“So who are they?” he asked her. “And what do they want?”
“No idea,” she said.
She said it too quickly. He knew she knew.
They want you, right?” he said. “Either because they want you
personally, or because they want any old FBI agent and you were right
there on the spot. How many FBI agents are there?”
“Bureau has twenty-five thousand employees,” she said. “Of which ten
thousand are agents.”
“OK,” he said. “So they want you in particular. One out of ten
thousand is too big a coincidence. This is not random.”
She looked away. He glanced at her.
“Why, Holly?” he asked.
She shrugged and shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Too quickly. He glanced at her again. She sounded sure, but there was
some big defensive edge there in her reply.
“I don’t know,” she said again. “All I can figure is maybe they
mistook me for somebody else from the office.”
Reacher laughed and turned his head toward her. His face touched her
hair.
“You’re joking, Holly Johnson,” he said. “You’re not the type of woman
gets confused with somebody else. And they watched you three weeks.
Long enough to get familiar.”
She smiled away from him, up at the metal roof, ironically.
“Once seen, never forgotten, right?” she said. “I wish.”
“You in any doubt about that?” Reacher said. “You’re the best-looking
person I saw this week.”
Thanks, Reacher,” she said. “It’s Tuesday. You first saw me Monday.
Big compliment, right?”
“But you get my drift,” he said.
She sat up, straight from the waist like a gymnast, and used both hands
to flip her leg sideways. Propped herself on one elbow on the
mattress. Hooked her hair behind her ear and looked down at him.
“I don’t get anything about you,” she said.
He looked back up at her. Shrugged.
“You got questions, you ask them,” he said. “I’m all in favor of
freedom of information.”
“OK,” she said. “Here’s the first question: who the hell are you?”
He shrugged again and smiled.
“Jack Reacher,” he said. “No middle name, thirty-seven years and eight
months old, unmarried, club doorman in Chicago.”
“Bullshit,” she said.
“Bullshit?” he repeated. “Which part? My name, my age, my marital
status or my occupation?”
“Your occupation,” she said. “You’re not a club doorman.”
“I’m not?” he said. “So what am I?”
“You’re a soldier,” she said. “You’re in the army.”
“I am?” he said.
“It’s pretty obvious,” she said. “My dad is army. I’ve lived on bases
all my life. Everybody I ever saw was in the army, right up until I
was eighteen years old. I know what soldiers look like. I know how
they act. I was pretty sure you were one. Then you took your shirt
off, and I knew for definite.”
Reacher grinned.
“Why?” he said. “Is that a really uncouth, soldierly kind of a thing
to do?”
Holly grinned back at him. Shook her head. Her hair came loose. She
swept it back behind her ear, one finger bent like a small pale hook.
That scar on your stomach,” she said. Those awful stitches. That’s a
MASH. job for sure. Some field hospital somewhere, took them about a
minute and a half. Any civilian surgeon did stitches like that, he’d
get sued for malpractice so fast he’d get dizzy.”
Reacher ran his finger over the lumpy skin. The stitches looked like a
plan of the ties at a busy railroad yard.
The guy was busy,” he said. “I thought he did pretty well, considering
the circumstances. It was in Beirut. I was a long way down the
priority list. I was only bleeding to death slowly.”
“So I’m right?” Holly said. “You’re a soldier?”
Reacher smiled up at her again and shook his head.
“I’m a doorman,” he said. “Like I told you. Blues joint on the South
Side. You should try it. Much better than the tourist places.”
She glanced between his huge scar and his face. Clamped her lips and
slowly shook her head. Reacher nodded at her, like he was conceding
the point.
“I used to be a soldier,” he said. “I got out, fourteen months ago.”
“What unit?” she asked.