Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

live somewhere and then I’ll have an address and I’ll send you a picture postcard and you can put it in your damn address book, since you seem so damn concerned about it.”
    Finlay gazed at me and reviewed his options. Elected to go the patient route. Patient, but stubborn. Like he couldn’t be deflected.
    “Where are you from?” he asked. “What was your last address?”
    “What exactly do you mean when you say where am I from?” I asked.
    His lips were clamped. I was getting him bad-tempered, too. But he stayed patient. Laced the patience with an icy sarcasm.
    “OK,” he said. “You don’t understand my question, so let me try to make it quite clear. What I mean is, where were you born, or where have you lived for that majority period of your life which you instinctively regard as predominant in a social or cultural context?”
    I just looked at him.
    “I’ll give you an example,” he said. “I myself was born in Boston, was educated in Boston and subsequently worked for twenty years in Boston, so I would say, and I think you would agree, that I come from Boston.”
    I was right. A Harvard guy. A Harvard guy, running out of patience.
    “OK,” I said. “You’ve asked the questions. I’ll answer them. But let me tell you something. I’m not your guy. By Monday you’ll know I’m not your guy. So do yourself a favor. Don’t stop looking.”
    Finlay was fighting a smile. He nodded gravely.
    “I appreciate your advice,” he said. “And your concern for my career.”
    “You’re welcome,” I said.
    “Go on,” he said.
    “OK,” I said. “According to your fancy definition, I don’t come from anywhere. I come from a place called Military. I was born on a U.S. Army base in West Berlin. My old man was Marine Corps and my mother was a French civilian he met in Holland. They got married in Korea.”
    Finlay nodded. Made a note.
    “I was a military kid,” I said. “Show me a list of U.S. bases all around the world and that’s a list of where I lived. I did high school in two dozen different countries and I did four years up at West Point.”
    “Go on,” Finlay said.
    “I stayed in the army,” I said. “Military Police. I served and lived in all those bases all over again. Then, Finlay, after thirty-six years of first being an officer’s kid and then being an officer myself, suddenly there’s no need for a great big army anymore because the Soviets have gone belly-up. So hooray, we get the peace dividend. Which for you means your taxes get spent on something else, but for me means I’m a thirty-six-year-old unemployed ex-military policeman getting called a vagrant by smug civilian bastards who wouldn’t last five minutes in the world I survived.”
    He thought for a moment. Wasn’t impressed.
    “Continue,” he said.
    I shrugged at him.
    “So right now I’m just enjoying myself,” I said. “Maybe eventually I’ll find something to do, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll settle somewhere, maybe I won’t. But right now, I’m not looking to.”
    He nodded. Jotted some more notes.
    “When did you leave the army?” he asked.
    “Six months ago,” I said. “April.”
    “Have you worked at all since then?” he asked.
    “You’re joking,” I said. “When was the last time you looked for work?”
    “April,” he mimicked. “Six months ago. I got this job.”
    “Well, good for you, Finlay,” I said.
    I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Finlay gazed at me for a moment.
    “What have you been living on?” he asked. “What rank did you hold?”
    “Major,” I said. “They give you severance pay when they kick you out. Still got most of it. Trying to make it last, you know?”
    A long silence. Finlay drummed a rhythm with the wrong end of his pen.

    “SO LET’S TALK ABOUT THE LAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS,” he said.
    I sighed. Now I was heading for trouble.
    “I came up on the Greyhound bus,” I said. “Got off at the county road. Eight o’clock this morning. Walked down into town, reached that diner, ordered breakfast and I was eating it when your guys came by and hauled me in.”
    “You got business here?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “I’m out of work,” I said. “I haven’t got any business anywhere.”
    He wrote that down.
    “Where did you get on the bus?” he asked me.
    “In Tampa,” I said. “Left at midnight last night.”
    “Tampa in Florida?” he asked.
    I nodded. He rattled open another drawer. Pulled out a Greyhound schedule. Riffed it