Nothing to Lose

the wrench made an iron clatter as it dropped. Reacher sat in a chair in a corner. Wooden arms, tweed seat and back. It was reasonably comfortable.
    “Got coffee?” he asked.
    The giant paused a second and said, “No.” A short word and a negative answer, but at least it was a response. In Reacher’s experience the hardest part of any adversarial conversation was the beginning. An early answer was a good sign. Answering became a habit.
    He asked, “What’s your job?”
    The giant said, “I help out where I’m needed.” His voice was like a normal guy’s, but muffled by having to come out of such a huge chest cavity.
    “What happens here?” Reacher asked.
    “Metal gets recycled.”
    “What happens in the secret section?”
    “What secret section?”
    “To the south. Behind the partition.”
    “That’s just a junkyard. For stuff that’s too far gone to use. Nothing secret about it.”
    “So why is it locked and guarded?”
    “To stop people getting lazy. Someone gets tired of working, dumps good stuff in there, we lose money.”
    “You part of management?”
    “I’m a supervisor.”
    “You want to supervise my way out of here?”
    “You can’t leave.”
    Reacher glanced out the window. The sun was over the horizon. In five minutes it would be over the east wall. I could leave, he thought. The vehicle gate was open and trucks were moving out. Time it right, get past the big guy, run for the gate, hop aboard a flat-bed, game over. With the wrench on the floor the big guy was less of a problem than he had been before. He was unarmed, and down in a low chair. He was heavy, and gravity was gravity. And big guys were slow. And Reacher had knives.
    “I played pro football,” the big guy said.
    “But not very well,” Reacher said.
    The big guy said nothing.
    “Or you’d be doing color commentary on Fox, or living in a mansion in Miami, not slaving away here.”
    The big guy said nothing.
    “I bet you’re just as bad at this job.”
    The big guy said nothing.
    I could leave, Reacher thought again.
    But I won’t.
    I’ll wait and see what happens.

    He waited twenty more minutes before anything happened. The giant sat still and quiet by the door and Reacher whiled the time away in the corner. He wasn’t unhappy. He could kill time better than anyone. The morning sun rose higher and came streaming in through the plastic window. The rays cast a clouded beam over the desk. All the colors of the rainbow were in it.
    Then the door opened and the giant sat up straight and scooted his chair out of the way and the foreman walked in again. He still had his two-way radio in his hand. Behind him in the bright rectangle of daylight Reacher could see the plant working. Trucks were moving, cranes were moving, swarms of men were beavering away, sparks were showering, loud noises were being made. The foreman stopped halfway between the door and Reacher’s chair and said, “Mr. Thurman wants to see you.”
    Seven o’clock, Reacher thought. Vaughan was ending her watch. She was heading to the diner in Hope, looking for breakfast, looking for her truck, maybe looking for him. Or maybe not.
    He said, “I can give Mr. Thurman five minutes.”
    “You’ll give Mr. Thurman however long he wants.”
    “He might own you, but he doesn’t own me.”
    “Get up,” the foreman said. “Follow me.”

38
    The trailer next door was an identical metal box, but better appointed inside. There was carpet, the armchairs were leather, and the desk was mahogany. There were pictures on the walls, all of them dime-store prints of Jesus. In all of them Jesus had blue eyes and wore pale blue robes and had long blond hair and a neat blond beard. He looked more like a Malibu surfer than a Jew from two thousand years ago.
    On the corner of the desk was a Bible.
    Behind the desk was a man Reacher assumed was Mr. Thurman. He was wearing a three-piece suit made of wool. He looked to be close to seventy years old. He looked pink and plump and prosperous. He had white hair, worn moderately long and combed and teased into waves. He had a big patient smile on his face. He looked like he had just stepped out of a television studio. He could have been a game show host, or a televangelist. Reacher could picture him, clutching his chest and promising God would fell him with a heart attack unless the audience sent him money.
    And the audience would, Reacher thought. With a face like that, the idiots would bury him under fives and