noise moved up out of the cabin and settled to a deep roar inside the
engines. The ground tilted and flashed past below. Reacher saw the
mountain hairpins unwinding and the parade ground sliding past. The
knot of tiny people was breaking up.
3QS
They were drifting away into the trees and being swallowed up under the
green canopy. Then the narrow slash of the rifle range was under them,
then the broad stony circle of the Bastion. Then the aircraft rose
sharply as the ground fell away so that the big white courthouse
slipped by underneath as small as a doll house. Then they were over
the ravine, over the broken bridge, and away into the vast forested
spaces to the south.
Reacher tapped the pilot on the shoulder and spoke through the
intercom.
“What speed are we doing?” he asked.
“Hundred and sixty,” the pilot said.
“Course?” Reacher asked.
“Dead on south,” the pilot said.
Reacher nodded. Closed his eyes and started to calculate. It was like
being back in grade school. He’s two hundred miles ahead, doing fifty
miles an hour. You’re chasing him at a hundred and sixty. How long
before you catch him? Grade-school math had been OK for Reacher. So
had fighting in the yard. The fighting part had stayed with him better
than the math. He was sure there must be some kind of a formula for
it. Something with x and y all over the damn page. Something equaling
something else. But if there was a formula, he had long ago forgotten
it. So he had to do it by trial and error. Another hour, Stevie would
be two hundred and fifty miles from home. The Night Hawk would have
done one hundred and sixty. Way behind. An hour after that, Stevie
would be three hundred miles out, and the Night Hawk would be three
hundred and twenty. Overshot. Therefore they were going to catch him
somewhere near the top of the second hour. If they were headed in the
right direction.
Flathead Lake came into view, far ahead and far below. Reacher could
see the roads snaking across the rugged terrain. He thumbed the button
on his mike.
“Still south?” he asked.
“Dead on,” the pilot said.
“Still one-sixty?” Reacher asked.
“Dead on,” the pilot said again.
“OK, stick with it,” Reacher said. “Hour and fifty minutes, maybe.”
“So where is he going?” Webster asked.
“San Francisco,” Reacher said.
“Why?” McGrath asked.
“Or Minneapolis,” Reacher said. “But I’m gambling on San Francisco.”
“Why?” McGrath asked again.
“San Francisco or Minneapolis,” Reacher said. “Think about it. Other
possibilities would be Boston, New York, Philly, Cleveland, Richmond in
Virginia, Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City in Missouri, or
Dallas in Texas.”
McGrath just shrugged blankly. Webster looked puzzled. Johnson
glanced at his aide. Garber was motionless. But Holly was smiling.
She smiled and winked at Reacher. He winked back and the Night Hawk
thumped on south over Missoula at a hundred and sixty miles an hour.
“Christ, it’s the Fourth of July,” Webster said suddenly.
Tell me about it,” Reacher said. “Lots of people gathered in public
places. Families, kids and all.”
Webster nodded grimly.
“OK, where exactly in San Francisco?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Reacher said.
“North end of Market,” Holly said. “Right near Embarcadero Plaza.
That’s where, chief. I’ve been there on the Fourth. Big parade in the
afternoon, fireworks over the water at night. Huge crowds all day
long.”
“Huge crowds everywhere on the Fourth,” Webster said. “You better be
guessing right, people.”
McGrath looked up. A slow smile was spreading over his bruised face.
“We are guessing right,” he said. “It’s San Francisco for sure. Not
Minneapolis or anyplace else.”
Reacher smiled back and winked. McGrath had gotten it.
“You want to tell me why?” Webster asked him.
McGrath was still smiling.
“Go figure,” he said. “You’re the damn director.”
“Because it’s the nearest?” Webster asked.
McGrath nodded.
“In both senses,” he said, and smiled again.
“What both senses?” Webster asked. “What are we talking about?”
4m
Nobody answered him. The military men were quiet. Holly and McGrath
were staring out through the windows at the ground, two thousand feet