'OK,' Reacher said. 'Let's go. Tell me if you want me to drive for a bit. I know the way.'
Sorenson pulled a big wide U-turn of her own, and then she hit it hard and hurried north through the rain. They passed the motel doing about sixty. It looked different by day. The low bulkhead lights were off, and the siding looked paler.
Reacher said, 'I paid for two nights in there. And I spent about thirty seconds in the room.'
Sorenson said, 'Why did you pay?'
'I was feeling guilty about the guy's wall.'
'Not your fault.'
'That was my impression at the time.'
'So you shouldn't feel guilty. Not about him, anyway. I didn't like him.'
'Well, I've still got his key. It's in my pocket. Maybe I'll mail it back, and maybe I won't.'
Then they came to the first junction, and Sorenson braked late and made the left with all kinds of squealing and sliding on the slick surface. She came off the gas and got straightened out and hit it again.
'Sorry,' she said.
Reacher said nothing. He was in no position to complain. They were still on the road. He would have been in a field.
'The tyres are worn,' she said. 'I noticed on the way out here.'
Reacher said nothing.
She said, 'Which means the bad guys' tyres are worn too. If the pictures are identical, that is. Which is step two. We know what kind of tyres they have, and we know approximately how old they are. Maybe an older car. Maybe an older driver. Could be some old person around here, with one of those big old cars.'
'I doubt it,' Reacher said. 'I don't think old people really love to come out in the middle of the night to watch women burn to death. Because you realize that fire was started when they were all still there? They didn't set a fuse. It wasn't spontaneous combustion. They lit it and they all stood around and watched and waited until they were sure it was going well.'
'OK,' Sorenson said. 'It wasn't a local senior. It was someone from somewhere urban.'
'With taxi companies and car services and offices and an airport,' Reacher said. 'And maybe with a metro-area population around a million and a half. That's something Alan King let slip. He said a million and a half people live where he lives.'
'That's potentially interesting. Unless it was misdirection.'
'I don't think it was. I don't think they had a script. They were generally fast and smart, but it was a random question and an instant answer. No thinking time. Too fluid for a lie. Their other lies were slower and more clumsy.'
'Anything else?'
'At one point McQueen used what I felt was an odd word choice. I was sceptical about the gas station being where the highway sign said it was, and when we got there McQueen said You should have trusted me. I think most people would have said believed instead. Don't you think? You should have believed me?'
'What does it mean?'
'I'm not sure. In the service we were taught to listen out for odd words. The Russians had language schools, with perfect accents, and slang and so on and so forth, and sometimes the only tells were odd words. So for a minute I wondered if McQueen was foreign.'
Sorenson drove on and said nothing.
She was thinking: The shirt was bought in Pakistan, or possibly the Middle East. She asked, 'Did McQueen have an accent?'
Reacher answered, 'None at all. Very generic American.'
'Did he look foreign?'
'Not really. Caucasian, six feet, maybe one-sixty, fair hair, pale blue eyes, slender, long arms and legs, kind of gangly, but when it came to pulling the gun out of his pocket and running up the path and jumping in the car he turned out to be plenty athletic. Gymnastic, even.'
'OK,' Sorenson said. 'So the word choice was probably innocent.'
'Except you have to look at the victim. He will have had dealings with foreigners.'
'As a trade attache? I suppose that's the point.'
'Have you ever met a trade attache?'
'No.'
'Me neither,' Reacher said. 'But I met a few folks who claimed they were trade attaches.'
'What does that mean?'
'How much help does Coca-Cola really need to sell its stuff around the world? Not very much, right? Generally speaking American products speak for themselves. Yet every embassy has a trade attache.'
'What are you saying?'
'Have you ever seen a trade attache's office? I've been in two. Both had courtyard windows, not street windows, both were lined with lead and Faraday cages, and both were swept for bugs four times a day. I know the Coke formula is a secret, but that's ridiculous.'
'Cover for something?'
'Exactly,' Reacher said. 'Every CIA head of station on the planet calls himself a trade attache.'
Sheriff Goodman was dog tired. And he wasn't sure it was a good idea to take Delfuenso's daughter out of school for the day. Or for a couple of days, or a week, or a month, or whatever Special Agent Sorenson might have in mind. His attitude was the opposite. He felt work and structure and familiarity were useful crutches in stressful times. He encouraged his own people to come in as normal no matter what had happened. Bereavement, divorce, illness in the family, whatever. In his experience routine helped people cope. Obviously he had to go through the compassionate motions, telling people to take all the time they needed, stuff like that, but he always added that no one would think less of them if they stuck to their tasks. And most of them seemed grateful for it. Most of them worked on as usual, and they seemed to benefit in the long term.
But those were grown-ups, and Delfuenso's kid was a kid.
He drove out to the short row of ranch houses slowly and reluctantly. Four times in his career he had been required to tell a parent a child had died. He had never had to tell a child its parent had died. Not a ten-year-old, anyway. He didn't really know how. Just the facts, Sorenson had said, in an earlier conversation. Don't say anything more until we know for sure. Not very helpful. The facts were tough. Hey kid, guess what? Your mom burned to death in a car. There was no easy way to say it. Because there was no easy way for the kid to face it. She goes to bed one night all hunky dory, and she wakes up the next morning with a different life.
Although: Just the facts. Don't say anything more until we know for sure.
What were the facts? What did they actually know for sure? He had seen burned bodies. House fires, barn fires. You had to get dental records. Or DNA. For the death certificate, and the insurance. A couple of days, at least. Medical opinions, which had to be signed off and notarized. So as far as Delfuenso was concerned, nobody really knew anything for sure. Not yet. Except that she was missing, apparently carjacked.
And maybe a two-stage process would be better, with a ten-year-old. First, I'm sorry, but your mom is missing. Then, a couple of days later, when they were really sure, I'm sorry, but your mom died. Drip, drip. Maybe better than one massive blow. Or was that just cowardice on his own part?
He parked in front of the neighbour's house and concluded, yes, it was cowardice on his own part, no question, but it was also the best approach, probably, with a ten-year-old kid. Kids were different.
Just the facts. Don't say anything more until we know for sure.
He got out of his car, slow and reluctant. He closed the door and stood for a second, and then he tracked around the hood and stepped over the muddy gutter and walked up the neighbour's short driveway.
FORTY
SORENSON GOT THROUGH the chequerboard and back to the Interstate without further incident. The car stayed on the road. The rain kept on falling. It was a gloomy day. The sky was low and the colour of iron. Traffic was heavier than Reacher had seen it the night before. Each vehicle was trailing a long grey Zeppelin of spray. Sorenson had her wipers on fast. She was sticking to seventy miles an hour. She asked, 'What's the fastest way of finding Alan King's brother from the army?'