Running Blind (The Visitor)

I want to do. I thought about landscape gardening, but I wanted a challenge, not something that would take me a second and a half to master.”
    She went silent again and the car hissed into a wall of rain. She set the wipers going and switched on the headlights and backed off the speed a little.
    “Are you going to insult me all the time?” she asked.
    “Making a little fun of you is a pretty small insult compared to how you’re threatening my girlfriend. And how you’re so ready and willing to believe I’m the type of guy could kill two women.”
    “So was that a yes or a no?”
    “It was a maybe. I guess an apology from you would help turn it into a no.”
    “An apology? Forget about it, Reacher. I stand by my profile. If it wasn’t you, it was some scumbag just like you.”
    The sky was turning black and the rain was intense. Up ahead, brake lights were shining red through the deluge on the windshield. The traffic was slowing to a crawl. Lamarr sat forward and braked sharply.
    “Shit,” she said.
    Reacher smiled. “Fun, right? And right now your risk of death or injury is ten thousand times higher than flying, conditions like these.”
    She made no reply. She was watching her mirror, anxious the people behind her should slow down as smartly as she had. Ahead, the brake lights made a red chain as far as the eye could see. Reacher found the electric switch on the side of his seat and racked it back. He stretched out and got comfortable.
    “I’m going to take a nap,” he said. “Wake me up when we get someplace.”
    “We’re not through talking,” Lamarr said. “We have a deal, remember? Think about Petrosian. I wonder what he’s doing right now.”
    Reacher glanced to his left, looking across her and out her window. Manhattan lay in that direction, but he could barely see the far shoulder of the highway.
    “OK, we’ll keep on talking,” he said.
    She was concentrating, riding the brake, crawling forward into the deluge.
    “Where were we?” she said.
    “He’s staked them out sufficient to know they’re alone, it’s daylight, somehow he walks right in. Then what?”
    “Then he kills them.”
    “In the house?”
    “We think so.”
    “You think so? Can’t you tell?”
    “There’s a lot we can’t tell, unfortunately.”
    “Well, that’s wonderful.”
    “He leaves no evidence,” she said. “It’s a hell of a problem.”
    He nodded. “So describe the scenes for me. Start with the plantings in their front yards.”
    “Why? You think that’s important?”
    He laughed. “No, I just thought you’d feel better telling me something you did know a little about.”
    “You son of a bitch.”
    The car was crawling forward. The wipers beat slowly across the glass, back and forth, back and forth. There were flashing red and blue lights up ahead.
    "Accident,” he said.
    “He leaves no evidence,” she said again. “Absolutely nothing. No trace evidence, no fibers, no blood, no saliva, no hair, no prints, no DNA, no nothing.”
    Reacher locked his arms behind his head and yawned. “That’s pretty hard to do.”
    Lamarr nodded, eyes fixed on the windshield. “It sure is. We’ve got lab tests now like you wouldn’t believe, and he’s beating all of them.”
    “How would a person do that?”
    “We don’t really know. How long have you been in this car?”
    He shrugged. “Feels like most of my life.”
    “It’s been about an hour. By now, your prints are all over everything, the door handles, the dash, the seat-belt buckle, the seat switch. There could be a dozen of your hairs on the headrest. A ton of fiber from your pants and your jacket all over the seat. Dirt from your backyard coming off your shoes onto the carpet. Maybe old fibers from your rugs at home.”
    He nodded. “And I’m just sitting here.”
    “Exactly. The violence associated with homicide, all that stuff would be spraying all over the place, plus blood maybe, saliva too.”
    “So maybe he’s not killing them in the house.”
    “He leaves the bodies in there.”
    “So at least he’d have to drag them back inside.”
    She nodded. “We know for sure he spends time in the house. There’s proof of that.”
    “Where does he leave the bodies?”
    “In the bathroom. In the tub.”
    The Buick inched past the accident. An old station wagon was crumpled nose-first into the back of a sport-utility exactly like Reacher’s own. The station wagon’s windshield had two head-shaped holes broken through it. The