She shook her head again. “Nothing. No subcutaneous bruising, no organ damage, no nothing.”
“Poison?”
“No. Stomach contents were OK. They hadn’t ingested the paint. Toxicology was completely clear.”
Reacher nodded, slowly. “No sexual interference either, I guess, because Blake was happy both Callan and Cooke would have slept with me if I’d wanted them to. Which means the perpetrator was feeling no sexual resentment, therefore no rape, or else you’d be looking for somebody who’d been rebuffed by them, one time or another.”
Lamarr nodded. “That’s our profile. Sexuality wasn’t an issue. The nakedness is about humiliation, we think. Punishment. The whole thing was about punishment. Retribution, or something.”
“Weird,” Reacher said. “That definitely makes the guy a soldier. But it’s a very unsoldierly way to kill somebody. Soldiers shoot or stab or hit or strangle. They don’t do subtle things.”
“We don’t know exactly what he did.”
“But there’s no anger there, right? If this guy is into some retribution thing, where’s the anger? It sounds too clinical.”
Lamarr yawned and nodded, all at once. “That troubles me too. But look at the victim category. What else can the motive be? And if we agree on the motive, what else can the perp be except an angry soldier?”
They lapsed into silence. The miles rolled by. Lamarr held the wheel, thin tendons in her wrists standing out like cords. Reacher watched the road reeling in, and tried not to feel happy about it. Then Lamarr yawned again, and she saw him glance sharply at her.
“I’m OK,” she said.
He looked at her, long and hard.
“I’m OK;” she said again.
“I’m going to sleep for an hour,” he said. “Try not to kill me.”
* * *
^4/iyu/w (filing 79
It
/
itfft/ he woke up, they were still in New Jersey. The car was quiet and comfortable. The motor was a faraway hum and there was a faint tenor rumble from the tires. A faint rustle of wind. The weather was gray. Lamarr was rigid with exhaustion, gripping the wheel, staring down the road with red unblinking eyes.
“We should stop for lunch,” he said.
“Too early.”
He checked his watch. It was one o’clock. “Don’t be such a damn hero. You should get a pint of coffee inside you.”
She hesitated, ready to argue. Then she gave it up. Her body suddenly went slack and she yawned again.
“OK,” she said. “So let’s stop.”
She drove on for a mile and coasted into a rest area in a clearing in the trees behind the shoulder. She put the car in a slot and turned the motor off and they sat in the sudden silence. The place was the same as a hundred others Reacher had seen, low-profile Federal architecture of the fifties colonized by fast-food operations that lodged behind discreet counters and spread their messages outward with gaudy advertisements.
He got out first and stretched his cramped frame in the cold, damp air. The highway traffic was roaring behind him. Lamarr was inert in the car, so he strolled away to the bathroom. Then she was nowhere to be seen, so he walked inside the building and lined up for a sandwich. She joined him within a minute.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Stray out of my sight.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have rules for people like you.”
She said it without any trace of softness or humor. He shrugged. “OK, next time I go to the bathroom I’ll invite you right inside with me.”
She didn’t smile. “Just tell me, and I’ll wait at the door.”
The line shuffled forward and he changed his selection from cheese to crab-meat, because he figured it was more expensive and he assumed she was paying. He added a twenty-ounce cup of black coffee and a plain doughnut. He found a table while she fiddled with her purse. Then she joined him and he raised his coffee in an ironic toast.
“Here’s to a few fun days together,” he said.
80
lufriH
“It’ll be more than a few days,” she said. “It’ll be as long as it takes.”
He sipped his coffee and thought about time.