He escorted Reacher to the door of the punishment hut. Took out a key and unlocked the door. Swung it open. Pushed Reacher through, gun out and ready. Then he pulled the door closed again and relocked it.
The punishment hut was the same size and shape as Borken's command hut. But it was completely empty. Bare walls, no windows, lights meshed with heavy wire. On the floor near one end was a perfect square of yellow paint, maybe twelve inches by twelve. Apart from that, the hut was featureless.
"You stand on that square," Ray said.
Reacher nodded. He was familiar with that procedure. Being forced to stand at attention, hour after hour, never moving, was an effective punishment. He had heard about it, time to time. Once, he'd seen the results. After the first few hours, the pain starts. The back goes, then the agony spreads upward from the shins. By the second or third day, the ankles swell and burst and the thighbones strike upward and the neck collapses.
"So stand on it," Ray said.
Reacher stepped to the corner of the hut and bent to the floor. Made a big show of brushing the dust away with his hand. Turned and lowered himself gently so he was sitting comfortably in the angle of the walls. Stretched his legs out and folded his hands behind his head. Crossed his ankles and smiled.
"You got to stand on the square," Ray said.
Reacher looked at him. He had said: believe me, I know tanks. So he had been a soldier. A grunt, in a motorized unit. Probably a loader, maybe a driver.
"Stand up," Ray said.
Give a grunt a task, and what's the thing he's most afraid of? Getting chewed out by an officer for failing to do it, that's what.
"Stand up, damn it," Ray said.
So either he doesn't fail, or if he does, he conceals it. No grunt in the history of the world has ever just gone to his officer and said: I couldn't do it, sir.
"I'm telling you to stand up, Reacher," Ray said quietly.
If he fails, he keeps it a big secret. Much better that way.
"You want me to stand up?" Reacher asked.
"Yeah, stand up," Ray said.
Reacher shook his head.
"You're going to have to make me, Joe," he said.
Ray was thinking about it. It was a reasonably slow thought process. Its progress was visible in his body language. First, the Glock came up. Then it went back down. Shooting at the prisoner was its own admission of failure. It was the same thing as saying: I couldn't make him do it, sir. Then he glanced at his hands. Glanced across at Reacher. Glanced away. Unarmed combat was rejected. He stood there, in a fog of indecision.
"Where did you serve?" Reacher asked him.
Ray shrugged.
"Here and there," he said.
"Like where and where?" Reacher asked.
"I was in Germany twice," Ray said. "And I was in Desert Storm."
"Driver?" Reacher asked.
"Loader," Ray answered.
Reacher nodded.
"You boys did a good job," he said. "I was in Desert Storm. I saw what you boys did."
Ray nodded. He took the opening, like Reacher knew he would. If you can't let them beat you, you let them join you. Ray moved casually to his left and sat down on the floor, back against the door, Glock resting against his thigh. He nodded again.
"We whupped them," he said.
"You sure did," Reacher said. "You whupped them real good. So, Germany and the desert. You liked it there?"
"Not much," Ray said.
"You liked their systems?" Reacher asked.
"What systems?" Ray asked back.
"Their governments," Reacher said. "Their laws, their liberties, all that stuff."
Ray looked mystified.
"Never noticed," he said. "Never paid any attention."
"So how do you know they're better than ours?" Reacher asked.
"Who says they're better?" Ray said.
"You do," Reacher said. "Last night you were telling me how bad it is here in America. Got to be better everywhere else, right?"
Ray shook his head.
"I never told you that," he said.
"So is it or isn't it?" Reacher asked.
"I don't know," Ray said. "Probably. Lot of things wrong with America."
Reacher nodded.
"Lot of things," he said. "I agree with you. But I'll tell you something. It's better in America than everyplace else. I know, because I've been everyplace else. Everyplace else is worse. A lot worse. Lot of things wrong in America, but plenty more things wrong everyplace else. You guys should think about that."
Ray looked across through the gloom.
"You think we're wrong?" he asked.
Reacher nodded.
"I know you're wrong," he said. "For certain. All that stuff you were telling me is bullshit. All of it. It's not happening."
"It is happening," Ray said. "Beau says so."
"Think about it, Joe," Reacher said. "You were in the service. You saw how it all operated. You think those guys could organize all that stuff and keep it a secret? They ever even give you a pair of boots the right size?"
Ray laughed.
"Not hardly," he said.
"Right," Reacher said. "So if they can't organize your damn boots, how can they organize all this other stuff Beau is talking about? What about these transmitters hidden in all the new cars? You think Detroit can do all that stuff? They'd be recalling them all because they didn't work right. You a gambling man, Joe?"
"Why?" he asked.
"What are the odds?" Reacher said. "Against they could organize a huge massive conspiracy like that and keep it all a secret for years and years?"
A slow smile spread across Ray's face and Reacher saw that he was losing. Like talking to the wall. Like teaching a chimpanzee to read.
"But they haven't kept it a secret," Ray said triumphantly. "We found out about it. I told you, Beau's got the proof. He's got the documents. It's not a secret at all. That's why we're here. Beau's right, no doubt about it. He's a smart guy."
Reacher closed his eyes and sighed.
"You better hope so," he said. "He's going to need to be."
"He's a smart guy," Ray said again. "And he's got staying power. He's putting us all together. There were a dozen groups up here. Their leaders quit and left. All their people came and joined Beau, because they trust him. He's a smart guy, Reacher, and he's our only hope left. You won't change anybody's mind about him. You can forget about that. Far as we're concerned, we love him, and we trust him to do right."
"What about Jackson?" Reacher asked. "You think he did right about that?"
Ray shrugged.
"Jackson was a spy," he said. "Shit like that happens. Beau's studied the history. It happened in 1776, right? Redcoats had spies all over. We hanged them then, just the same. Plenty of old ladies back east got old oak trees in their front yards, famous for being where they strung up the redcoat spies. Some of them charge you a buck and a half just to take a look at them. I know, I went there once."
"What time is lights-out here?" Reacher asked.
"Ten o'clock," Ray said. "Why?"
Reacher paused. Stared at him. Thought back over their conversation. Gazed at his lean, mobile face. Looked into his crazy eyes, burning deep under his brow.
"I got to be someplace else after lights-out," Reacher said.
Ray laughed again.
"And you think I'm going to let you?" he said.