“Sure,” he said. “A year is enough. It’s O.K. to have waited.”
She said nothing more. Just drove straight ahead for the gas station, like her life depended on it.
The first establishment was a junkyard. There was a long low shed made out of corrugated tin, with the front wall all covered with old hubcaps. Behind it was an acre of wrecked cars. They were piled five or six deep, with the older models at the bottom, like geological strata. Beyond the low shed was the turn for the gas station. It was old enough to have pumps with pointers instead of figures, and four public rest rooms instead of two. Old enough that a taciturn guy came out into the heat and filled your car for you.
The Cadillac took more than twenty gallons, which cost Reacher the price of a motel room. He passed the bills through his window and waved away a dollar in change. He figured the guy should have it. The outside temperature reading on the dash showed one hundred and eleven degrees. No wonder the guy didn’t talk. Then he found himself wondering whether it was because the guy didn’t like to see a beaner driving a white man around in a Cadillac.
“Gracias, senor,” Carmen said. “Thank you.”
“Pleasure,” he said. “De nada, senorita. ”
“You speak Spanish?”
“Not really,” he said. “I served all over, so I can say a few words in a lot of languages. But that’s all. Except French. I speak French pretty well. My mother was French.”
“From Louisiana or Canada?”
“From Paris, France.”
“So you’re half-foreign,” she said.
“Sometimes I feel a lot more than half.”
She smiled like she didn’t believe him and eased back to the road. The gas needle jumped up to F, which seemed to reassure her. She got the car straight in her lane and accelerated back to a cruise.
“But you should call me senora,” she said. “Not senorita. I’m a married woman.”
“Yes,” he said. “I guess you are.”
She went quiet for a mile. Settled back in the seat and rested both hands lightly on the bottom curve of the wheel. Then she took a deep breath.
“O.K., here’s the problem,” she said. “I don’t have a year.”
“Why not?”
“Because a month ago his lawyer friend came out to the house. Told us there was some kind of deal on the table.” “What deal?”
“I don’t know for sure. Nobody told me exactly. My guess is Sloop’s going to rat out some business associates in exchange for early release. I think his other friend is brokering it through the DA’s office.” “Shit,” Reacher said.
Carmen nodded. “Yes, shit. They’ve all been working their asses off, getting it going. I’ve had to be all smiles, like oh great, Sloop’s coming home early.” Reacher said nothing.
“But inside, I’m screaming,” she said. “I left it too late, you see. A year and a half, I did nothing at all. I thought I was safe. I was wrong. I was stupid. I was sitting around in a trap without knowing it, and now it’s sprung shut, and I’m still in it.”
Reacher nodded slowly. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. That was his guiding principle.
“So what’s the progress on the deal?” he asked. The car sped on south.
“It’s done,” she said, in a small voice.
“So when does he get out?”
“Today’s Friday,” she said. “I don’t think they can do it on the weekend. So it’ll be Monday, I expect. A couple of days, is all.”
“I see,” Reacher said.
“So I’m scared,” she said. “He’s coming home.”
“I see,” Reacher said again.
“Do you?” she asked.
He said nothing.
“Monday night,” she said. “He’s going to start it all up again. It’s going to be worse than ever.”
“Maybe he’s changed,” Reacher said. “Prison can change people.”
It was a useless thing to say. He could see it in her face. And in his experience, prison didn’t change people for the better.
“No, it’s going to be worse than ever,” she said. “I know it. I know it for sure. I’m in big trouble, Reacher. I can promise you that.”