17 A Wanted Man

did they actually know for sure? He had seen burned bodies. House fires, barn fires. You had to get dental records. Or DNA. For the death certificate, and the insurance. A couple of days, at least. Medical opinions, which had to be signed off and notarized. So as far as Delfuenso was concerned, nobody really knew anything
for sure
. Not yet. Except that she was missing, apparently carjacked.
    And maybe a two-stage process would be better, with a ten-year-old. First,
I’m sorry, but your mom is missing
. Then, a couple of days later, when they were really sure,
I’m sorry, but your mom died
. Drip, drip. Maybe better than one massive blow. Or was that just cowardice on his own part?
    He parked in front of the neighbour’s house and concluded, yes, it was cowardice on his own part, no question, but it was also the best approach, probably, with a ten-year-old kid. Kids were different.
    Just the facts. Don’t say anything more until we know for sure
.
    He got out of his car, slow and reluctant. He closed the door and stood for a second, and then he tracked around the hood and stepped over the muddy gutter and walked up the neighbour’s short driveway.

FORTY
    SORENSON GOT THROUGH the chequerboard and back to the Interstate without further incident. The car stayed on the road. The rain kept on falling. It was a gloomy day. The sky was low and the colour of iron. Traffic was heavier than Reacher had seen it the night before. Each vehicle was trailing a long grey Zeppelin of spray. Sorenson had her wipers on fast. She was sticking to seventy miles an hour. She asked, ‘What’s the fastest way of finding Alan King’s brother from the army?’
    ‘King claimed he was a red leg,’ Reacher said. ‘Probably just a dagby. The Gulf, the first time around. Mother Sill will know.’
    ‘I didn’t understand a word of that.’
    ‘A red leg is an artilleryman. Because way back they had red stripes on their dress pants. And their branch colour is still red. A dagby is a 13B MOS. Which is a cannon crewmember’s military occupational specialty. In other words, a dagby. A dumb-ass gun bunny. Mother Sill is Fort Sill, which is artillery HQ. Someone there will have a record. The Gulf the first time around was the thing with Saddam Hussein, back in 1991.’
    ‘I knew that part.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘The brother’s first name was Peter, right?’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘And you still think King was his real last name?’
    ‘More likely than not. Worth a try, anyway.’
    ‘Dumb-ass gun bunny isn’t very polite.’
    ‘But very necessary,’ Reacher said. ‘Unfortunately Frederick the Great once said that field artillery lends dignity to what would otherwise be a vulgar brawl. It went to their heads. They started calling themselves the kings of battle. They started to think they’re the most important part of the army. Which obviously isn’t true.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because the military police is the most important part of the army.’
    ‘What did they call you?’
    ‘Sir, usually.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Meatheads. Monkey patrol. And chimps, but that was an acronym.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘Completely hopeless in most policing situations.’
    ‘Where is Fort Sill?’
    ‘Lawton, Oklahoma.’
    She speed-dialled her phone in its cradle. Reacher heard the ring tone loud and clear through the stereo. A voice answered, male, low and fast and without preamble. A duty officer, probably, with Sorenson’s number front and centre on his caller ID, and therefore instantly on the ball and ready for business. The night guy, most likely, still there at the end of his watch. He didn’t sound like a guy who had just gotten out of bed. Sorenson said to him, ‘I need you to call the army at Fort Sill in Lawton, Oklahoma, and get what they have on an artilleryman named Peter King, who was on active service in 1991. Present whereabouts and details of family would be especially appreciated. Give them my cell number and ask them to call me back direct, OK?’
    ‘Understood,’ the guy said.
    ‘Is Stony in his office yet?’
    ‘Just arrived.’
    ‘What’s the word?’
    ‘Nothing is happening yet. It’s weird.’
    ‘No three-ring circus?’
    ‘Phones are quiet. No one has even asked for the night log yet.’
    ‘Weird.’
    ‘Like I said.’
    The eyewitness was not kept waiting at the reception desk. There was no line. He had been given a cup of coffee and he had eaten a breakfast muffin. The woman at the desk took his name and asked what