Then he heard a light tread on the bunkhouse stair. He sat up in time to see Carmen come up into the room. She had one hand pressed flat on her chest, like she was out of breath, or panicking, or both.
“Sloop talked to Bobby,” she said. “For ages.”
“Did he hit you?” Reacher asked.
Her hand went up to her cheek.
“No,” she said.
“Did he?”
She looked away.
“Well, just once,” she said. “Not hard.”
“I should go break his arms.”
“He called the sheriff.”
“Who did?”
“Sloop.”
“When?”
“Just now. He talked to Bobby, and then he called.”
“About me?”
She nodded. “He wants you out of here.”
“It’s O.K.,” Reacher said. “The sheriff won’t do anything.”
“You think?”
Reacher nodded. “I squared him away, before.”
She paused a beat. “I’ve got to get back now. He thinks I’m with Ellie.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Not yet. Let me talk to him first.”
“Don’t let him hit you again, Carmen. Come get me, soon as you need me. Or make noise, O.K.? Scream and shout.”
She started back down the stairs.
“I will,” she said. “I promise. You sure about the sheriff?” “Don’t worry,” he said. “The sheriff won’t do a thing.”
But the sheriff did one thing. He passed the problem to the state police. Reacher found that out ninety minutes later, when a Texas Ranger cruiser turned in under the gate, looking for him. Somebody directed it all the way down past the barns and in behind the bunkhouse. He heard its motor and the sound of its tires crushing the dust on the track. He got off of his bed and went down the stairs and when he got to the bottom he was lit up by the spotlight mounted in front of its windshield. It shone in past the parked farm tractors and picked him out in a bright cone of light. The car doors opened and two Rangers got out.
They were not similar to the sheriff. Not in any way. They were in a different class altogether. They were young and fit and professional. Both of them were medium height, both of them were halfway between lean and muscled. Both had military-style buzz cuts. Both had immaculate uniforms. One was a sergeant and the other was a trooper. The trooper was Hispanic. He was holding a shotgun.
“What?” Reacher called.
“Step to the hood of the car,” the sergeant called back.
Reacher kept his hands clear of his body and walked to the car.
“Assume the position,” the sergeant said.
Reacher put his palms on the fender and leaned down. The sheet metal was hot from the engine. The trooper covered him with the shotgun and the sergeant patted him down.
“O.K., get in the car,” he said.
Reacher didn’t move.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“A request from a property owner to remove a trespasser.”
“I’m not a trespasser. I work here.”
“Well, I guess they just terminated you. So now you’re a trespasser. And we’re going to remove you.”
“That’s a state police job?”
“Small community like this, we’re on call to help the local guys, their days off, or serious crimes.”
“Trespassing is a serious crime?”
“No, Sunday is the Echo sheriff’s day off.”
The moths had found the spotlight. They fluttered in and crowded the lens, landing and taking off again when the heat of the bulb got to them. They batted against Reacher’s right arm. They felt dry and papery and surprisingly heavy.
“O.K., I’ll leave,” he said. “I’ll walk out to the road.”
“Then you’ll be a vagrant on a county highway. That’s against the law, too, around here, especially during the hours of darkness.”
“So where are we going?”
“You have to leave the county. We’ll let you out in Pecos.”
“They owe me money. I never got paid.”
“So get in the car. We’ll stop at the house.”
Reacher glanced left at the trooper, and the shotgun. Both of them looked businesslike. He glanced right, at the sergeant. He had his hand on the butt of his gun. He saw in his mind the two Greer boys, two versions of the same face, both of them grinning, smug and triumphant. But it was Rusty he saw mouthing checkmate at him.