AN HOUR LATER they stopped late for lunch in a one-light town. There was a Shell station and a family restaurant. Reacher saw that Sanderson wanted to stay outside, on the smokers’ benches, to take care of business. But she forced herself inside, and ate first, fast and dirty, and then she excused herself and ducked back out again.
Reacher went with her. He sat beside her, a yard away. A concrete bench in a blacktop lot. With almost the same person. She had a ready-cut quarter-inch, rolled tight and set to go. The size of a wad of gum. She slipped it in, and chewed a little, and sucked a little. She clicked her neck and leaned back and looked up at the sky.
She said, ‘I can’t believe you talk to the supe on the phone.’
He said, ‘Someone has to.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘There was an arrest warrant out on Porterfield.’
She breathed out, a deep sigh of release and contentment. The fentanyl, Reacher guessed, not memories of her boyfriend’s demise.
She said, ‘Arrest warrants lapse when the suspect dies. Obviously. So that’s ancient history now. You should forget all about it. Although I’m sure you won’t. My sister says you still think like a cop. You won’t let things go. Probably you think I killed him. You have to, really. We were domestic partners at the time. Statistics don’t lie.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘In a way.’
‘What way?’
‘Better that you don’t know. Or you’ll want to do something about it.’
‘That’s not a smart thing to say to someone who won’t let things go.’
She didn’t answer. She just breathed. Deep, long, slow, in and out. All was well with the world. Reacher had read a report that called it a euphoria users swore had no equal.
She said, ‘Sy was wounded in the groin.’
Reacher said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not a glamorous location,’ she said. ‘The second most feared, as a matter of fact, after a disfiguring facial wound. But they sewed him back together again. It all worked. He could have sex. Except one of the sutures always leaked. Under certain circumstances. It could get messy.’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Apparently there’s a lot of blood pressure involved,’ she said.
‘I hope,’ Reacher said.
‘And he had an infection. From the day he was wounded. His uniform pants were filthy dirty. He had been wearing them every day since California. The bullet punched tiny shreds of dirty cloth way deep inside. Happened all the time. The bugs take hold, and then you can’t move them. They must be smarter than we are.’
‘That was twelve years before.’
‘He started out seeing doctors. But he didn’t like them. In the end he looked after himself.’
‘Like you did,’ he said.
‘I was like him,’ she said. ‘He showed me how to do it. He showed me how to do everything. He showed me the gates of death. The doctor said the leaky suture was equally likely to burst. Every night he could have bled to death. He said he learned to live with it. Then to love it. In the end I did too. Mostly.’
‘Sounds like an interesting way to live.’
‘He told me he felt secure with me. But I was never sure why. Did he think it was because I was a nice person? Or did he think I owed him for his attentions, because I was even more hideous? I couldn’t let him think that. Or I would have to think it too. I would have to accept I needed special favours. Which I never took before. Why should I start now?’
Reacher didn’t answer. She was quiet a long moment. She sighed again. A deep low shudder of pure contentment. She spread her arms along the back of the bench. Her right hand came near Reacher’s shoulder. She laid back and looked up at the sky.
She said, ‘How important is a woman’s face?’
‘To me?’
‘For example.’
‘A little bit, I guess. But for me it’s mostly the eyes. Either there’s someone home or there isn’t. Either you want to knock on that door or you don’t.’
She sat up and half turned on the bench. To face him, full on. She dropped the zipper on her silver top, maybe three inches down, and she eased her hood back, all the way, and off. Her hair spilled out and down and forward. Like her sister’s, but shorter. Maybe greyer. But it fell the same way. It framed her face the same way.
Her eyes were green, and they were warm and liquid with some kind of deep dreamy satisfaction. There was sparkle, muted, like winking sunlight on a woodland stream. And bitter amusement. She was mocking him, and herself, and the whole wide world.
He said, ‘We’re of equal rank, so I’m allowed to say it. Discouraged, but permitted. I would knock on your door.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
‘For real. I’m sure Porterfield was for real too. He won’t be the only one. People react in different ways.’
She pulled her hood back in place and tucked in her hair.
He said, ‘You should get the IV. It’s the foil that looks weird.’
‘First I have to live through the night.’
‘Sheriff Connelly found ten grand in a box.’
‘Sy didn’t trust banks. He preferred cash. What was in the box was all he had left. The banks lost the rest, back when I was overseas. Maybe that’s why he didn’t trust them.’
‘How long would ten grand have lasted?’
She sighed again, deeply contented.
‘Not long,’ she said. ‘Not the way we were going at it. And sometimes we had to buy food. And he was for ever paying the guy who fixed his roof.’
‘Why did you stop calling your sister after he died?’
‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘Reduced circumstances. I had to sell my phone.’
‘Was it DIA who burgled his house?’
She nodded. ‘They were late to the party. The circus was over by the time they arrived. But they got what they wanted.’
‘Which was?’
She didn’t answer. She just waved the question away, like it didn’t matter.
Nakamura’s cell phone rang. Her friend from Computer Crimes. He said, ‘Scorpio is making calls. Or at least the signal we think is Scorpio. The traffic feels about the same as three days ago. And he called the same number again. The one that texted back about the new Billy.’
She said, ‘He’s still in his office.’
‘He’s doing it by remote control. It’s happening a little ways north of here. I assume the guy who texted is his man on the spot.’
‘Can we tap his computer wires?’
‘We already are. It’s called the internet. But he has a firewall. We could hack him but it would take us days.’
She said, ‘The driver must be his. Of the ghost truck that never leaves the factory. Except it does. The guy must know where to drive it.’
Her friend said, ‘I wonder if they remembered about employment records. They would need to amend the guy’s hours and miles. That might be a way in.’
‘We don’t have the records.’
‘Then there’s nothing you can do.’
‘Maybe there is. Only half of this thing is records and computers. The other half is a physical reality. It’s a real truck, driving on a real road, with physical stuff in it. How would it get here?’
‘From where?’
‘New Jersey, I think.’