He pushed forward off the wall, hands cuffed behind him, and moved into Reacher's view. Glanced desperately at him, like he was asking for a testimonial.
"Five mistakes," Fowler said again. "One, you burned the pickup, and two, you burned the car. Way too visible. Why didn't you just put an ad in the damn paper?"
Loder made no reply. His mouth was working, but no sound was coming out.
"Three, you snarled this guy up," Fowler said.
Loder glanced at Reacher again and shook his head vigorously.
"This guy's a nobody," he said. "No heat coming after him."
"You should still have waited," Fowler said. "And four, you lost Peter. What exactly happened to him?"
Loder shrugged again.
"I don't know," he said.
"He got scared," Fowler said. "You were making so many mistakes, he got scared and he ran. That's what happened. You got any other explanation?"
Loder was just staring blankly.
"And five, you killed the damn dentist," Fowler said. "They're not going to overlook that, are they? This was supposed to be a military operation, right? Political? You added an extra factor there."
"What dentist?" Reacher asked.
Fowler glanced at him and smiled a lipless smile, indulgent, like Reacher was an audience he could use to humiliate Loder a little more.
"They stole the car from a dentist," he said. "The guy caught them at it. They should have waited until he was clear."
"He got in the way," Loder said. "We couldn't bring him with us, could we?"
"You brought me," Reacher said to him.
Loder stared at him like he was a moron.
"The guy was a Jew," he said. "This place isn't for Jews."
Reacher glanced around the room. Looked at the shoulder flashes. Montana Militia, Montana Militia, Montana Militia. He nodded slowly. A brand-new country.
"Where have you taken Holly?" he asked Fowler.
Fowler ignored him. He was still dealing with Loder.
"You'll stand trial tomorrow," he told him. "Special tribunal. The commander presiding. The charge is endangering the mission. I'm prosecuting."
"Where's Holly?" Reacher asked him again.
Fowler shrugged. A cool gaze.
"Close by," he said. "Don't you worry about her."
Then he glanced up over Reacher's head and spoke to the guards.
"Put Loder on the floor," he said.
Loder offered no resistance at all. Just let the younger guy with the scar hold hire upright. The nearest guard reversed his rifle and smashed the butt into Loder's stomach. Reacher heard the air punch out of him. The younger guy dropped him and stepped neatly over him. Walked out of the hut, alone, duty done. The door slammed noisily behind him. Then Fowler turned back to Reacher.
"Now let's talk about you," he said.
His voice was still quiet. Quiet, and confident. Secure. But it was not difficult to be secure holed up in the middle of nowhere with six armed subordinates surrounding a handcuffed man on a chair. A handcuffed man who has just witnessed a naked display of power and brutality. Reacher shrugged at him.
"What about me?" he said. "You know my name. I told Loder. No doubt he told you. He probably got that right. There isn't much more to say on the subject."
There was silence. Fowler thought about it. Nodded.
"This is a decision for the commander," he said.
IT WAS THE shower which convinced her. She based her conclusions on it. Some good news, some bad. A brand-new bathroom, cheaply but carefully fitted out in the way a pathetic house-proud woman down on her luck in a trailer park would choose. That bathroom communicated a lot to Holly.
It meant she was a hostage, to be held long-term, but to be held with a certain measure of respect. Because of her value in some kind of a trade. There were to be no doubts about her day-to-day comfort or safety. Those factors were to be removed from the negotiation. Those factors were to be taken for granted. She was to be a high-status prisoner. Because of her value. Because of who she was.
But not because of who she was. Because of who her father was. Because of the connections she had. She was supposed to sit in this crushing, fear-filled room and be somebody's daughter. Sit and wait while people weighed her value, one way and the other. While people reacted to her plight, feeling a little reassured by the fact that she had a shower all to herself.
She eased herself off the bed. To hell with that, she thought. She was not going to sit there and be negotiated over. The anger rose up inside her. It rose up and she turned it into a steely determination. She limped to the door and tried the handle for the twentieth time. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. They clattered down the corridor. Stopped at her door. A key turned the lock. The handle moved against her grip. She stepped back and the door opened.
Reacher was pushed up into the room. A blur of camouflaged figures behind him. They shoved him up through the door and slammed it shut. She heard it locking and the footsteps tramping away. Reacher was left standing there, gazing around.
"Looks like we have to share," he said.
She looked at him.
"They were only expecting one guest," he added.
She made no reply to that. She just watched his eyes examining the room. They flicked around the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He twisted and glanced into the bathroom. Nodded to himself. Turned back to face her, waiting for her comment. She was pausing, thinking hard about what to say and how to say it.
"It's only a single bed," she said at last.
She tried to make the words count for more. She tried to make them like a long speech. Like a closely reasoned argument. She tried to make them say: OK, in the truck, we were close. OK, we kissed. Twice. The first time, it just happened. The second time, I asked you to, because I was looking for comfort and reassurance. But now we've been apart for an hour or two. Long enough for me to get to feeling a little silly about what we did. She tried to make those five words say all that, while she watched his eyes for his reaction.
"There's somebody else, right?" he said.
She saw that he said it as a joke, as a throwaway line to show her he agreed with her, that he understood, as a way to let them both off the hook without getting all heavy about it. But she didn't smile at him. Instead, she found herself nodding.
"Yes, there is somebody," she said. "What can I say? If there wasn't, maybe I would want to share."
She thought: He looks disappointed.
"In fact, I probably would want to," she added. "But there is somebody, and I'm sorry. It wouldn't be a good idea."
It showed in his face, and she felt she had to say more.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "It's not that I wouldn't want to."
She watched him. He just shrugged at her. She saw he was thinking: it's not the end of the world. And then he was thinking: it just feels like it. She blushed. She was absurdly gratified. But ready to change the subject.
"What's going on here?" she asked. "They tell you anything?"
"Who's the lucky guy?" Reacher asked.
"Just somebody," she said. "What's going on here?"
His eyes were clouded. He looked straight at her.
"Lucky somebody," he said.
"He doesn't even know," she said.
"That you're gone?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"That I feel this way," she said.
He stared at her. Didn't reply. There was a long silence in the room. Then she heard footsteps again. Hurrying, outside the building. Clattering inside. Coming up the stairs. They stopped outside the door. The key slid in. The door opened. Six guards clattered inside. Six machine guns. She took a painful step backward. They ignored her completely.