They all wrapped up in all the clothes they had and stepped through the door. The wind was steady out of the west. All the way from Wyoming. It was bitter. Reacher had been in Wyoming in the winter, and survived. He made a mental note never to risk it again. Peterson ranged ahead and one of the day watch women trailed behind and the other kept pace on the opposite sidewalk. Reacher stayed at Janet Salter's shoulder. She had a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of her face. Reacher didn't. As long as the wind was on his back, the situation was tolerable. But when they turned and headed north to town, his nose and cheeks and chin went numb and his eyes started to water. He pulled his hood forward and shielded his face as much as was prudent. He felt he needed some kind of peripheral vision. The sidewalk was humped and ridged with glazed snow. Walking on it was difficult.
Janet Salter asked him, 'What are you thinking about?'
Her voice was muffled, literally. Her words came out thick and soft and then froze and whipped away on the wind.
'I'm thinking about February of 1936,' Reacher said. 'Minus fifty-eight degrees, the height of the Depression, dust storms, droughts, blizzards, why the hell didn't you all move to California?'
'Lots of folks did. The others had no choice but to stay. And that year had a warm summer, anyway.'
'Peterson told me. A hundred-seventy-eight-degree swing.'
'Did he tell you about the chinooks?'
'No.'
'Chinooks are hot winds out of the Black Hills. One day in January of 1943 it was minus four degrees, and then literally two minutes later it was plus forty-five. A forty-nine-degree swing in a hundred and twenty seconds. The most dramatic ever recorded in America. Everyone had broken windows from the thermal shock.'
'Wartime,' Reacher said.
'The hinge of fate,' Janet Salter said. 'That exact day the Germans lost control of the airfields at Stalingrad, many thousands of miles away. It was the beginning of the end for them. Maybe the wind knew.'
They trudged onward. Peterson stayed well ahead, one of the women cops stayed well behind, the other kept pace directly across the street. They got level with the restaurant parking lot. It was full of people heading in and out. Most of them were inadequately dressed and all of them looked thoroughly miserable.
'Prison visitors,' Janet Salter said. 'We seem to get more passing trade now than anywhere in the state except Mount Rushmore.' Which made Reacher think about the replacement bus from Minneapolis, due to leave town at two o'clock. He had no particular interest in oversized sculptures, but he knew there was a road there that led south. And south was Nebraska, then Kansas, then Oklahoma, then Texas, where it was warm. Or alternatively a person could turn left in Kansas, and then cross Missouri, and the southern tip of Illinois, and Kentucky, and end up in Virginia.
Janet Salter said, 'You're thinking about her, aren't you?'
Reacher said, 'No.'
He turned left and right from the waist. Scanned all around. There were more people up ahead than he had seen in a long time. And more cars. They were snuffling slowly along the frozen roads. Huge sheets of ice were creaking and cracking under their weight. Multiple threats, but all of them were trapped into ponderous slow motion by the weather. And there were cop cars among them. Every tenth or twelfth vehicle was a police cruiser, driving slow on a random endless loop, cautious and vigilant.
Reacher asked, 'Where are we going?'
Janet Salter asked, 'Where would you like to go?'
'This is your trip.'
'Bolton is a relatively dull town. We lack exciting destinations.'
'We could get lunch.'
'It's too early.'
'Brunch, then.'
'Brunch is a combination of breakfast and lunch, and I've already had breakfast. Therefore brunch is no longer an option today.'
'Cup of coffee?'
'Everywhere is full up. Visiting days are difficult. We'd never get a table for five.'
'Then let's head back.'
'Already?'
Reacher didn't answer. For a moment it looked like she would keep on going, maybe for ever, but then she stopped and nodded. Reacher tried to whistle ahead to Peterson, but his lips were too cold and cracked to make a sound. So they waited side by side until Peterson turned around to check. Reacher waved, everyone turned back, and the little procession retraced its steps, with the woman cop now in the lead and Peterson trailing behind.
Five minutes to noon.
Sixteen hours to go.
Seventeen hundred miles south it was lunch time. For the second day in succession Plato wasn't eating. And for the second time in succession he was breaking the habit of a lifetime. He was dialling his guy in South Dakota. And his guy was answering. Which annoyed Plato considerably, because it meant his guy had his phone switched on, which meant his guy wasn't at that very moment in the act of killing the damn witness.
His guy said, 'She wasn't in the house.'
Plato said, 'Find her.'
Heading back put the westerly wind on Reacher's other cheek, which was a wash in terms of comfort. Otherwise the inbound trip compared to the outbound was both better and worse. Better, because they were moving away from the populated areas, and fewer people meant fewer threats. Worse, because whatever threats remained were behind Reacher's back. He couldn't easily check over his shoulder. His torso tended to move independently inside the giant coat. A backward glance merely put his whole face inside his hood. So he was forced to rely on Peterson's vigilance behind him. He walked on, regarding each completed safe step as a separate minor triumph.
Janet Salter said, 'I'm sorry.'
'For what?'
'I was inconsiderate. I've put you all to a lot of trouble.'
'All part of a day's work. No reason why you shouldn't go out once in a while.'
They crunched onward, slipping and sliding occasionally, forming up in single file where the footstep trail narrowed around obstacles. Reacher had a high pile of ploughed snow between himself and the roadway. After most steps his left foot came down on its lower slope. It was like limping. He kept his eyes on the oncoming traffic. There wasn't much. A few pick-up trucks, a few old-model SUVs, a few salt-caked cars. Nothing to worry about. Then Lowell drove by in his squad car, and slowed in surprise, and waved. Janet Salter waved back. Lowell speeded up again. Then came nothing for a spell, and then came a big dark sedan, heading north towards them. A Ford Crown Victoria. Navy blue. Easy to be sure in the bright clear light. Chief Holland's car. The guy stopped the width of a traffic lane away and rolled down his window. He ignored Reacher completely. Looked straight at Janet Salter, some kind of concern in his face. She stopped and faced him. She said, 'I'm out for a walk. That's all. Nothing to worry about. Mr Peterson is doing a fine job.'
Holland said, 'You heading home now?'
'We're on our way.'
'Can I offer you a ride?'
'Thank you, but I would rather walk. A measure of fresh air and exercise was the point of this little adventure.'
'OK.'
'But please join us back at the house, for coffee, if you like.'
'OK,' Holland said again.
He checked his mirrors and U-turned across the width of the road. Frozen ruts splintered under his wheels. He got lined up in the southbound lane but didn't race on ahead. He kept pace instead, crawling slowly, holding a lateral line with himself on the left behind the wheel, then his empty passenger seat, then the berm of ploughed snow, then Reacher, then Janet Salter. His front tyres were made of hard winter compound, and they crunched and scrabbled slowly. He had chains on the back. Each link rotated into position and made its own distinct sound. He put his flashing lights on, to warn the traffic behind him of his low speed. He had strobes concealed in the rear parcel shelf, matched by more behind the radiator grille. Reacher guessed they would do the job. From a distance the unmarked car would look like a regular police cruiser.