Echo burning. A Jack Reacher Novel. Lee Child

That’s the subliminal impression, and there are ways to enhance it a little.

In the empty country halfway to Abilene, the tall fair man pulled off the highway and headed through vast fields and past dense woodlands until he found a dusty turn-out probably ten miles from the nearest human being. He stopped there and turned off the motor and popped the trunk. The small dark man heaved the heavy valise out and laid it on the ground. The woman zipped it open and handed a pair of Virginia plates to the tall fair man. He took a screwdriver from the valise and removed the Texas plates, front and rear. Bolted the Virginia issue in their place. The small dark man pulled the plastic covers off all four wheels, leaving the cheap black steel rims showing. He stacked the wheel covers like plates and pitched them into the trunk. The woman took radio antennas from the valise, four of them, CB whips and cellular telephone items bought cheap at a Radio Shack in L.A. The cellular antennas stuck to the rear window with self-adhesive pads. She waited until the trunk was closed again and placed the CB antennas on the lid. They had magnetic bases. They weren’t wired up to anything. They were just for show.

Then the small dark man took his rightful place behind the wheel and U-turned through the dust and headed back to the highway, cruising easily. A Crown Vic, plain steel wheels, a forest of antennas, Virginia plates. Maybe an FBI pool car, three agents inside, maybe on urgent business.

What did you do in the army?” the woman asked, very casually.

“I was a cop,” Reacher said.

“They have cops in the army?”

“Sure they do,” he said. “Military police. Like cops, inside the service.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

She went quiet again. She was thinking hard. She seemed excited.

“Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” she said.

He shrugged. “You’re giving me a ride.”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t want to offend you.”

“That would be hard to do, in the circumstances. Hundred and ten degrees out there, sixty in here.”

“There’ll be a storm soon. There has to be, with a temperature like this.”

He glanced ahead at the sky. It was tinted bottle-green by the windshield glass, and it was blindingly clear.

“I don’t see any sign of it,” he said.

She smiled again, briefly. “May I ask where you live?”

“I don’t live anywhere,” he said. “I move around.”

“You don’t have a home somewhere?”

He shook his head. “What you see is what I’ve got.”

“You travel light,” she said.

“Light as I can.”

She paused for a fast mile.

“Are you out of work?” she asked.

He nodded. “Usually.”

“Were you a good cop? In the army?”

“Good enough, I guess. They made me a major, gave me some medals.”

She paused. “So why did you leave?”

It felt like an interview. For a loan, or for a job.

“They downsized me out of there,” he said. “End of the Cold War, they wanted a smaller army, not so many people in it, so they didn’t need so many cops to look after them.”

She nodded. “Like a town. If the population gets smaller, the police department gets smaller, too. Something to do with appropriations. Taxes, or something.”

He said nothing.

“I live in a very small town,” she said. “Echo, south of Pecos, like I told you. It’s a lonely place. That’s why they named it Echo. Not because it’s echoey, like an empty room. It’s from ancient Greek mythology. Echo was a young girl in love with Narcissus. But he loved himself, not her, so she pined away until just her voice was left. So that’s why it’s called Echo. Not many inhabitants. But it’s a county, too. A county and a township. Not as empty as Loving County, but there’s no police department at all. Just the county sheriff, on his own.”

Something in her voice.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“It’s a very white county,” she said. “Not like Pecos at all.”

“So?

“So one feels there might be a problem, if push came to shove.”

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