s/
]{(f> cloud cleared over North Dakota. The ground was visible seven miles below them. The copilot wandered back into the cabin and pointed down to where he was born. A little town south of Bismarck. The Missouri River ran through it, a tiny silver thread. Then the guy wandered back again and left Reacher puzzling over navigation. He knew nothing about it. Virginia to Oregon, he’d have flown across Kentucky, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho. He wouldn’t have gone up to North Dakota. But something called great circle routes made it shorter to go way out of your way. He knew that. But he didn’t understand it. How could it be quicker to go way out of your way?
“Lorraine Stanley stole the paint,” Harper said. “The lack of violence proves the guy is faking it. But what does the geography prove?”
“We talked about that,” Reacher said.
“It demonstrates scope.”
He nodded. “And speed.”
She nodded in turn.
“And mobility,” he added. “Don’t forget mobility.”
/t/ the end, she played for an hour and a half. The cop stayed away and she relaxed and her touch improved, better than it had ever been. Her mind locked onto the notes and she brought the speed higher and higher, right to the point where the forward motion got a little ragged. Then she backed it off and settled at a point just a little slower than the tempo was marked. But what the hell, it sounded magnificent. Maybe even better than it would played at exactly the right speed. It was involving, logical, stately. She was pleased with it.
She pushed back on the stool and knitted her fingers and flexed them above her head. Then she closed the keyboard lid and stood up. Stepped out to the hallway and skipped up the stairs to her bathroom. Stood at the mirror and brushed her hair. Then she went back down to the coat closet and took out her jacket. It was short enough to be comfortable in the car and warm enough for the weather. She changed her shoes for her heavier pair. Unlocked the door to the basement stairs and went down. Unlocked the door to the garage and
fufifttnj filing 319
used the key-chain remote to open her car. The light came on inside. She switched the power on for the opener and slid into the car and started the engine while the garage door rumbled upward.
She backed onto the driveway and hit the button to close the door again. Twisted in her seat and saw the police cruiser parked in her way. She left the motor running and got out and walked down toward it. The cop was watching her. He buzzed the window open.
“I’m going to the store,” she said.
The guy looked at her for a second, like this was outside the range of permissible scenarios.
“How long you going to be gone?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Half hour, an hour,” she said.
“The store?” he said.
She nodded. “I need some things.”
He stared some more, and arrived at a decision.
“OK, but I wait here,” he said. “We’re watching the house, not you personally. Domicile-based crimes, that’s what we do.”
She nodded again. “That’s fine. Nobody’s going to grab me at the store.”
The cop nodded back. Said nothing. He started his engine and backed up the slope far enough that she could maneuver out past him. He watched her roll away down the hill, and then he eased back into position.
You see the garage door open, you see the car come out, you see the door close again. You see her stop on her driveway, and you see her get out. You watch the conversation through the Crown Vic’s window. You see the cop back up, you see her reverse out onto the roadway. The cop moves back into position, she takes off down the hill. You smile to yourself and ease backward under the cover of the rocks. You stand up. You go to work.
A
;4tf made the left at the bottom of her hill, and then the right onto the through road toward the city of Portland. It was cold. Another week of falling temperatures, and it would be snowing. Then her choice of automobile would start to look a little silly. Everybody else had big four-wheel-drives, either jeeps or pickup trucks. She had gone for a swoopy low-slung sedan, about four times