Running Blind (The Visitor)

her. “Who says I don’t care?”
    “I thought you’d be more agitated about it.”
    “Getting agitated won’t achieve anything.”
    She paused. “So what will?”
    “Working the clues, same as always.”
    “There aren’t any clues. He doesn’t leave any.”
    He smiled. “That’s a clue in itself, wouldn’t you say?”
    She used her key from the inside and opened the door.
    “That’s just talking in riddles,” she said.
    He shrugged. “Better than talking in bullshit , like they do downstairs.”
    THE SAME MOTOR pool guy brought the same car to the doors. This time he stayed in the driver’s seat, sitting square-on like a dutiful chauffeur. He drove them north on I-95 to the National Airport. It was before dawn. There was a halfhearted glow in the sky somewhere three hundred miles to the east, all the way out over the Atlantic Ocean. The only other illumination was from a thousand headlights streaming north toward work. The headlights were mostly on old-model cars. Old, therefore cheap, therefore owned by low-grade people aiming to be at their desks an hour before their bosses, so they would look good and get promotion, whereupon they could drive newer cars to work an hour later in the day. Reacher sat still and watched their shadowed faces as the Bureau driver sped past them, one by one.
    Inside the airport terminal, it was reasonably busy. Men and women in dark raincoats walked quickly from one place to another. Harper collected two coach tickets from the United desk and carried them over to the check-in counter.
    “We could use some legroom,” she said to the guy behind the counter.
    She used her FBI pass for photo ID. She snapped it down like a poker player completing a flush. The guy hit a few keys and came up with an upgrade. Harper smiled, like she was genuinely surprised.
    First class was half-empty. Harper took an aisle seat, trapping Reacher against the window like a prisoner. She stretched out. She was in a third different suit, this one a fine check in a muted gray. The jacket fell open and showed a hint of nipple through the shirt, and no shoulder holster.
    “Left your gun at home?” Reacher asked.
    She nodded. “Not worth the hassle. Airlines want too much paperwork. A Seattle guy is meeting us. Standard practice is he’d bring a spare, should we need one. But we won’t, not today.”
    “You hope.”
    She nodded. “I hope.”
    They taxied on time and took off a minute early. Reacher pulled the magazine out and started leafing through. Harper had her tray unfolded, ready for breakfast.
    “What did you mean?” she asked. “When you said it’s a clue in itself?”
    He forced his mind back an hour and tried to remember.
    “Just thinking aloud, I guess,” he said.
    “Thinking about what?”
    He shrugged. He had time to kill. “The history of science. Stuff like that.”
    “Is that relevant?”
    “I was thinking about fingerprinting. How old is that?”
    She made a face. “Pretty old, I think.”
    “Turn of the century?”
    She nodded. “Probably.”
    “OK, a hundred years old,” he said. “That was the first big forensic test, right? Probably started using microscopes around the same time. And since then, they’ve invented all kinds of other stuff. DNA, mass spectrometry, fluorescence. Lamarr said you’ve got tests I wouldn’t believe. I bet they can find a rug fiber, tell you where and when somebody bought it, what kind of flea sat on it, what kind of dog the flea came off. Probably tell you what the dog’s name is and what brand of dog food it ate for breakfast.”
    “So?”
    “Amazing tests, right?”
    She nodded.
    “Real science-fiction stuff, right?”
    She nodded again.
    “OK,” he said. “Amazing, science-fiction tests. But this guy killed Amy Callan and beat all of those tests, right?”
    “Right.”
    “So what do you call that type of a guy?”
    “What?”
    “A very, very clever guy, is what.”
    She made a face. “Among other things.”
    “Sure, a lot of other things, but whatever else, a very clever guy. Then he did it again, with Cooke. Now what do we call him?”
    “What?”
    “A very, very clever guy. Once might have been luck. Twice, he’s damn good.”
    “So?”
    “Then he did it again , with Stanley. Now what do we call him?”
    “A very, very, very clever guy?”
    Reacher nodded. “Exactly.”
    “So?”
    “So that’s the clue. We’re looking for a very, very, very clever guy.”
    “I think we know that