Nothing to Lose

a guy.”
    “How did you know my name wasn’t Anne? How did you know I’m not in school in Miami?”
    “A long time ago I was a cop. In the military. I still know things.”
    Her skin whitened behind her freckles. She fumbled the photograph back into its slot and fastened the wallet and thrust it deep into her bag.
    “You don’t like cops, do you?” Reacher asked.
    “Not always,” she said.
    “That’s unusual, for a person like you.”
    “Like me?”
    “Safe, secure, middle class, well brought up.”
    “Things change.”
    “What did your husband do?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “And who did he do it to?”
    No answer.
    “Why did he go to Despair?”
    No response.
    “Were you supposed to meet him there?”
    Nothing.
    “Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Reacher said. “I didn’t see him. And I’m not a cop anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.”
    “What would you do now? If you were me?”
    “I’d wait right here in town. Your husband looks like a capable guy. He’ll probably show up, sooner or later. Or get word to you.”
    “I hope so.”
    “Is he in school, too?”
    Lucy Anderson didn’t answer that. Just secured the flap of her bag and slid off the bench sideways and stood up and tugged the hem of her skirt down. Five-eight, maybe one-thirty, blonde and blue, straight, strong, and healthy.
    “Thank you,” she said. “Good night.”
    “Good luck,” he said. “Lucky.”
    She hoisted her bag on her shoulder and walked to the door and pushed out to the street. He watched her huddle into her sweatshirt and step away through the cold.

    He was in bed before two o’clock in the morning. The motel room was warm. There was a heater under the window and it was blasting away to good effect. He set the alarm in his head for six-thirty. He was tired, but he figured four and a half hours would be enough. In fact they would have to be enough, because he wanted time to shower before heading out for breakfast.

16
    It was a cliché that cops stop in at diners for doughnuts before, during, and after every shift, but clichés were clichés only because they were so often true. Therefore Reacher slipped into the same back booth at five to seven in the morning and fully expected to see Officer Vaughan enter inside the following ten minutes.
    Which she did.
    He saw her cruiser pull up and park outside. Saw her climb out onto the sidewalk and press both hands into the small of her back and stretch. Saw her lock up and pirouette and head for the door. She came in and saw him and paused for a long moment and then changed direction and slid in opposite him.
    He asked, “Strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate? It’s all they’ve got.”
    “Of what?”
    “Milk shakes.”
    “I don’t drink breakfast with jerks.”
    “I’m not a jerk. I’m a citizen with a problem. You’re here to help. Says so on the badge.”
    “What kind of problem?”
    “The girl found me.”
    “And had you seen her boyfriend?”
    “Her husband, actually.”
    “Really?” Vaughan said. “She’s young to be married.”
    “I thought so, too. She said they’re in love.”
    “Cue the violins. So had you seen him?”
    “No.”
    “So where’s your problem?”
    “I saw someone else.”
    “Who?”
    “Not saw, actually. It was in the pitch dark. I fell over him.”
    “Who?”
    “A dead guy.”
    “Where?”
    “On the way out of Despair.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Completely,” Reacher said. “A young adult male corpse.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “As a heart attack.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”
    “I wanted time to think about it.”
    “You’re yanking my chain. There’s what out there, a thousand square miles? And you just happen to trip over a dead guy in the dark? That’s a coincidence as big as a barn.”
    “Not really,” Reacher said. “I figure he was doing the same thing I was doing. Walking east from Despair to Hope, staying close enough to the road to be sure of his direction, far enough away to be safe. That put him in a pretty specific channel. I might have missed him by a yard, but I was never going to miss him by a mile.”
    Vaughan said nothing.
    “But he didn’t make it all the way,” Reacher said. “I think he was exhausted. His knees were driven pretty deep in the sand. I think he fell on his knees and pitched forward on his front and died. He was emaciated and dehydrated. No wounds, no trauma.”
    “What, you autopsied this guy? In the dark?”
    “I felt