"So?" Alice said.
Reacher butted the papers together with the heel of his hand. Closed the file. Pitched it behind him into the rear seat.
"Now I know why she lied about the ring," he said.
"Why?"
"She didn't lie. She was telling the truth."
"She said it was a fake worth thirty bucks."
"And she thought that was the truth. Because some jeweler in Pecos laughed at her and told her it was a fake worth thirty bucks. And she believed him. But he was trying to rip her off, was all, trying to buy it for thirty bucks and sell it again for sixty thousand. Oldest scam in the world. Exact same thing happened to some of these immigrants in the file. Their first experience of America."
"The jeweler lied?"
He nodded. "I should have figured it before, because it's obvious. Probably the exact same guy we went to. I figured he didn't look like the Better Business Bureau's poster boy."
"He didn't try to rip us off."
"No, Alice, he didn't. Because you're a sharp-looking white lawyer and I'm a big tough-looking white guy. She was a small Mexican woman, all alone and desperate and scared. He saw an opportunity with her that he didn't see with us."
Alice was quiet for a second.
"So what does it mean?" she asked.
Reacher clicked off the dome light. Smiled in the dark and stretched. Put his palms on the dash in front of him and flexed his massive shoulders against the pressure.
"It means we're good to go," he said. "It means all our ducks are in a neat little row. And it means you should drive faster, because right now we're maybe twenty minutes ahead of the bad guys, and I want to keep it that way as long as I can."
She blew Straight through the sleeping crossroads hamlet once again and made the remaining sixty miles in forty-three minutes, which Reacher figured was pretty good for a yellow four-cylinder import with a bud vase next to the steering wheel. She made the turn in under the gate and braked hard and stopped at the foot of the porch steps. The porch lights were on and the VW's dust fogged up around them in a khaki cloud. It was close to two o'clock in the morning.
"Leave it running," Reacher said.
He led her up to the door. Hammered hard on it and got no reply. Tried the handle. It was unlocked. Why would it be locked? We're sixty miles from the nearest crossroads. He swung it open and they stepped straight into the red-painted foyer.
"Hold your arms out," he said.
He unloaded all six .22 hunting rifles out of the rack on the wall and laid them in her arms, alternately muzzle to stock so they would balance. She staggered slightly under the weight.
"Go put them in the car," he said.
There was the sound of footsteps overhead, then creaking from the stairs, and Bobby Greer came out of the parlor door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was barefoot and wearing boxers and a T-shirt and staring at the empty gun rack.
"Hell you think you're doing?" he said.
"I want the others," Reacher said. "I'm commandeering your weapons. On behalf of the Echo County sheriff. I'm a deputy, remember?"
"There aren't any others."
"Yes, there are, Bobby. No self-respecting redneck like you is going to be satisfied with a bunch of .22 popguns. Where's the heavy metal?"
Bobby said nothing.
"Don't mess with me, Bobby," Reacher said. "It's way too late for that."
Bobby paused. Then he shrugged.
"O.K.," he said.
He padded barefoot across the foyer and pushed open a door that led into a small dark space that could have been a study. He flicked on a light and Reacher saw black-and-white pictures of oil wells on the walls. There was a desk and a chair and another gun rack filled with four 30-30 Winchesters. Seven-shot lever-action repeaters, big handsome weapons, oiled wood, twenty-inch barrels, beautifully kept. Wyatt Earp, eat your heart out.
"Ammunition?" Reacher asked.
Bobby opened a drawer in the gun rack's pedestal. Took out a cardboard box of Winchester cartridges.
"I've got some special loads, too," he said. Took out another box.
"What are they?"
"I made them myself. Extra power."
Reacher nodded. "Take them all out to the car, O.K.?"
He took the four rifles out of the rack and followed Bobby out of the house. Alice was sitting in the car. The six .22s were piled on the seat behind her. Bobby leaned in and placed the ammunition next to them. Reacher stacked the Winchesters upright behind the passenger seat. Then he turned back to Bobby.
"I'm going to borrow your Jeep," he said.
Bobby shrugged, barefoot on the hot dirt.
"Keys are in it," he said.
"You and your mother stay in the house now," Reacher said. "Anybody seen out and about will be considered hostile, O.K.?"
Bobby nodded. Turned and walked to the foot of the steps. Glanced back once and went inside the house. Reacher leaned into the VW to talk to Alice.
"What are we doing?" she said.
"Getting ready."
"For what?"
"For whatever comes our way."
"Why do we need ten rifles?"
"We don't. We need one. I don't want to give the bad guys the other nine, is all."
"They're coming here?"
"They're about ten minutes behind us."
"So what do we do?"
"We're all going out in the desert."
"Is there going to be shooting?"
"Probably."
"Is that smart? You said yourself, they're good shots."
"With handguns. Best way to defend against handguns is hide a long way off and shoot back with the biggest rifle you can find."
She shook her head. "I can't be a part of this, Reacher. It's not right. And I've never even held a rifle."
"You don't have to shoot," he said. "But you have to be a witness. You have to identify exactly who comes for us. I'm relying on you. It's vital."
"How will I see? It's dark out there."
"We'll fix that."
"It's going to rain."
"That'll help us."
"This is not right," she said again. "The police should handle this. Or the FBI. You can't just shoot at people."
The air was heavy with storm. The breeze was blowing again and he could smell pressure and voltage building in the sky.
"Rules of engagement, Alice," he said. "I'll wait for an overtly hostile act before I do anything. Just like the U.S. Army. O.K.?"
"We'll be killed."
"You'll be hiding far away."
"Then you'll be killed. You said it yourself, they're good at this."
"They're good at walking up to somebody and shooting them in the head. What they're like out in the open in the dark against incoming rifle fire is anybody's guess."
"You're crazy."
"Seven minutes," he said.
She glanced backward at the road from the north. Then she shook her head and shoved the gearstick into first and held her foot on the clutch. He leaned in and squeezed her shoulder.
"Follow me close, O.K.?" he said.
He ran down to the motor barn and got into the Greer family's Cherokee. Racked the seat back and started the engine and switched on the headlights. Reversed into the yard and straightened up and looped around the motor barn and headed straight down the dirt track into open country. Checked the mirror and saw the VW right there behind him. Looked ahead again and saw the first raindrop hit his windshield. It was as big as a silver dollar.
Chapter 16
They drove in convoy for five fast miles through the dark. There was no moonlight. No starlight. Cloud cover was low and thick but it held the rain to nothing more than occasional splattering drops, ten whole seconds between each of them, maybe six in every minute. They exploded against the windshield into wet patches the size of saucers. Reacher swatted each of them separately with the windshield wipers. He held steady around forty miles an hour and followed the track through the brush. It turned randomly left and right, heading basically south toward the storm. The ground was very rough. The Jeep was bouncing and jarring. The VW was struggling to keep pace behind him. Its headlights were swinging and jumping in his mirrors.
Five miles from the house the rain was still holding and the mesquite and the fractured limestone began to narrow the track. The terrain was changing under their wheels. They had started out across a broad desert plain that might have been cultivated grassland a century ago. Now the ground was rising slowly and shading into mesa. Rocky outcrops rose left and right in the headlight beams, channeling them roughly south and east. Taller stands of mesquite crowded in and funneled them tighter. Soon there was nothing more than a pair of deep ruts worn through the hardpan. Ledges and sinkholes and dense patches of thorny low brush meant they had no choice but to follow them. They curved and twisted and felt like a riverbed.
Then the track bumped upward and straightened and ran like a highway across a miniature limestone mesa. The stone was a raised pan as big as a football field, maybe a hundred twenty yards long and eighty wide, roughly oval in shape. There was no vegetation growing on it. Reacher swung the Jeep in a wide circle and used the headlights on bright to check the perimeter. All around the edges the ground fell away a couple of feet into rocky soil. Stunted bushes crowded anyplace they could find to put their roots. He drove a second circle, wider, and he liked what he saw. The miniature mesa was as bare as a dinner plate laid on a dead lawn. He smiled to himself. Timed out in his head what they needed to do. Liked the answer he came up with.