Running Blind (The Visitor)

like Reacher took them to be confirmation as good as he’d get if they were written in an affidavit sworn before a notary public.
    “He’s there,” he said.
    Harper had been eavesdropping, and she didn’t look convinced.
    “They tell you that for sure?” she asked.
    “More or less,” he said.
    “So is it worth going?”
    He nodded. “He’s there, I guarantee it.”
    The Nissan had no maps in it, and Harper had no idea of where she was. Reacher had only anecdotal knowledge of New Jersey geography. He knew how to get from A to B, and then from B to C, and then from C to D, but whether that was the most efficient direct route all the way from A to D, he had no idea. So he came out of the lot and headed for the turnpike on-ramp. He figured driving south for an hour would be a good start. He realized within a minute he was using the same road Lamarr had driven him on, just a few days before. It was raining lightly and the Nissan rode harder and lower than her big Buick. It was right down there in the tunnel of spray. The windshield was filmed with city grease and the wipers were blurring the view out with every alternate stroke. Smear, clear, smear, clear . The needle on the gas gauge was heading below a quarter.
    “We should stop,” Harper said. “Get gas, clean the window.”
    “And buy a map,” Reacher said.
    He pulled off into the next service area. It was pretty much identical to the place Lamarr had used for lunch. Same layout, same buildings. He rolled through the rain to the gas pumps and left the car at the full-service island. The tank was full and the guy was cleaning the windshield when he got back, wet, carrying a colored map which unfolded awkwardly into a yard-square sheet.
    “We’re on the wrong road,” he said. “Route 1 would be better.”
    “OK, next exit,” Harper said, craning over. “Use 95 to jump across.”
    She used her finger to trace south down Route 1. Found Fort Armstrong on the edge of the yellow shape that represented Trenton.
    “Close to Fort Dix,” she said. “Where we were before. ”
    Reacher said nothing. The guy finished with the windshield and Harper paid him through her window. Reacher wiped rain off his face with his sleeve and started the motor. Threaded his way back to the highway and watched for the turn onto 95.
    I-95 was a mess, with heavy traffic. Route 1 was better. It curved through Highland Park and then ran dead straight for nearly twenty miles, all the way into Trenton. Reacher remembered Fort Armstrong as a left-hand turn coming north out of Trenton, so coming south it was a right-hand turn, onto another dead straight approach road, which took them all the way to a vehicle barrier outside a two-story brick guardhouse. Beyond the guardhouse were more roads and buildings. The roads were flat with whitewashed curbs and the buildings were all brick with radiused corners and external stairways made of welded tubular steel painted green. Window frames were metal. Classic Army architecture of the fifties, built with unlimited budgets and unlimited scope. Unlimited optimism.
    "The U.S. military,” Reacher said. "We were kings of the world, back then.”
    There was dimmed light in the guardhouse window next to the vehicle barrier. A sentry was visible, silhouetted against the light, bulky in a rain cape and helmet. He peered through the window and stepped to the door. Opened it up and came out to the car. Reacher buzzed his window down.
    “You the guy who called the captain?” the sentry asked.
    He was a heavy black guy. Low voice, slow accent from the Deep South. Far from home on a rainy night. Reacher nodded. The sentry grinned.
    “He figured you might show up in person,” he said. “Go ahead in.”
    He stepped back into the guardhouse and the barrier came up. Reacher drove carefully over the tire spikes and turned left.
    “That was easy,” Harper said.
    “You ever met a retired FBI agent?” Reacher asked.
    “Sure, once or twice. Couple of the old guys.”
    “How did you treat them?”
    She nodded. “Like that guy treated you, I guess.”
    “All organizations are the same,” he said. “Military police more so than the others, maybe. The rest of the Army hates you, so you stick together more.”
    He turned right, then right again, then left.
    “You been here before?” Harper asked.
    “These places are all the same,” he said. “Look for the biggest flower bed, that’s where the general office is.”
    She pointed. “That looks