Never Go Back

concrete box with a popcorn ceiling and vinyl wallpaper. Better than the place a mile from Rock Creek, but only by degrees. The heater was quieter, but far from silent. The carpet was cleaner, but not by much. As was the bedspread. The shower looked reasonable, and the towels were thin but not transparent. The soap and the shampoo were dressed up with a brand name that sounded like a firm of old Boston lawyers. The furniture was made of pale wood, and the television set was a small off-brand flat-screen, about the size of a carry-on suitcase. There was no telephone. No minibar refrigerator, no free bottle of water, no chocolate on the pillow.
    He turned on the television and found CNN and watched the ticker at the bottom of the screen, all the way through a full cycle. There was no mention of two fugitives fleeing an army facility in Virginia. So he headed for the bathroom and started the shower and stood under it, aimlessly, long after the soap he had used was rinsed away. Fragments of the conversation over the scarred café table came back to him, unstoppably. You’re like something feral , she had said. You’re like a predator. Cold, and hard .
    But in the end the line that stuck was from earlier in the exchange. Turner had asked about Morgan, and he had told her, Your guys in Afghanistan missed two consecutive radio checks, and he did nothing about it . He went over and over it, sounding the words in his head, moving his lips, saying it out loud, breaking it down, sputtering each phrase into the beating water, examining each separate clause in detail.
    Your guys in Afghanistan.
    Missed two consecutive radio checks.
    And he did nothing about it .
    He shut off the water and got out of the tub and grabbed a towel. Then, still damp, he put his pants back on, and one of his T-shirts, and he stepped out to the upstairs walkway. He padded barefoot through the cold night air, to room eleven’s door.
    He knocked.

THIRTY-FOUR
    REACHER WAITED IN the cold, because Turner didn’t open up right away. But he knew she was awake. He could see electric light through the spy hole in her door. Then it darkened briefly, as she put her eye to it, to check who was there. Then he was left to wait some more. She was hauling some clothes on, he guessed. She had showered, too, almost certainly. Then the door opened, and she stood there, with one hand on the handle and the other on the jamb, blocking his way, either consciously or subconsciously. Her hair was slick with water and finger-combed out of her eyes. She was wearing her army T-shirt and her new work pants. Her feet were bare.
    Reacher said, ‘I would have called, but there’s no telephone in my room.’
    ‘Mine either,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘Something I told you about Morgan. I just realized what it means.’
    ‘What did you tell me?’
    ‘I said your guys in Afghanistan missed two consecutive radio checks, and he did nothing about it.’
    ‘I was thinking about that too. I think it’s proof he’s one of them. He did nothing because he knew there was nothing to do. He knew they were dead. No point in organizing a search.’
    ‘Can I come in?’ Reacher asked. ‘It’s cold out here.’
    No answer.
    ‘Or we could use my room,’ he said. ‘If you prefer.’
    ‘No, come in,’ she said. She took her hand off the jamb and moved aside. He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him. Her room was the same as his. His shirt was on the back of a chair. Her boots were under the chair, stowed neatly, side by side.
    She said, ‘I guess I could afford some new shoes now.’
    ‘New everything, if you want,’ he said.
    ‘Do you agree?’ she said. ‘It’s proof he’s one of them?’
    ‘It could be proof he’s lazy and incompetent.’
    ‘No commander could be that dumb.’
    ‘How long have you been in the army?’
    She smiled, briefly. ‘OK, plenty of commanders could be that dumb.’
    He said, ‘I don’t think the important part is him doing nothing about it.’
    She sat down on the bed. Left him standing near the window. Her pants were loose, and her shirt was tight. She was wearing nothing underneath it. That was clear. He could see ribs, and slender curves. On the phone from South Dakota he had pictured her as a blonde, with blue eyes, maybe from northern California, all of which had turned out to be completely wrong. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and from Montana. But he had been right about other things. Five-six or five-seven , he had