'NOT THE FIRST one,” Harper said. 'The first one would be random. Leading us away from the scent. Probably not the second either. The second establishes the pattern. ”
“I agree,” Reacher said. “Callan and Cooke were background noise. They started the smoke screen.”
Harper nodded. Went quiet. She had moved out from behind him. Now she was sprawled across the opposite row in the empty plane. It was a weird feeling. Familiar, but strange. Nothing around them but neat uniform rows of vacant seats.
“But he wouldn’t leave it too late,” Harper said. “He’s got a target, he’d want to hit it before anything unraveled, right?”
“I agree,” Reacher said again.
“So it’s the third or the fourth.”
Reacher nodded. Said nothing.
“But which one?” Harper asked. “What’s the key?”
“Everything,” Reacher said. “Same as it always was. The clues. The geography, the paint, the lack of violence. ”
LUNCH WAS A cold wrinkled apple and a square of Swiss cheese, which was about all her refrigerator had to offer. She served it to herself on a plate, to preserve some semblance of order. Then she washed the plate and put it back in the cupboard and walked through the hallway and unlocked the front door. Stood in the cold for a second and walked down her path to the driveway. The police car was still parked right across the opening. The cop saw her coming and buzzed his passenger window down.
“I came to apologize,” she said. She kept it as sweet as she could. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It’s just getting to me a little, is all. Of course you should come in, anytime you need to.”
The guy was staring at her, half puzzled, like he was thinking
“Well, I’ll come in right now,” the guy said. “If you’re sure it’s OK.”
She nodded and waited for him to get out. She noticed he left the passenger window down. The car would be cold when he got back. She led him back up the path. He was hurrying behind her. Poor guy must be desperate, she thought.
“You know where it is,” she said.
She waited in the hallway. He came back out of the powder room with a relieved expression on his face. She held the front door for him.
“Anytime,” she said. “Just ring the bell.”
“OK, ma’am,” he said. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
“What we’re here for,” the guy said, proud and shy.
She watched him all the way back to the car. Locked the door again and stepped into the parlor. Stood and looked at the piano and decided to give it another forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.
THE CLOUD CLEARED over North Dakota. The ground was visible seven miles below them. The copilot wandered back into the cabin and pointed down to where he was born. A little town south of Bismarck. The Missouri River ran through it, a tiny silver thread. Then the guy wandered back again and left Reacher puzzling over navigation. He knew nothing about it. Virginia to Oregon, he’d have flown across Kentucky, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho. He wouldn’t have gone up to North Dakota. But something called great circle routes made it shorter to go way out of your way. He knew that. But he didn’t understand it. How could it be quicker to go way out of your way?
“Lorraine Stanley stole the paint,” Harper said. “The lack of violence proves the guy is faking it. But what does the geography prove?”
“We talked about that,” Reacher said.
“It demonstrates scope.”
He nodded. “And speed.”
She nodded in turn.
“And mobility,” he added. “Don’t forget mobility.”
IN THE END, she played for an hour and a half. The cop stayed away and she relaxed and her touch improved, better than it had ever been. Her mind locked on to the notes and she brought the speed higher and higher, right to the point where the forward motion got a little ragged. Then she backed it off and settled at a point just a little slower than the tempo was marked. But what the hell, it sounded magnificent. Maybe even better than it would played at exactly the right speed. It was involving, logical, stately. She was pleased with it.
She pushed back on the stool and knitted her fingers and flexed them above her head. Then she closed the keyboard lid and stood up. Stepped out to the hallway and skipped up the stairs to her bathroom. Stood at the mirror and brushed her hair. Then she went back down to the coat closet and took out her jacket. It was short enough to be comfortable in the car and warm enough for the weather. She changed her shoes for her heavier pair. Unlocked the door to the basement stairs and went down. Unlocked the door to the garage and used the key-chain remote to open her car. The light came on inside. She switched the power on for the opener and slid into the car and started the engine while the garage door rumbled upward.
She backed onto the driveway and hit the button to close the door again. Twisted in her seat and saw the police cruiser parked in her way. She left the motor running and got out and walked down toward it. The cop was watching her. He buzzed the window open.
“I’m going to the store,” she said.
The guy looked at her for a second, like this was outside the range of permissible scenarios.
“How long you going to be gone?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Half hour, an hour,” she said.
“The store?” he said.
She nodded. “I need some things.”
He stared some more, and arrived at a decision.
“OK, but I wait here,” he said. “We’re watching the house, not you personally. Domicile-based crimes, that’s what we do.”
She nodded again. “That’s fine. Nobody’s going to grab me at the store.”
The cop nodded back. Said nothing. He started his engine and backed up the slope far enough that she could maneuver out past him. He watched her roll away down the hill, and then he eased back into position.
