Janet Salter said, 'This is ridiculous.'
Reacher said, 'He's just doing his job.'
'I don't like the attention.'
'You're important to him.'
'Only because he can use me.'
'You're a prominent citizen. You're the kind of person a chief of police worries about.'
Janet Salter said, 'The only prominent citizens in this town are the prison staff. Believe me. That's how it works now.'
They walked on, with the idling car crunching slowly alongside them. Where there were no buildings on their right the wind blew in hard and strong and uninterrupted, a mass of frozen air whistling relentlessly over the flat land, with nothing in its path to roil it up or make it turbulent. It was still carrying tiny spicules of ice. They came in horizontal and pattered against the side of Reacher's hood. They could have been airborne for hundreds of miles, maybe all the way from the Rocky Mountains.
Janet Salter asked, 'Are you cold?'
Reacher smiled, as much as his numb face would let him.
'I know,' he said. 'This is nothing.'
They got back in the house and peeled off layers and endured the pain of thawing. Reacher's ears burned and his nose and chin prickled and itched. Peterson and the two women cops had to have been feeling the same, but they showed no signs of distress. Probably a matter of local South Dakota pride. Chief Holland was entirely OK. He had been riding in a heated car, out of the wind. But still he gave a theatrical shiver as soon as he stepped into the hallway. Relief, Reacher figured, now that Janet Salter's exposure was over and they had gotten away with it.
The two women cops took up their established positions. Janet Salter went to work with her percolator. Reacher and Peterson and Holland watched her from the hallway. Then the phone rang. Janet Salter asked someone to pick it up. Peterson got it. He listened for a second and held the receiver out to Reacher.
'For you,' he said. 'It's the woman from the 110th MP.'
Reacher took the phone. Peterson and Holland trooped into the kitchen and left him alone. Instinctive politeness. Reacher put the phone to his ear and the voice from Virginia said, 'I called a guy in the air force.'
'And?'
'We're getting there. Slowly, but not because it's a secret. Quite the opposite. Because the place was abandoned and forgotten years ago. It fell off the active list when God's dog was still a puppy. Nobody can remember a thing about it.'
'Not even what it was?'
'All the details are archived. All my guy has seen so far is a report about how hard it was to build. The design was compromised several times during construction because of the kind of terrain they found. Some kind of schist. You know what that is?'
'Bedrock, I guess,' Reacher said. 'Probably hard, if it caused difficulties.'
'It proves they were excavating underground.'
'That's for sure. Not a bad result, for the first two hours.'
'One hour,' the voice said. 'I took a nap first.'
'You're a bad person.'
'Last time I checked, you're not my boss.'
'Anything else?'
'I got a hit on a Florida cop called Kapler. Miami PD, born there thirty-six years ago, upped and quit two years ago for no apparent reason. No health issues, not in debt. I'll get more when I'm in the Miami PD records.'
'You can do that with Google?'
'No, I'm using a few other resources. I'll let you know.'
'Thanks,' Reacher said. 'Anything else?'
There was a pause. 'My guy isn't talking.'
'From Fort Hood?'
'Not a word.'
'Where is he?'
'Back on post, in a cell.'
'Did he live on-post or off-post?'
'Off.'
'So he's looking at Texas law for the homicide or the Uniform Code for the treason. That's a rock and a hard place. Either way he's going to fry. He doesn't have an incentive to talk.'
'What would you do?'
'What's your goal?'
'The non-state actors. Who he's talking to, and how, and why.'
'The why is easy. He probably served in Iraq or Afghanistan and got seduced by all the humanitarian bullshit and made friends and got played like a fish. The how will be cell phone or e-mail or an encrypted web site. The who will be very interesting, I agree.'
'So how do I get him to talk?'
'Order him to. You outrank him. He's trained to obey.'
'That won't be enough. It never is.'
'Are his parents still alive?'
'Yes.'
'Siblings?'
'A younger brother, training with the navy SEALs.'
'That's good. That's close to perfect, in fact. You need to bring your boy north, and sit him down, and offer him a deal.'
'I can't do that.'
'You can, in terms of publicity. Tell him he's going to fry, no question, but for what is up to him. Domestic violence by returning officers is up what, a thousand per cent? Nobody condones it, but most folks kind of understand it. So tell him if he cooperates, that's all the world will know about him. But tell him if he doesn't cooperate, then you'll do the treason thing out in the open. His parents will be ashamed and mortified, his brother will have to quit the SEALs, his old high school will disown him.'
'Will that work?'
'All he's got left is his name. He's Fourth Infantry. That stuff matters over there.'
No reply.
'Believe me,' Reacher said. 'Let him get out with honour.'
'Domestic violence is honourable?'
'Compared to the alternative.'
'OK, I'll give it a try.'
'Don't forget about me,' Reacher said. 'I need to know what the air force built here. The scope, purpose and architecture, same as I always did. As soon as possible.'
'Anything else?'
'Are you married?'
She hung up without answering.
All six people that were awake and in the house had coffee. Janet Salter herself, Holland, Peterson, Reacher, and the two women cops. Maybe they joined in because they needed to get warm. They all got halfway through their first cup, and then Holland's cell phone rang. He balanced his mug and opened the phone one-handed and listened for a minute. Then he closed the phone again and stuffed it back in his pocket.
'Highway Patrol,' he said. 'The bikers are leaving. Right now. Thirty-six pick-up trucks just hit the highway.'
Five to one in the afternoon.
Fifteen hours to go.
Chapter Twenty-Five
REACHER RODE BACK TO THE STATION HOUSE WITH HOLLAND and got the story on the way. The Highway Patrol was out in force on the highway to check that there were no remaining weather problems. One of their number had been parked on the eastbound shoulder. He had been watching the traffic coming and going, but then in the left corner of his eye had seen a long fast convoy heading down the snowy ribbon that led from the construction camp. It was quite a sight. Between thirty and forty pick-up trucks driving nose to tail, each one with three people in the cab and a tarp-covered motorbike and piles of boxes strapped down in the load bed. They had slowed and turned and then streamed and snaked and swooped around the cloverleaf and merged on to the highway and accelerated west. Like a train, the officer had said. Like the Northern Pacific itself. The convoy looked a quarter-mile long and was taking twenty whole seconds to pass any given point.
The desk sergeant confirmed the news. Highway Patrol cruisers were calling in reports, one after the other. The convoy was now ten miles west of Bolton, and still moving fast. But not fast enough to get ticketed. They were holding to an easy sixty-five, driving straight and true, still steadfastly keeping their noses clean.
They used the office with the crime scene photographs. Four desks boxed together, four chairs. Holland and Peterson sat side by side, and Reacher sat facing Holland, with his back to the pictures of the dead guy dressed in black. He asked, 'You happy to just let them go?'
Holland asked, 'Why wouldn't I be?'