61 Hours

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 GPScoordinates. 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