Child, Lee. Running blind

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10¥ drove out of the tunnel and streamed west with the traffic. Route 3

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angled slightly north toward the Turnpike. It was a shiny night in New Jersey, damp asphalt everywhere, sodium lights with evening fog haloes strung like necklaces. There were lit billboards and neon signs left and right. Establishments of every nature behind lumpy blacktop yards.

The roadhouse they were looking for was in the back of a leftover lot where three roads met. It was labeled with a beer company’s neon sign which said MacStiophan’s, which as far as Reacher understood Gaelic meant Stevenson’s. It was a low building with a flat roof. Its walls were faced with brown boards and there was a green neon shamrock in every window. Its parking lot was badly lit and three-quarters empty. Reacher put the Maxima at a casual angle across two spaces near the door. Slid out and looked around. The air was cold. He turned a full circle in the dark, scanning the lot against the lights from the street.

“No Cadillac DeVille,” he said. “He’s not here yet.”

Harper looked at the door, cautiously.

“We’re a little early,” she said. “I guess we’ll wait.”

“You can wait out here,” he said. “If you prefer.”

She shook her head.

“I’ve been in worse places,” she said.

It was hard for Reacher to imagine where and when. The outer door led to a six-by-six lobby with a cigarette machine and a sisal mat worn smooth and greasy with use. The inner door led to a low dark space full of the stink of beer fumes and smoke. There was no ventilation running. The green shamrocks in the windows shone inward as well as outward and gave the place a pale ghostly

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