He said nothing. Just opened the glove compartment and put the maps back. Took out the Heckler & Koch handgun. Clicked out the magazine and checked the load. Never assume. But it still held its full complement of ten shells. He put the magazine back in and jacked the first round into the chamber. Then he cocked the pistol and locked it. Eased up off the passenger seat and slipped it into his pocket.
“You think we’re going to need that?” she asked. “Sooner or later,” he said. “You got more ammo in your bag?” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d actually use it.” He said nothing. “You O.K.?” she asked.
“Feeling good,” he said. “Maybe like you did during that big trial, before the guy refused to pay.”
She nodded at the wheel. “It was a good feeling.”
“That’s your thing, right?”
“I guess it is.”
“This is my thing,” he said. “This is what I’m built for. The thrill of the chase. I’m an investigator, Alice, always was, always will be. I’m a hunter. And when Walker gave me that badge my head started working.”
“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” she asked again.
“Aside from the diamond ring.”
“Tell me.”
He said nothing.
“Tell me,” she said again.
“Did you ever ride a horse?”
“No,” she said. “I’m a city girl. Openest space I ever saw was the median strip in the middle of Park Avenue.”
“I just rode one with Carmen. First time ever.”
“So?”
“They’re very tall. You’re way up there in the air.”
“So?” she said again. “You ever ride a bike?” “In New York City?” “Inline skating?” “A little, back when it was cool.” “You ever fall?” “Once, pretty badly.”
He nodded. “Tell me about that meal you made for me.” “What about it?” “Homemade, right?” “Sure.”
“You weighed out the ingredients?” “You have to.”
“So you’ve got a scale in your kitchen?” “Sure,” she said again. “The scales of justice,” he said. “Reacher, what the hell are you talking about?”
He glanced to his left. The red picket fence was racing backward through the edge of her headlight beams.
“We’re here,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”
She slowed and turned in under the gate and bumped across the yard.
“Face it toward the motor barn,” he said. “And leave the headlights on. I want to take a look at that old pick-up truck.”
“O.K.,” she said.
She coasted a yard or two and hauled on the steering wheel until the headlight beams washed into the right-hand end of the barn. They lit up half of die new pick-up, half of the Jeep Cherokee, and all of the old pick-up between them.
“Stay close to me,” he said.
They got out of the car. The night air felt suddenly hot and damp. Different than before. It was cloudy and there were disturbed insects floating everywhere. But the yard was quiet. No sound. They walked over together for a better look at the abandoned truck. It was some kind of a Chevrolet, maybe twenty years old, but still a recognizable ancestor of the newer truck alongside it. It had bulbous fenders and dulled paint and a roll bar built into the load bed. It must have had a million miles on it. Probably hadn’t been started in a decade. The springs sagged and the tires were flat and the rubber was perished by the relentless heat.
“So?” Alice said.
“I think it’s the truck in the photograph,” Reacher said. “The one in Walker’s office? Him and Sloop and Eugene leaning on the fender?”
“Trucks all look the same to me,” she said.
“Sloop had the same photograph.”
“Is that significant?”
He shrugged. “They were good friends.”
They turned away. Alice ducked back into the VW and killed the lights. Then he led her to the foot of the porch steps. Up to the main entrance. He knocked. Waited. Bobby Greer opened the door. Stood there, surprised.
“So you came home,” Reacher said.
Bobby scowled, like he had already heard it.
“My buddies took me out,” he said. “To help with the grieving process.”
Reacher opened his palm to show off the chromium star. The badge flip. It felt good. Not quite as good as flashing a United States Army Criminal Investigation Division credential, but it had an effect on Bobby. It stopped him closing the door again.