He kept his eyes on the window and said, 'Once or twice.'
'And clearly you survived.'
He nodded. 'So far.'
'What's your secret of success?'
'I don't like getting beaten. Better for all concerned that it just doesn't happen.'
'That's a heavy burden to carry, psychologically. That kind of burning need for dominance, I mean.'
'Are there people who enjoy getting beaten?'
'It's not black and white. You wouldn't have to enjoy it. But you could be at peace with whatever comes your way. You know, win some, lose some.'
'Doesn't work that way. Not in my line of work. You win some, and then you lose one. And then it's game over.'
'You're still in the army, aren't you?'
'No, I've been out for years.'
'In your head, I mean.'
'Not really.'
'Don't you miss it?'
'Not really.'
'I heard you on the phone, with the woman in Virginia. You sounded alive.'
'That was because of her. Not the army. She's got a great voice.'
'You're lonely.'
'Aren't you?'
She didn't answer. The clock ticked on. Nobody approached the house.
After an hour and a half Reacher had made four security sweeps and felt he knew the house pretty well. It had been built for an earlier generation, which had been in some ways tougher, and in some ways gentler. The windows had catches and the doors had locks, all solid well-machined pieces of brass, but nothing like the armour on sale at any modern hardware store. Which meant that there were forty-three possible ways in, of which fifteen were realistically practical, of which eight might be anticipated by a solo opponent of normal intelligence, of which six would be easy to defeat. The remaining two would be difficult to beat, but feasible, made harder by Janet Salter's wandering presence. Lines of fire were always complicated. He thought again about insisting she lock herself downstairs, but she saw him thinking and started talking again, as if to head him off. He was at the parlour window, craning left, craning right, and she asked, 'Was it your mother or your father who was a Marine?'
He said, 'Excuse me?'
'You told me you grew up on Marine Corps bases. I was wondering which of your parents made that necessary. Although I suppose it could have been both of them. Was that permitted? A husband and wife serving together?'
'I don't imagine so.'
'So which one was it?'
'It was my father.'
'Tell me about him.'
'Not much to tell. Nice guy, but busy.'
'Distant?'
'He probably thought I was. There were a hundred kids on every base. We ran around all day. We were in a world of our own.'
'Is he still alive?'
'He died a long time ago. My mother, too.'
'It was the same for me,' Janet Salter said. 'I made myself distant. I was always reading.'
He didn't reply, and she went quiet again. He watched the street. Nothing happening. He moved to the library and checked the yard. Nothing happening. The last of the cloud was moving away and the moon was brightening. It was a blue, cold, empty world out there.
Except that it wasn't empty.
But nobody came.
Hide and seek. Maybe the oldest game in the world. Because of ancient thrills and fears buried deep in the back of every human's brain. Predator and prey. The irresistible shiver of delight, crouching in the dark, hearing the footsteps pass by. The rush of pleasure in doubling back and wrenching open the closet door and discovering the victim. The instant translation of primeval terrors into modern-day laughter.
This was different.
There would be no laughter. There would be short seconds of furious gunfire and the stink of smoke and blood and then sudden deafened silence and a world-stands-still pause to look down and check yourself for damage. Then another pause to check your people. Then the shakes and the gulps and the need to throw up.
No laughter.
And this wasn't hide and seek. Nobody was really hiding, and nobody was really seeking. Whoever was out there knew full well where Janet Salter was. An exact address would have been provided. Maybe turn-by-turn directions, maybe GPS coordinates. And she was just sitting right there, waiting for him. No art. Just brutality. Which disappointed Reacher a little. He was good at hide and seek. The real-world version, not the children's game. Good at hiding, better at seeking. His former professional obligations had led him in that direction. He had been a good hunter of people. Fugitives, mainly. He had learned that empathy was the key. Understand their motives, their circumstances, their goals, their aims, their fears, their needs. Think like them. See what they see. Be them. He had gotten to the point where he could spend an hour with a case file, a second hour thinking, a third with maps and phone books, and then predict pretty much the exact building the guy would be found in.
He checked the view to the front.
No one there.
Just an empty white world that seemed to be frozen solid.
He glanced back at Janet Salter and said, 'I need you to watch the front for me.'
'OK.'
'I'll be in the hallway for a spell. Anyone comes in through the kitchen or the library, I can get them in the corridor.'
'OK.'
'Stay back in the shadows, but keep your eyes peeled.'
'OK.'
'You see anything at all, you call out to me, loud and clear, with concise information. Numbers, location, direction, and description.'
'OK.'
'And do it standing up.'
'Why?'
'So if you fall asleep on the job I'll hear you fall down.'
She took up a good position, well back in the room, invisible from outside, but with a decent angle. Her hand was still on the gun in her pocket. He stepped out to the hallway and moved the chair to the other side of the telephone table, so he could sit facing the rear of the house. He put his gun in his lap. Picked up the phone. Dialled the number he remembered.
'Yes?'
'Amanda, please.'
A pause. A click. The voice. It said, 'You have got to be kidding me. Two hours ago you gave me two weeks' worth of work, and already you're calling me for a result?'
'No, I'm not, but I can't give you two weeks anyway. I need something by tomorrow at the latest.'
'What are you, nuts?'
'You said you were better than me, and I could have done it in a day. So a night should be good enough for you.'
'What is that, psychology? You took motivation classes up at West Point?'
Reacher kept his hand on his gun and his eyes on the kitchen door. He asked, 'Did you catch your guy yet?'
'No, can't you tell?'
'Where are you looking?'
'All the airports, plus boats on the Gulf Coast between Corpus Christi and New Orleans.'
'He's in a motel a little ways north of Austin. Almost certainly Georgetown. Almost certainly the second motel north of the bus depot.'
'What, he's wearing a secret ankle bracelet I don't know about?'
'No, he's scared and alone. He needs help. Can't get it anyplace except the overseas folks he's in bed with. But he's waiting to call them. They'll help him if he's clean, they'll ditch him if he's compromised. Maybe they'll even kill him. He knows that. A fugitive from the law, that's OK with them. A political fugitive, not so much. They'd worry about us tracking him all the way home, wherever home is. So he needs to know the news. He needs a media market that covers Fort Hood's business. If it stays a plain vanilla domestic homicide, he'll make the call. If it doesn't, he'll end up putting his gun in his mouth.'
'We haven't released the background.'
'Then he'll take a day or two to be sure, and then he'll call them.'
'But he could have gone anywhere for that. Waco, Dallas, Abilene, even.'
'No, he made a careful choice. Abilene is too far and too small. And Waco and Dallas are too patriotic. He thinks that TV and radio there might sit on the espionage angle. What is he, Fourth Infantry? Audiences in Waco and Dallas don't want to hear about a Fourth Infantry captain going bad. He knows that. But Austin is much more liberal. And it's the state capital, so the news stations are a little looser. He needs the real skinny, and he knows that Austin is where he's going to get it.'