’
Bramall said, ‘We should check the other closets.’
They did, but there was nothing in them, except Porterfield’s own stuff. Apparently he had been a guy who liked blue jeans, and saw no problem at all with laundering things until they went threadbare.
No women’s clothing.
No dresses, no blouses, no pants.
Bramall said, ‘Why would she leave only her boots behind?’
‘She left at the start of spring. She hadn’t used them for a month. She forgot them. Or maybe they were uncomfortable. Maybe she left them on purpose. Maybe she was fixing to buy new. But she was here. Or someone was. Porterfield didn’t live alone. Not all the time.’
‘That’s a lot to read into a pair of boots.’
‘I bet we find more.’
They did. But not much more. After two hours they had a very modest haul. More persuasive than conclusive. They saved time by ignoring what was on open view. Instead they looked inside things, and under things, and behind things.
They found a woman’s comb between the sofa cushions. It was made of pink plastic. All the teeth were widely spaced. Not half and half, like a regular comb. In the master bathroom they found two sinks, each with a soap dish, one with a dried-out cake of scented soap, and one with a dried-out cake of plain. Also in the bathroom they found two sets of towels laid out. In the laundry room behind the dryer they found a pair of women’s athletic socks. Some kind of miracle fibre, small in size, pink in colour, stuck all over with dust bunnies.
That was it.
Not enough for a courtroom. But suggestive. Reacher said, ‘She was here. Or someone was. At least some of the time. Maybe just a casual on-again, off-again type of thing. But she was here long enough to get somewhat ingrained. When she left, she did it in style. She made a clean break. Some kind of statement. She scoured the place and packed up everything of hers she could see, leaving behind only the few things she couldn’t. Like her lost comb. She couldn’t take her soap anyway. At the time it was all wet and slimy. Couldn’t just toss it in a bag with her clothes. She didn’t count the towels. Who would? She forgot her snow boots. But it’s the socks I like best.’
‘Why?’
‘They prove she still has two legs. The Purple Heart might not be as bad as it could be.’
‘If it’s her.’
‘Suppose it was. Porterfield must have gone to her place from time to time. Where would that be? How far from here? Suppose you were a guy like Porterfield. How far would you drive to get laid?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘A number of things.’
‘Look on the bright side. Maybe not Miss America exactly, but assume she’s a nice-looking person.’
‘This is Wyoming. They drive epic distances for a loaf of bread. For a girlfriend, two hours, maybe. A hundred miles.’
‘Which doesn’t help us,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s too big of an area to contemplate.’
Bramall nodded. ‘I was going to say our next move should be go talk to Porterfield’s neighbours. But I don’t know exactly what that means out here. Everyone lives twenty miles from everyone else. I bet they never see each other.’
‘But I guess they depend on each other. Suppose they get a sudden emergency. Who are they going to call? The police department or the fire department two hours away? Or their nearest neighbour, who could be there in fifteen minutes? Maybe that’s the country way. Maybe country neighbours are closer than you suspect. Maybe they’re always into each other’s business and have plenty to tell us.’
‘You’re very cheerful.’
Reacher didn’t answer. He was alone in the kitchen, perhaps subconsciously needing to keep his exit in view. The open window, with the broken glass and the torn-out screen. A cool breeze came in. And borne on it, sounds. Most of them were inoffensive. Wind in the trees, the beat of a heavy bird’s wing, a bee flying by, and pausing, and flying on.
One sound was different.
Very brief, and very distant. Barely audible. A fragment only. A tiny scratch, or a tiny crunch, or a tiny squelch. A small part of a familiar local sound. A Wyoming sound. Like all sounds, made from a mix of different components. Like DNA.
Grit was involved.
And rock.
And rubber.
‘We need to get out,’ he said. ‘There’s a car on the driveway.’
Bramall went first. Less likely to get stuck. Reacher followed him successfully, and Bramall put his arm back in and wound the handle to close the window. Then they hustled to the front.
Nothing yet.
‘We should get in the car,’ Bramall said. ‘Just in case.’
Reacher said, ‘If in doubt, run them over.’
They climbed in the Toyota and Bramall started the motor.
A truck came up over the final rise and started across the plateau.
It was a Ford pick-up truck, loaded with a police-department version of a camper shell. Its paint was clean and shiny. All white, except for the doors, which had gold stars about two feet wide and two feet high, with the county’s name in a curve above, and Sheriff’s Department in a curve below. A little like a West Point ring.
Sheriff Connelly.
Connelly parked close by the Toyota, at a casual angle, partly to look nonchalant and unworried and therefore unthreatening, but mostly, Reacher thought, to subtly block off the Toyota’s forward path. The guy had judged it well. Not obvious, but the Toyota would have to back up and loop around.
Connelly buzzed his window down. He was wearing his hat in the car. Plenty of room. It was a tall truck.
Reacher buzzed his window down. He was closest.
Connelly said, ‘You told me you had no connections to Porterfield.’
Reacher said, ‘I don’t.’