Running Blind (The Visitor)

meant their architect hadn’t been worried about consuming space. The place looked very peaceful, like a minor college campus or a corporate headquarters, except for the razor-wire perimeter and the armed guard.
    Lamarr had the window down and was rooting in her purse for ID. The guy clearly knew who she was, but rules are rules and he needed to see her plastic. He nodded as soon as her hand came clear of the bag. Then he switched his gaze across to Reacher.
    “You should have paperwork on him,” Lamarr said.
    The guy nodded again. “Yeah, Mr. Blake took care of it.”
    He ducked back to his hutch and came out with a laminated plastic tag on a chain. He handed it through the window and Lamarr passed it on. It had Reacher’s name and his old service photograph on it. The whole thing was overprinted with a pale red V.
    "V for visitor,” Lamarr said. “You wear it at all times.”
    “Or?” Reacher asked.
    “Or you get shot. And I’m not kidding.”
    The guard was back in his hutch, raising the barrier. Lamarr buzzed her window up and accelerated through. The road climbed the undulations and revealed parking lots in the dips. Reacher could hear gunfire. The flat bark of heavy handguns, maybe two hundred yards away in the trees.
    “Target practice,” Lamarr said. “Goes on all the time.”
    She was bright and alert. Like proximity to the mother ship was reviving her. Reacher could see how that could happen. The whole place was impressive. It nestled in a natural bowl, deep in the forest, miles away from anywhere. It felt isolated and secret. Easy to see how it could breed a fierce, loyal spirit in the people fortunate enough to be admitted to it.
    Lamarr drove slowly over speed bumps to a parking lot in front of the largest building. She eased nose-first into a slot and shut it down. Checked her watch.
    “Six hours ten minutes,” she said. “That’s real slow. The weather, I guess, plus we stopped too long for lunch.”
    Silence in the car.
    “So now what?” Reacher asked.
    “Now we go to work.”
    The plate-glass doors at the front of the building opened up and Poulton walked out. The sandy-haired little guy with the mustache. He was wearing a fresh suit. Dark blue, with a white button-down and a gray tie. The new color made him less insignificant. More formal. He stood for a second and scanned the lot and then set his course for the car. Lamarr got out to meet him. Reacher sat still and waited. Poulton let Lamarr take her own bag from the trunk. It was a suit carrier in the same black imitation leather as her briefcase.
    “Let’s go, Reacher,” she called.
    He ducked his head and slipped the ID chain around his neck. Opened his door and slid out. It was cold and windy. The breeze was carrying the sound of dry leaves tossing, and gunfire.
    “Bring your bag,” Poulton called.
    “I don’t have a bag,” Reacher said.
    Poulton glanced at Lamarr, and she gave him an I’ve had this all day look. Then they turned together and walked toward the building. Reacher glanced at the sky and followed them. The undulating ground gave him a new view with each new step. The land fell away to the left of the buildings, and he saw squads of trainees walking purposefully, or running in groups, or marching away into the woods with shotguns. Standard apparel seemed to be dark blue sweats with FBI embroidered in yellow on the front and back, like it was a fashion label or a major-league franchise. To his military eye, it all looked irredeemably civilian. Then he realized with a little chill of shame that that was partly because a healthy percentage of the people doing the walking and running and carrying were women.
    Lamarr opened the plate-glass door and walked inside. Poulton waited for Reacher on the threshold.
    “I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “You can stow your stuff.”
    Up close in daylight, he looked older. There were faint lines in his face, barely visible, like a forty-year-old was wearing a twenty-year-old’s skin.
    “I don’t have any stuff,” Reacher said to him. “I just told you that.”
    Poulton hesitated. There was clearly an itinerary. A timetable to be followed.
    “I’ll show you anyway,” he said.
    Lamarr walked away with her bag and Poulton led Reacher to an elevator. They rode together to the third floor and came out on a quiet corridor with thin carpet on the floor and worn fabric on the walls. Poulton walked to a plain door and took a key from his pocket and opened it