for myself,” Reacher said.
—
Neagley drove, with Reacher in the front and Ellsbury in the back. Off the county road at the first fork, into the capillary network, and then finally onto a not-quite two-lane blacktop ribbon through the trees, mostly straight and sunlit, bordered by fine black mud washed smooth again by the rain. Ellsbury peered ahead between the seats, and pointed Neagley to a spot about three hundred yards after a slight bend. He said, “That’s the scene.”
There was plenty of scope for a threat assessment. Neagley pretended to see the broken-down vehicle, and lifted off and coasted, and she could have stopped two hundred yards out, or a hundred, or fifty, or wherever she wanted. She came to rest right where Ellsbury said it happened. There was nothing to see. The mud was dull and flat and uniform, lightly pocked by rain spatter. But the marks in the photographs had told the story. A vehicle had been parked right there, across the not-quite two traffic lanes, and a guy had gotten out and waited near the front, probably pretending to look under the hood.
They all got out, making fresh marks in the mud, deep and oozing where it was thick, and spongy and blotted where it wasn’t. The air smelled of rain and sun and earth and pine. Reacher looked back, and looked ahead.
He said, “OK, I’ve seen enough.”
Then he looked ahead again.
A car was coming. Black and white. A cop car. State Police. A spotlight on the pillar, and a bubble on the roof, like a little red hat. One guy behind the wheel. Otherwise empty.
The car came to a stop symmetrical with Neagley’s, nose to nose in the other traffic lane. The trooper climbed out. A young guy, with fair hair and a red face. Built like a side of beef. He had small deep-set eyes. They made him look mean.
He said, “The army is supposed to inform us before interfering with the crime scene.”
Reacher said, “Are you working this case?”
“Just taking a look, out of curiosity.”
“Then get lost.”
“Get what?”
“Lost.”
The guy stepped closer and looked at Reacher’s chest.
U.S. Army. Reacher
. He said, “You’re the boy who don’t like our work.”
Reacher said, “I’m the boy?”
“You think we got the wrong guy.”
“You think you got the right guy?”
“Sure I do. It’s scientific. Plenty of people have Firestone tires, and plenty have nine-millimeter ammunition, but not many have size fifteen feet, so when you put it all together it’s like three cherries on a slot machine.”
“Will the guy get a lawyer?”
“Of course. The public defender.”
“Does the public defender have a pulse?”
“Of course.”
“Doesn’t that worry you? You think the three-cherries argument will stand up to the slightest scrutiny? Were you out sick the day they taught thinking?”
“Now you’re being unpleasant.”
“Not yet,” Reacher said. “You’ll notice the difference.”
“This is a public road. I could arrest you.”
“Theoretically possible. Like I could get a date with Miss America.”
“You planning to resist?”
“Maybe I’ll arrest you instead.”
“For what?”
“I’m sure we could figure something out. A bit of this, and a bit of that. We could get three cherries of our own.”
The guy said, “Try it.”
He stepped up and squared his shoulders.
Local civilian hotheads with guns in their pockets and points to prove
.
Reacher said, “Sergeant, arrest this man.”
Neagley stepped up.
Face to face with the trooper.
She said, “Sir, I’m going to lean forward and take your weapon from its holster.”
The guy said, “Little lady, I don’t think you are.”
Neagley said, “If you impede me in any way, you will be handcuffed.”
The guy shoved her in the chest.
Which was a mistake on several different levels. Military discipline could not allow assaults by detainees. And Neagley hated physical contact. No one knew why. But it was a recognized issue. She couldn’t bear to be touched.