He was sweating heavily twenty yards after getting out of the car. And already regretting his decision. He was in the middle of nowhere, on foot on a major highway, and the slowest vehicles were doing sixty. Nobody was going to want to stop for him. Even if they did want to, give them a little reaction time, give them a little time to check their mirrors, a little braking time, they'd be more than a mile away before they knew it, and then they'd shrug their shoulders and speed up again and keep on going. Dumb place to hitch a ride, they'd think.
It was worse than dumb. It was suicidal. The sun was fearsome and the temperature was easily a hundred and twelve degrees. The slipstream from the cars was like a hot gale, and the suction from the giant trucks wasn't far from pulling him off his feet. He had no water. He could barely breathe. There was a constant stream of people five yards away, but he was as alone as if he was stumbling blind through the desert. If a state trooper didn't come by and arrest him for jaywalking, he could die out there.
He turned and saw the Cadillac, still sitting inert on the shoulder. But he kept on walking away from it. He made it about fifty yards and stopped. Turned to face east and stuck out his thumb. But it was hopeless, like he knew it would be. After five minutes, a hundred vehicles, the nearest thing he'd gotten to a response was some trucker blasting his air horn, a huge bass sound roaring past him with a whine of stressed tires and a hurricane of dust and grit. He was choking and burning up.
He turned again. Saw the Cadillac lurch backward and start up the shoulder toward him. Her steering was imprecise. The rear end was all over the place. It was close to slewing out into the traffic. He started walking back to it. It came on to meet him, fishtailing wildly. He started running. He stopped alongside the car as she braked hard. The suspension bounced. She buzzed the passenger window down.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He didn't hear it in the noise, but he caught the shape of the words.
"Get in," she said.
His shirt was sticking to his back. He had grit in his eyes. The howl of sound from the road was deafening him.
"Get in," she mouthed. "I'm sorry."
He got in. It felt exactly the same as the first time. The air roaring, the freezing leather seat. The small cowed woman at the wheel.
"I apologize," she said. "I'm sorry. I said stupid things."
He slammed the door. There was sudden silence. He put his hand in the chill stream from the vents.
"I didn't mean them," she said.
"Whatever," he said back.
"Really, I didn't mean them. I'm just so desperate I can't tell right from wrong anymore. And I'm very sorry for the thing about the sex. It was a crass thing to say."
Then her voice went small. "It's just that some of the guys I've picked up, I figured that was what it was going to have to be."
"You'd have sex with them so they'd kill your husband?"
She nodded. "I told you, I'm trapped and I'm scared and I'm desperate. And I don't have anything else to offer."
He said nothing.
"And I've seen movies where that happens," she said.
He nodded back.
"I've seen those movies, too," he said. "They never get away with it."
She paused a long moment.
"So you're not going to do it," she said, like a statement of fact.
"No, I'm not," he said.
She paused again, longer.
"O.K., I'll let you out in Pecos," she said. "You can't be out there walking. You could die in heat like this."
He paused too, much longer than she had. Then he shook his head. Because he had to be somewhere. When you live on the road, you learn pretty quick that any one place is about as good as any other place.
"No, I'll come with you," he said. "I'll hang out a couple of days. Because I'm sorry about your situation, Carmen. I really am. Just because I won't walk in and shoot the guy doesn't mean I don't want to help you some other way. If I can. And if you still want me to, that is."
She paused another beat.
"Yes, I still want you to," she said.
"And I want to meet Ellie. She looks like a great kid, from her picture."
"She is a great kid."
"But I'm not going to murder her father."
She said nothing.
"Is that completely clear?" he asked.
She nodded.
"I understand," she said. "I'm sorry I asked."
"It's not just me, Carmen," he said. "Nobody would do it. You were fooling yourself. It wasn't a good plan."
She looked small and lost.
"I thought nobody could refuse," she said. "If they knew."
She turned and watched the traffic coming up behind her. Waited for a gap. Six cars later, she pulled back onto the highway and gunned the motor. Within a minute she was doing eighty again, passing one car after another. The trucker who had used his air horn as he left Reacher in the dust lasted seven whole minutes, before she reeled him in.
* * *
The Crown Victoria made it to the destination the woman had selected within eighty minutes. It was an inch-wide empty brown stain on the map, and it was a forty-mile-wide empty brown stain in reality. One road ran through it, meandering roughly north and east in the lee of distant mountains. Hot, lonely, valueless country. But it had all the features she had predicted. It would serve her purposes. She smiled to herself. She had an instinct for terrain. "O.K.," she said. "First thing tomorrow. Right here."
The big car turned and headed back south. The dust from its tires hung in the air for long minutes and then floated down to the powdery ground.
* * *
Carmen came off the highway just short of Pecos and speared south on a small county road that led down into total emptiness. Within five miles, they could have been on the surface of the moon. "Tell me about Echo," he said.
She shrugged. "What's to tell? It's nothing. When they were first mapping Texas a hundred years ago, the Census Bureau called a place settled if it had more than six people to the square mile, and we still don't qualify. We're still the frontier."
"But it's very beautiful," he said.
And it was. The road was snaking and diving through endless contours, with red rock canyons either side of it, tall and noble to the east, fractured and pierced to the west, where ancient streams had sought the banks of the Rio Grande. Tall dry mountains reared beyond, with an immense technicolor sky above, and even in the speeding car he could sense the stunning silence of thousands of square miles of absolute emptiness.
"I hate it," she said.
"Where will I be?" he asked.
"On the property. In the bunkhouse, I guess. They'll hire you for the horses. We're always a man short. You show up with a pulse, they'll be interested. You can say you're a wrangler. It'll be a good disguise. It'll keep you close by."
"I don't know anything about horses."
She shrugged. "Maybe they won't notice. They don't notice much. Like me getting beaten half to death."
An hour later, they were tight for time. She was driving fast enough that the tire squeal from the curves was more or less continuous. They came up a long steep grade and then turned out between two rock pillars on a peak and suddenly there was flat land below them as far as the eye could see. The road fell away like a twisted tan ribbon and was crossed twenty miles ahead by another, just visible through the haze like a faint line on a map. The distant crossroads was studded with a handful of tiny buildings, and apart from them and the two roads there was no evidence humans had ever lived on the planet.
"Echo County," she said. "Everything you see, and a lot more besides. A thousand square miles, and a hundred and fifty people. Well, a hundred and forty-eight, because one of them is sitting right here with you, and one of them is still in jail."
Her mood had improved, because she said it with a wry smile. But she was looking at a tiny plume of dust on the road far below them. It was puffing out like a squirrel's tail, crawling slowly south, a quarter of the way to the crossroads.
"That must be the school bus," she said. "We have to beat it to town, or Ellie will get on and we'll miss her."
"Town?" Reacher said.
She smiled again, briefly.
"You're looking at it," she said. "Uptown Echo."
She accelerated down the grade and the Cadillac's own dust swirled and hung behind it. The landscape was so vast that speed seemed slowed to absurdity. Reacher figured the bus might be a half hour from the crossroads, and the Cadillac was traveling twice as fast, so they should catch it inside fifteen minutes, even though the elevation and the clear desert air made it look close enough to reach out and touch, like a child's toy on the floor of a room.
"It's good of you to be coming," she said. "Thank you. I mean it."
"No hay de que, senorita," he said. "So you do know more than a few words."
He shrugged. "There were a lot of Spanish-speaking people in the army. Most of the new generation, in fact. Some of the best of them."
"Like baseball," she said.
"Yes," he said. "Like baseball."
"But you should call me senora. Senorita makes me too happy."
She accelerated again when the road leveled out and about a mile before they caught up with the bus she swung out into the wrong lane, ready to pass it. Safe enough, he figured. The chances of meeting oncoming traffic in that part of the world were worse than winning the lottery. She reeled in the bus and pulled through the cone of dust and blasted past and stayed on the left for another mile. Then she eased back right and five minutes later they were slowing as they approached the crossroads.
From ground level the hamlet looked ragged and defeated, the way small places do under the heat of the sun. There were lots partially overrun with dry thorny weeds, delineated with raw block walls, commercially zoned but never developed. There was a diner on the right on the northwest corner, nothing more than a long, low shack made of wood with all the color baked right out of it. Diagonally opposite was the school, a one-room building like something out of a history book. The beginnings of rural education. Opposite that on the southwest corner was a gas station with two pumps and a small yard filled with stalled cars behind it. Diagonally opposite the gas station and across the road from the school the northeast corner was an empty lot, with concrete blocks spilled randomly across it, like an optimistic new venture had been planned and then abandoned, maybe while LBJ was still in office. There were four other buildings, all one story, all plain concrete, all set back with thin rough driveways leading to them from the road. Houses, Reacher guessed. Their yards were littered with junk, children's bikes and tired automobiles on blocks and old living room furniture. The yards were baked dry and hard and had low chicken-wire fences around them, maybe to keep the big snakes out.
The crossroads itself had no stop signs, just thick lines on the blacktop, melted in the heat. Carmen drove straight through and past the school and U-turned across the full width of the road, bumping down into shallow drainage ditches on both shoulders. She came back and stopped with the school gate close to Reacher's window. The school yard was ringed by a wire hurricane fence like a dog pound, and the gate was an inexact hinged rectangle made of galvanized tubing and faced with the same wire.
She stared past him at the school door. The bus came laboring down from the north and stopped on its own side of the road, parallel to the Cadillac, facing the other direction. The schoolhouse door opened and a woman stepped out. She moved slow and looked tired. The teacher, Reacher guessed, ready to end her day. She saw the bus and waved to the children. They spilled out in a long stream. Seventeen of them, nine girls and eight boys, he counted. Ellie Greer was seventh in line. She was wearing a blue dress. She looked damp and hot. He recognized her from her photograph and by the way Carmen moved beside him. He heard her catch her breath and scrabble for the door handle.
She skipped around the hood and met her daughter outside the car on the beaten earth strip that passed for a sidewalk. She scooped her up in a wild hug. Spun her around and around. Her little feet windmilled outward and her blue lunch box swung and hit her mother on the back. Reacher could see the child laughing and tears in Carmen's eyes. They came back around the rear of the car clutched tight together. Carmen opened the door and Ellie scrambled straight into the driver's seat and stopped dead when she saw him. She went instantly silent and her eyes went wide.
"This is Mr. Reacher," Carmen said.
Ellie turned to look at her.
"He's my friend," Carmen said. "Say hello to him."
Ellie turned back.
"Hello," she said.
"Hey, Ellie," Reacher said. "School O.K.?"
Ellie paused. "It was O.K."
"Learn anything?"
"How to spell some words."
She paused again, and then tilted her chin upward a fraction.
"Not easy ones," she said. "Ball and fall."
Reacher nodded gravely.
"Four letters," he said. "That's pretty tough."
"I bet you can spell them."
"B-A-L-L," Reacher said. "F-A-L-L. Like that, right?"
"You're grown up," Ellie said, like he had passed a test. "But you know what? The teacher said four letters, but there's only three, because the L comes twice. Right there at the end."
"You're a smart kid," Reacher said. "Now hop in the back and let your mom in out of the heat."
She scrambled past his left shoulder and he caught the smell of elementary school. He had attended maybe fifteen different places, most of them in different countries and continents, and they all smelled the same. It was more than thirty years since he had last been in one, but he still remembered it clearly.
"Mom?" Ellie said.
Carmen slid in and shut the door. She looked flushed. Heat, sudden exertion, sudden brief happiness, Reacher didn't know.
"Mom, it's hot," Ellie said. "We should get ice cream sodas. From the diner."
Reacher saw Carmen about to smile and agree, and then he saw her glance back at her pocketbook and remember the lone dollar stashed inside it.
"From the diner, mom," Ellie said. "Ice cream sodas. They're best when it's hot. Before we go home."
Carmen's face fell, and then it fell a little farther when she caught up to the end of Ellie's sentence. Home. Reacher stepped into the silence.
"Good idea," he said. "Let's get ice cream sodas. My treat."
Carmen glanced across, dependent on him and unhappy about it. But she put the car in drive anyway and pulled back through the crossroads and turned left into the diner's lot. She came around and parked in the shade tight against its north wall, right next to the only other car in the place, a steel blue Crown Victoria, new and shiny. Must be a state trooper's unmarked, or maybe a rental, Reacher thought.
The diner was cold inside, chilled by a big old-fashioned air conditioner that vented down through the roof. And it was empty, apart from a group Reacher took to be the Crown Victoria's occupants, a trio of ordinary indoor types at a window, two men and a woman. The woman was medium blond and pleasant looking. One guy was small and dark and the other was taller and fair. So the Crown Vic was a rental, not a cop car, and these guys were maybe some kind of a sales team heading between San Antonio and El Paso. Maybe they had heavy samples in the trunk that prevented them from flying. He glanced away and let Ellie lead him toward a booth at the opposite end of the room.
"This is the best table," she said. "All the others have torn seats, and they've sewed them up, and the thread is kind of thick and it can hurt the back of your leg."
"I guess you've been in here before," Reacher said.
"Of course I have," she giggled, like he was crazy. Two rows of tiny square teeth flashed at him. "I've been in here lots of times."
Then she jumped up and scooted sideways over the vinyl.
"Mommy, sit next to me," she said.
Carmen smiled. "I'm going to use the rest room first. I'll be right back. You stay here with Mr. Reacher, O.K.?"
The kid nodded gravely and Mr. Reacher sat himself down opposite her and they looked at each other quite openly. He wasn't sure what she was seeing, but he was seeing a living version of the photograph from her mother's wallet. Thick corn-colored hair tied back in a ponytail, incongruous dark eyes wide open and staring at him rather than at the camera's lens, a little snub of a nose, a serious mouth closed in a rather earnest way. Her skin was impossibly perfect, like pink damp velvet.
"Where did you go to school?" she asked. "Did you go here too?"
"No, I went to lots of different places," he said. "I moved around."
"You didn't go to the same school all the time?"
He shook his head. "Every few months, I went to a new one."
She concentrated hard. Didn't ask why. Just examined the proposition for its benefits and drawbacks.
"How could you remember where everything was? Like the bathrooms? You might forget who the teacher was. You might call her by the wrong name."
He shook his head again. "When you're young, you can remember stuff pretty well. It's when you get old that you start to forget things."
"I forget things," she said. "I forgot what my daddy looks like. He's in prison. But I think he's coming home soon."
"Yes, I think he is."
"Where did you go to school when you were six and a half like me?"
School, the center of her universe. He thought about it. When he was six and a half, the war in Vietnam was still well below its peak, but it was already big enough that his father was there or thereabouts at the time. So he figured that year would have been split between Guam and Manila. Manila, mostly, he thought, judging by his memories of the buildings and the vegetation, the places he hid out in and played around.
"The Philippines," he said.
"Is that in Texas too?" she asked.
"No, it's a bunch of islands between the Pacific and the South China Sea. Right out in the ocean, a long way from here."
"The ocean," she said, like she wasn't sure. "Is the ocean in America?"
"Is there a map on the wall in your school?"
"Yes, there is. A map of the whole world."
"O.K., the oceans are all the blue parts."
"There's a lot of blue parts."
He nodded. "That's for sure."
"My mom went to school in California."
"That'll be on the map, too. Find Texas and look to the left."
He saw her looking down at her hands, trying to remember which was left and which was right. Then he saw her look up beyond his shoulder, and he turned to see Carmen on her way back, trapped temporarily by the sales people getting up out of their booth. She waited until they had moved to the door and cleared the aisle and then she skipped back and sat down, all in one graceful movement. She pressed close to Ellie and hugged her one-armed and tickled her and got a squeal in exchange. The waitress finished with the sales people at the register and walked over, pad and pencil at the ready.
"Three Coke floats, please," Ellie said, loud and clear.
The waitress wrote it down.
"Coming right up, honey," she said, and walked away.
"Is that O.K. for you?" Carmen asked.
Reacher nodded. Like the smell of elementary school, he remembered the taste of a Coke float. He'd had his first ever in a PX canteen in Berlin, in a long low Quonset hut left over from the Four Powers occupation. It had been a warm summer's day in Europe, no air conditioning, and he remembered the heat on his skin and the bubbles in his nose.
"It's silly," Ellie said. "It's not the Coke that floats. It's the ice cream that floats in the Coke. They should call them ice cream floats."
Reacher smiled. He recalled thinking the same sorts of things, when he was her age. Outraged puzzlement at the illogicalities of the world he was being asked to join.
"Like elementary school," he said. "I found out that elementary means easy. So 'elementary school' means 'easy school.' I remember thinking, well, it seems pretty hard to me. 'Hard school' would be a better name."
Ellie looked at him, seriously.
"I don't think it's hard," she said. "But maybe it's harder in the ocean."
"Or maybe you're smarter than me."
She thought about it, earnestly.
"I'm smarter than some people," she said. "Like Peggy. She's still on the three-letter words. And she thinks you spell zoo with a Z."
Reacher had no answer to that. He waited for Carmen to pick it up, but before she could the waitress arrived back with a tin tray with three tall glasses on it. She put them on the table with great ceremony and whispered "Enjoy''' to Ellie and backed away. But the glasses were almost a foot tall, and the drinking straws added another six inches, and Ellie's chin was about level with the table top, so her mouth was a long way from where it needed to be.
"You want me to hold it down?" Carmen asked her. "Or do you want to kneel up?"
Ellie thought about it. Reacher was starting to wonder if this kid ever made a quick, easy decision. He saw a little of himself in her. He had taken things too seriously. The kids in every new school had made fun of him for it. But usually only once.
"I'll kneel up," she said.
It was more than kneeling. She stood on the vinyl bench in a kind of crouch, with her hands planted palms-down on the table around the base of the glass, and her head ducked to the straw. As good a method as any, Reacher figured. She started sucking her drink and he turned to look at his own. The ice cream was a round greasy spoonful. He found the cola way too sweet, like it was mixed from syrup in the wrong proportions. The bubbles were huge and artificial. It tasted awful. A long way from a childhood summer's day in Germany.
"Don't you like it?" Ellie asked. Her mouth was full, and she sprayed a little of the mixture onto his sleeve.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're making a funny face."
"Too sweet," he said. "It'll rot my teeth. Yours, too."
She came up with a huge grimace, like she was showing her teeth to a dentist.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "They're all going to fall out anyway. Peggy's got two out already."
Then she bent back to her straw and vacuumed up the rest of the drink. She poked at the sludge in the bottom of the glass with her straw until it was liquid enough to suck.
"I'll finish yours, too, if you want," she said.
"No," her mother said back. "You'll throw up in the car."
"I won't. I promise."
"No," Carmen said again. "Now go to the bathroom, O.K.? It's a long way home."
"I went already," Ellie said. "We always go at school, last thing. We line up. We have to. The bus driver hates it if we pee on the seats." Then she laughed delightedly.
"Ellie," her mother said.
"Sorry, Mommy. But it's only the boys who do that. I wouldn't do it."
"Go again anyway, O.K.?"
Ellie rolled her eyes theatrically and clambered over her mother's lap and ran to the back of the diner.
Reacher put a five over the check. "Great kid," he said.
"I think so," Carmen said. "Well, most of the time."
"Smart as anything."
She nodded. "Smarter than me, that's for sure."
He let that one go, too. Just sat in silence and watched her eyes cloud over.
"Thanks for the sodas," she said.
He shrugged. "My pleasure. And a new experience. I don't think I've ever bought a soda for a kid before."
"So you don't have any of your own, obviously."
"Never even got close."
"No nieces or nephews? No little cousins?"
He shook his head.
"I was a kid myself," he said. "Once upon a time, and a long time ago. Apart from what I remember about that, I don't know too much about it."
"Stick around a day or two and Ellie will teach you more than you ever wanted to know. As you've probably guessed."
Then she looked beyond his shoulder and he heard Ellie's footsteps behind him. The floor was old and there were obviously air pockets trapped under the buckled linoleum because her shoes made hollow slapping sounds.
"Mom, let's go, "she said.
"Mr. Reacher is coming, too," Carmen said. "He's going to work with the horses."
He got up out of the booth and saw her watching him.
"O.K.," she said. "But let's go."
They pushed outside into the heat. Past the middle of the afternoon, and it was hotter than ever. The Crown Victoria was gone. They walked around to the Cadillac and Ellie climbed through to the back seat. Carmen sat for a long moment with her hand resting on the key. She closed her eyes. Then she opened them again and started the engine.
She drove back through the crossroads and past the school again and then more than sixty miles straight south. She went pretty slowly. Maybe half the speed she had used before. Ellie didn't complain. Reacher guessed she thought this was normal. He guessed Carmen never drove very fast on her way home.
They didn't pass much. There were power lines looping rhythmically between weathered poles on the left shoulder. There were windmills and oil pumps here and there in the distance, some of them working, most of them seized up and still. There were more V-8 irrigation rigs on the western side of the road, on the edges of old fields, but they were silent and rusted because the winds had scoured the earth shallow. Some places, it was cleaned right back to dry caliche ledges. Nothing much left to irrigate. The eastern side was better. There were whole square miles of mesquite, and sometimes broad patches of decent grassland running in irregular linear shapes, like there must be water underground.
Every ten or twelve miles there would be a ranch gate standing isolated by the side of the road. They were simple right-angle shapes, maybe fifteen feet wide, maybe fifteen feet high, with beaten earth tracks running through them into the distance. Some of them had names on them, made up from strips of wood nailed into the shapes of letters. Some of them had the names formed from iron, worked by hand into fancy script. Some of them had old bleached cattle skulls fixed centrally, with long horns curving outward like vulture's wings. Some of them were supplemented by old barbed wire strands running aimlessly into the middle distance, sketching the location of ancient boundaries. The wire was on wooden posts, and the posts were weathered and twisted into corkscrew shapes and looked as if they would turn to dust if you touched them.
Some of the ranch houses were visible, depending on the contours of the land. Where it was flat, Reacher could see clusters of buildings in the far distance. The houses were two-story, mostly painted white, crouching among huddles of low barns and sheds. They had windmills out back, and satellite dishes, and they looked quiet and stunned in the heat. The sun was getting low in the west, and the outside temperature was still showing a hundred and ten.
"It's the road, I think," Carmen said. "It soaks up the sun all day, and gives it back later."
Ellie had fallen asleep, sprawled across the rear seat. Her head was pillowed on the briefcase. Her cheek was touching the edges of the papers that outlined how her mother could best escape her father.
"Greer property starts here," Carmen said. "On the left. Next track is ours, about eight miles."
It was flat land, rising slightly on the right to a fragmented mesa about a mile away to the west. On the left, the Greers had better barbed wire than most. It looked like it might have been restrung less than fifty years ago. It ran reasonably straight into the east, enclosing patchy grassland that showed about equal parts green and brown. Miles away there was a forest of oil derricks visible against the skyline, all surrounded by tin huts and abandoned equipment.
"Greer Three," Carmen said. "Big field. It made Sloop's grandfather a lot of money, way back. Ran dry about forty years ago. But it's a famous family story, about that gusher coming in. Most exciting thing that ever happened to them."
She slowed a little more, clearly reluctant to make the final few miles. In the far distance the road rose into the boiling haze and Reacher could see the barbed wire change to an absurd picket fence. It was tight against the shoulder, like something you would see in New England, but it was painted dull red. It ran about half a mile to a ranch gate, which was also painted red, and then ran on again into the distance and out of sight. There were buildings behind the gate, much closer to the road than the ones he had seen before. There was a big old house with a two-story core and a tall chimney and sprawling one-story additions. There were low barns and sheds clustered loosely around it. There was ranch fencing enclosing arbitrary squares of territory. Everything was painted dull red, all the buildings and all the fences alike. The low orange sun blazed against them and made them glow and shimmer and split horizontally into bands of mirage.
She slowed still more where the red fence started. Coasted the last hundred yards with her foot off the gas and then turned in on a beaten dirt track running under the gate. There was a name on the gate, high above their heads, red-painted wood on red-painted wood. It said RED HOUSE. She glanced up at it as she passed through.
"Welcome to hell," she said.
The Red House itself was the main building in a compound of four impressive structures. It had a wide planked porch with wooden columns and a swinging seat hung from chains, and beyond it eighty yards farther on was a motor barn, but she couldn't drive down to it because a police cruiser was parked at an angle on the track, completely blocking her way. It was an old-model Chevy Caprice, painted black and white, with ECHO COUNTY SHERIFF on the door, where it had said something else before. Bought by the county secondhand, Reacher thought, maybe from Dallas or Houston, repainted and refurbished for easy duty out here in the sticks. It was empty and the driver's door was standing open. The light bar on the roof was flashing red and blue, whipping colors horizontally over the porch and the whole front of the house.
"What's this about?" Carmen said.
Then her hand went up to her mouth.
"God, he can't be home already," she said. "Please, no."
"Cops wouldn't bring him home," Reacher said. "They don't run a limo service."
Ellie was waking up behind them. No more hum from the engine, no more rocking from the springs. She struggled upright and gazed out, eyes wide.
"What's that?" she said.
"It's the sheriff," Carmen said.
"Why's he here?" Ellie asked.
"I don't know."
"Why are the lights flashing?"
"I don't know."
"Did somebody call 911? Maybe there's been a burglar. Maybe he wore a mask and stole something."
She crawled through and knelt on the padded armrest between the front seats. Reacher caught the school smell again and saw delighted curiosity in her face. Then he saw it change to extreme panic.
"Maybe he stole a horse," she said. "Maybe my pony, Mommy."
She scrambled across Carmen's lap and scrabbled at the door handle. Jumped out of the car and ran across the yard, as fast as her legs would carry her, her arms held stiff by her sides and her ponytail bouncing behind her.
"I don't think anybody stole a horse," Carmen said. "I think Sloop's come home."
"With the lights flashing?" Reacher said.
She undipped her seat belt and swiveled sideways and placed her feet on the dirt of the yard. Stood up and stared toward the house, with her hands on the top of the door frame, like the door was shielding her from something. Reacher did the same, on his side. The fierce heat wrapped around him. He could hear bursts of radio chatter coming from the sheriff's car.
"Maybe they're looking for you," he said. "You've been away overnight. Maybe they reported you missing."
Across the Cadillac's roof, she shook her head. "Ellie was here, and as long as they know where she is, they don't care where I am."
She stood still for a moment longer, and then she took a sideways step and eased the door shut behind her. Reacher did the same. Twenty feet away, the house door opened and a uniformed man stepped out onto the porch. The sheriff, obviously. He was about sixty and overweight, with dark tanned skin and thin gray hair plastered to his head. He was walking half-backward, taking his leave of the gloom inside. He had black pants and a white uniform shirt with epaulettes and embroidered patches on the shoulders. A wide gun belt with a wooden-handled revolver secured into a holster with a leather strap. The door closed behind him and he turned toward his cruiser and stopped short when he saw Carmen. Touched his forefinger to his brow in a lazy imitation of a salute. "Mrs. Greer," he said, like he was suggesting something was her fault.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Folks inside will tell you," the sheriff said. "Too damn hot for me to be repeating everything twice." Then his gaze skipped the roof of the Cadillac and settled on Reacher. "And who are you?" he asked. Reacher said nothing. "Who are you?" the guy said again.
"I'll tell the folks inside," Reacher replied. "Too damn hot for me to be repeating everything twice."
The guy gave him a long calm look, and finished with a slow nod of his head, like he'd seen it all before. He dumped himself inside his secondhand cruiser and fired it up and backed out to the road. Reacher let its dust settle on his shoes and watched Carmen drive the Cadillac down the track to the motor barn. It was a long low farm shed with no front wall, and it was painted red, like everything else. There were two pick-ups and a Jeep Cherokee in it. One of the pick-ups was recent and the other was sitting on flat tires and looked like it hadn't been moved in a decade. Beyond the building a narrow dirt track looped off into the infinite desert distance. Carmen eased the Cadillac in next to the Jeep and walked back out into the sun. She looked small and out of place in the yard, like an orchid in a trash pile.
"So where's the bunkhouse?" he asked.
"Stay with me," she said. "You need to meet them anyway. You need to get hired. You can't just show up in the bunkhouse."
"O.K.," he said.
She led him slowly to the bottom of the porch steps. She took them cautiously, one at a time. She arrived in front of the door and knocked.
"You have to knock?" Reacher asked.
She nodded.
"They never gave me a key," she said.
They waited, with Reacher a step behind her, appropriate for the hired help. He could hear footsteps inside. Then the door swung open. A guy was standing there, holding the inside handle. He looked to be in his middle twenties. He had a big square face, with the skin blotched red and white. He was bulky with frat-boy muscle turning to fat. He was wearing denim jeans and a dirty white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled tight over what was left of his biceps. He smelled of sweat and beer. He was wearing a red baseball cap backward on his head. A semicircle of forehead showed above the plastic strap. At the back, a shock of hair spilled out under the peak, exactly the same color and texture as Ellie's. "It's you," he said, glancing at Carmen, glancing away.
"Bobby," she said.
Then his glance settled on Reacher. "Who's your friend?"
"His name is Reacher. He's looking for work."
The guy paused.
"Well, come on in, I guess," he said. "Both of you. And close the door. It's hot."
He turned back into the gloom and Reacher saw the letter Ton the ball cap. Texas Rangers, he thought. Good ball club, but not good enough. Carmen followed the guy three steps behind, entering her home of nearly seven years like an invited guest. Reacher stayed close to her shoulder.
"Sloop's brother," she whispered to him.
He nodded. The hallway was dark inside. He could see the red paint continued everywhere, over the wooden walls, the floors, the ceilings. Most places it was worn thin or worn away completely, just leaving traces of pigment behind like a stain. There was an ancient air conditioner running somewhere in the house, forcing the temperature down maybe a couple of degrees. It ran slowly, with a patient drone and rattle. It sounded peaceful, like the slow tick of a clock. The hallway was the size of a motel suite, filled with expensive stuff, but it was all old, like they'd run out of money decades ago. Or else they'd always had so much that the thrill of spending it had worn off a generation ago. There was a huge mirror on one wall, with the ornate frame painted red. Opposite to it was a rack filled with six bolt-action hunting rifles. The mirror reflected the rack and made the hallway seem full of guns.
"What did the sheriff want?" Carmen called.
"Come inside," Bobby called back.
We are inside, Reacher thought. But then he saw he meant.
"Come into the parlor."
It was a big red room at the back of the house. It had been remodeled. It must have been a kitchen once. It opened out through the original wall of the house to a replacement kitchen easily fifty years old. The parlor had the same worn paint everywhere, including all over the furniture. There was a big farmhouse table and eight wheelback chairs, all made out of pine, all painted red, all worn back to shiny wood where human contact had been made.
One of the chairs was occupied by a woman. She looked to be somewhere in her middle fifties. She was the sort of person who still dresses the same way she always did despite her advancing age. She was wearing tight jeans with a belt and a blouse with a Western fringe. She had a young woman's hairstyle, colored a bright shade of orange and teased up off her scalp above a thin face. She looked like a twenty-year-old prematurely aged by some rare medical condition. Or by a shock. Maybe the sheriff had sat her down and given her some awkward news. She looked preoccupied and a little confused. But she showed a measure of vitality, too. A measure of authority. There was still vigor there. She looked like the part of Texas she owned, rangy and powerful, but temporarily laid low, with most of her good days behind her.
"What did the sheriff want?" Carmen asked again.
"Something happened," the woman said, and her tone meant it wasn't something good. Reacher saw a flicker of hope behind Carmen's eyes. Then the room went quiet and the woman turned to look in his direction.
"His name is Reacher," Carmen said. "He's looking for work."
"Where's he from?"
Her voice was like rawhide. I'm the boss here, it said.
"I found him on the road," Carmen answered.
"What can he do?"
"He's worked with horses before. He can do blacksmithing."
Reacher looked out of the window while she lied about his skills. He had never been closer to a horse than walking past the ceremonial stables on the older army bases that still had them. He knew in principle that a blacksmith made horseshoes, which were iron things horses had nailed to their feet. Or their hoofs. Hooves? He knew there was a charcoal brazier involved, and a bellows, and a great deal of rhythmic hammering. An anvil was required, and a trough of water. But he had never actually touched a horseshoe. He had seen them occasionally, nailed up over doors as a superstition. He knew some cultures nailed them upward, and some downward, all to achieve the same good luck. But that was all he knew about them.
"We'll talk about him later," the woman said. "Other things to talk about first."
Then she remembered her manners and sketched a wave across the table.
"I'm Rusty Greer," she said.
"Like the ballplayer?" Reacher asked.
"I was Rusty Greer before he was born," the woman said. Then she pointed at Bobby. "You already met my boy Robert Greer. Welcome to the Red House Ranch, Mr. Reacher. Maybe we can find you work. If you're willing and honest."
"What did the sheriff want?" Carmen asked for the third time.
Rusty Greer turned and looked straight at her.
"Sloop's lawyer's gone missing," she said.
"What?"
"He was on his way to the federal jail to see Sloop. He never got there. State police found his car abandoned on the road, south of Abilene. Just sitting there empty, miles from anywhere, keys still in it. Situation doesn't look good."
"Al Eugene?"
"How many lawyers you think Sloop had?"
Her tone added: you idiot. The room went totally silent and Carmen went pale and her hand jumped to her mouth, fingers rigid and extended, covering her lips.
"Maybe the car broke down," she said.
"Cops tried it," Rusty said. "It worked just fine."
"So where is he?"
"He's gone missing. I just told you that."
"Have they looked for him?"
"Of course they have. But they can't find him."
Carmen took a deep breath. Then another.
"Does it change anything?" she asked.
"You mean, is Sloop still coming home?"
Carmen nodded weakly, like she was terribly afraid of the answer.
"Don't you worry none," Rusty said. She was smiling. "Sloop will be back here Monday, just like he always was going to be. Al being missing doesn't change a thing. The sheriff made that clear. It was a done deal."
Carmen paused a long moment, with her eyes closed, and her hand on her lips. Then she forced the hand down and forced the lips into a trembling smile.
"Well, good," she said.
"Yes, good," her mother-in-law said.
Carmen nodded, vaguely. Reacher thought she was about to faint.
"What do you suppose happened to him?" she asked.
"How would I know? Some sort of trouble, I expect."
"But who would make trouble for Al?"
Rusty's smile thinned to a sneer.
"Well, take your best guess, dear," she said.
Carmen opened her eyes. "What does that mean?"
"It means, who would want to make trouble for their lawyer?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I do," Rusty said. "Somebody who buys them a big old Mercedes Benz and gets sent to jail anyhow, that's who."
"Well, who did that?"
"Anybody could have. Al Eugene takes anybody for a client. He has no stan-dards. He's halfway to being plain crooked. Maybe all the way crooked, for all I know. Three quarters of his clients are the wrong sort."
Carmen was still pale. "The wrong sort?"
"You know what I mean."
"You mean Mexican? Why don't you just come right out and say it?"
Rusty was still smiling.
"Well, tell me different," she said. "Some Mexican boy gets sent to jail, he doesn't just stand up and accept his punishment like we do. No, he blames his lawyer, and he gets all his brothers and his cousins all riled up about it, and of course he's got plenty of those come up here after him, all illegals, all cholos, all of them in gangs, and now you see exactly how that turns out. Just like it is down there in Mexico itself. You of all people should know what it's like."
"Why should I of all people? I've never even been to Mexico."
Nobody replied to that. Reacher watched her, standing up shaken and proud and alone like a prisoner in the enemy camp. The room was quiet. Just the thump and click of the old air conditioner running somewhere else.
"You got an opinion here, Mr. Reacher?" Rusty Greer asked.
It felt like a left-field question in a job interview. He wished he could think of something smart to say. Some diversion. But it wouldn't help any to start some big clumsy fight and get himself thrown off the property inside the first ten minutes.
"I'm just here to work, ma'am," he said.
"I'd like to know your opinion, all the same."
Just like a job interview. A character reference. Clearly she wanted exactly the right sort of person shoveling horseshit for her.
"Mr. Reacher was a cop himself," Carmen said. "In the army."
Rusty nodded. "So what's your thinking, ex-army cop?"
Reacher shrugged. "Maybe there's an innocent explanation. Maybe he had a nervous breakdown and wandered off."
"Doesn't sound very likely. Now I see why they made you an ex-cop."
Silence for a long moment.
"Well, if there was trouble, maybe white folks made it," Reacher said.
"That's not going to be a popular view around here, son."
"It's not looking to be popular. It's looking to be right or wrong. And the population of Texas is three-quarters white, therefore I figure there's a three-in-four chance white folks were involved, assuming people are all the same as each other."
"That's a big assumption."
"Not in my experience."
Rusty bounced her gaze off the tabletop, back to Carmen.
"Well, no doubt you agree," she said. "With your new friend here."
Carmen took a breath.
"I never claim to be better than anyone else," she said. "So I don't see why I should agree I'm worse."
The room stayed quiet.
"Well, time will tell, I guess," Rusty said. "One or other of us is going to be eating humble pie."
She said paah. The long syllable trailed into silence.
"Now, where's Sloop's little girl?" she asked, with an artificial brightness in her voice, like the conversation had never happened. "You bring her back from school?"
Carmen swallowed and turned to face her. "She's in the barn, I think. She saw the sheriff and got worried her pony had been stolen."
"That's ridiculous. Who would steal her damn pony?"
"She's only a child," Carmen said.
"Well, the maid is ready to give the child its supper, so take it to the kitchen, and show Mr. Reacher to the bunkhouse on your way."
Carmen just nodded, like a servant with new instructions. Reacher followed her out of the parlor, back to the hallway. They went outside into the heat again and paused in the shadows on the porch.
"Ellie eats in the kitchen?" Reacher asked.
Carmen nodded.
"Rusty hates her," she said.
"Why? She's her granddaughter."
Carmen looked away.
"Her blood is tainted," she said. "Don't ask me to explain it. It's not rational. She hates her, is all I know."
"So why all the fuss if you took her away?"
"Because Sloop wants her here. She's his weapon against me. His instrument of torture. And his mother does what he wants."
"She make you eat in the kitchen, too?"
"No, she makes me eat with her," she said. "Because she knows I'd rather not."
He paused, at the edge of the shadow.
"You should have gotten out of here," he said. "We should be in Vegas by now."
"I was hopeful, for a second," she said. "About Al Eugene. I thought there might be a delay."
He nodded. "So was I. It would have been useful."
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
"I know," she said. "Too good to be true."
"So you should still think about running."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Shook her head.
"I won't run," she said. "I won't be a fugitive."
He said nothing.
"And you should have agreed with her," she said. "About the Mexicans. I'd have understood you were bluffing. I need her to keep you around."
"I couldn't."
"It was a risk."
She led him down the steps into the sun and across the yard. Beyond the motor barn was a horse barn. That structure was red like everything else, big as an aircraft hangar, with clerestory vents in the roof. There was a big door standing a foot open. There was a strong smell coming out of it.
"I'm not much of a country guy," he said.
"You'll get used to it," she said.
Behind the barn were four corrals boxed in with red fences. Two of them were covered in scrubby grass, and two of them had desert sand piled a foot thick. There were striped poles resting on oil drums to make jumping courses. Behind the corrals was another red building, long and low, with small windows high up under the eaves.
"The bunkhouse," she said.
She stood still for a moment, lost in thought. Then she shivered in the heat and came back, all business.
"The door is around the other side," she said. "You'll find two guys in there, Joshua and Billy. Don't trust either one of them. They've been here forever and they belong to the Greers. The maid will bring your meals down to you in about an hour, after Ellie eats, before we do."
"O.K.," he said.
"And Bobby will come down to check you out, sooner or later. Watch him carefully, Reacher, because he's a snake."
"O.K.," he said again.
"I'll see you later," she said.
"You going to be all right?"
She nodded once and walked away. He watched her until she was behind the horse barn, and then he walked around and found the door into the bunkhouse.