61 Hours

that?’
    ‘First name?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘That’s helpful.’
    ‘How many Florida cops called Kapler can there be?’
    ‘Probably more than ten, and less than a hundred.’
    ‘With employment problems two years ago?’
    ‘Anything else?’
    Reacher asked, ‘What are you wearing?’
    ‘What is this, a dirty phone call now?’
    Reacher smiled. ‘No, I’m just trying to picture the scene. For old times’ sake. I know the desk. Same office?’
    ‘I assume so. Upstairs, third on the left.’
    ‘That’s the one.’ Reacher saw it in his mind. Stone stairs, a metal handrail, a narrow corridor floored with linoleum, lines of doors left and right with fluted glass windows in them, offices behind each one, each office equipped according to some complex DoD protocol. His had had the metal desk, two phones with a total of three lines, a vinyl chair on casters, file cabinets, and two visitor chairs with springy bent-tube legs. Plus a glass light shade shaped like a bowl and hung from the ceiling on three metal chains. Plus an out-of-date map of the United States on the wall, made after Hawaii and Alaska had joined the Union but before the interstate highway system had been completed.
    Made, in fact, around the same time that the strange installation near Bolton, South Dakota, was being put in.
    The voice said, ‘I’m wearing my ACUs with a T-shirt. I’ve got the jacket on, because it’s cold tonight.’
    Reacher said, ‘You’re in Virginia. You don’t know what cold is.’
    ‘Quit whining. You’re still in double figures up there. Negative,but hey. Minus eleven degrees. But the radar shows colder air moving in from the west.’
    ‘How could it get colder?’
    ‘You’re going to get what Wyoming just had, that’s how.’
    ‘You talking to meteorologists?’
    ‘No, I’m looking at the Weather Channel.’
    ‘What did Wyoming just have?’
    ‘They were thirty below zero.’
    ‘Terrific.’
    ‘You can take it. You’re a big guy. Probably a Norseman way back, by the look of you.’
    ‘What, Google Earth can see through roof tiles now?’
    ‘No, there’s a photo of you in your file.’
    ‘What about you?’
    ‘Yes, there’s a photo of me in my file, too.’
    ‘Not what I meant, smartass. I don’t have your file.’
    ‘I’m a one-eyed fifty-year-old hunchback.’
    ‘I thought so, judging by your voice.’
    ‘Asshole.’
    ‘I’m thinking maybe five-six or five-seven, but thin. Your voice is all in your throat.’
    ‘You saying I’m flat-chested?’
    ‘34A at best.’
    ‘Damn.’
    ‘Blond hair, probably short. Blue eyes. From northern California.’
    She asked, ‘Age?’
    Reacher had been thirty-two years old, the first time he sat behind that battered desk. Which was both old and young for a command of that importance. Young, because he had been something of a star, but old, too, in that he had gotten there a little later than a star should, because he wasn’t an organization man and hadn’t been entirely trusted. He said, ‘You’re thirty or thirty-one,’ because he knew that when it came to a woman’s age it was always better to err on the side of caution.
    She said, ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’ Then she said, ‘Got to go. Call me later.’

    The household got right back into its settled routine. Peterson left, and the two day watch women went up to bed. Janet Salter showed Reacher to the front upstairs room with the window over the porch roof. In principle the most vulnerable, but he wasn’t worried. Sheer rage would overcome any theoretical tactical disadvantage. He hated to be woken in the night. An intruder came through that window, he would go straight back out like a spear.
    Five to two in the morning.
    Twenty-six hours to go.

TWENTY-TWO
    R EACHER HAD PLANNED ON SLEEPING UNTIL EIGHT, BUT HE WAS woken at half past six. By Peterson. The guy came into the bedroom and some primal instinct must have made him pause and kick the bed frame and then step smartly back. He must have figured that was the safest thing to do. He must have figured if he leaned over and shook Reacher gently by the shoulder he could get his arm broken.
    And he might have been right.
    Reacher said, ‘What?’
    Peterson said, ‘First light is less than an hour away.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘You need to get going.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘The biker camp. Remember? You offered.’
    Janet Salter was already in her kitchen. Reacher found her there. She was dressed for the day. She had coffee