Thurman asked, "Are you born again?"
Reacher said, "Once was enough for me."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"You should think about it."
"My father used to say, why be born again, when you can just grow up?"
"Is he no longer with us?"
"He died a long time ago."
"He's in the other place, then, with an attitude like that."
"He's in a hole in the ground in Arlington Cemetery."
"Another veteran?"
"A Marine."
"Thank you for his service."
"Don't thank me. I had nothing to do with it."
Thurman said, "You should think about getting your life in order, you know, before it's too late. Something might happen. The Book of Revelation says, the time is at hand."
"As it has every day since it was written, nearly two thousand years ago. Why would it be true now, when it wasn't before?"
"There are signs," Thurman said. "And the possibility of precipitating events." He said it primly, and smugly, and with a degree of certainty, as if he had regular access to privileged insider information.
Reacher said nothing in reply.
They drove on, past a small group of tired men wrestling with a mountain of tangled steel. Their backs were bent and their shoulders were slumped.Not yet eight o'clock in the morning, Reacher thought. More than ten hours still to go.
"God watches over them," Thurman said.
"You sure?"
"He tells me so."
"Does he watch over you, too?"
"He knows what I do."
"Does he approve?"
"He tells me so."
"Then why is there a lightning rod on your church?"
Thurman didn't answer that. He just clamped his mouth shut and his cheeks drooped lower than his jawbone. They arrived at the mouth of the cattle chute leading to the personnel gate. He stopped the truck and jiggled the stick into Park and sat back in his seat.
"Seen enough?" he asked.
"More than enough," Reacher said.
"Then I'll bid you goodbye," Thurman said. "I imagine our paths won't cross again." He tucked his elbow in and offered his hand, sideways and awkwardly. Reacher shook it. It felt soft and warm and boneless, like a child's balloon filled with water. Then Reacher opened his door and slid out and walked through the doglegged chute and back to the acres of parking.
Every window in Vaughan's truck was smashed.
39
Reacher stood for a long moment and ran through his options and then unlocked the truck and swept pebbles of broken glass off the seats and the dash. He raked them out of the driver's footwell. He didn't want the brake pedal to jam halfway through its travel. Or the gas pedal. The truck was slow enough already.
Three miles back to town, twelve to the line, and then five to the center of Hope. A twenty-mile drive, cold and slow and very windy. Like riding a motorcycle without eye protection. Reacher's face was numb and his eyes were watering by the end of the trip. He parked outside the diner a little before nine o'clock in the morning. Vaughan's cruiser wasn't there. She wasn't inside. The place was three-quarters empty. The breakfast rush was over.
Reacher took the back booth and ordered coffee and breakfast from the day-shift waitress. The college girl was gone. The woman brought him a mug and filled it from a flask and he asked her, "Did Officer Vaughan stop by this morning?"
The woman said, "She left about a half-hour ago."
"Was she OK?"
"She seemed quiet."
"What about Maria? The girl from San Diego?"
"She was in before seven."
"Did she eat?"
"Plenty."
"What about Lucy? The blonde from LA?"
"Didn't see her. I think she left town."
"What does Officer Vaughan's husband do?"
The waitress said, "Well, not much anymore," as if it was a dumb question to ask. As if that particular situation should have been plain to everybody.
That particular situation wasn't plain to Reacher.
He said, "What, he's unemployed?"
The woman started to answer him, and then she stopped, as if she suddenly remembered that the situation wasn't necessarily plain to everybody, and it wasn't her place to make it plain. As if she was on the point of revealing something that shouldn't be revealed, like private neighborhood business. She just shook her head with embarrassment and bustled away with her flask. She didn't speak at all when she came back five minutes later with his food.
Twenty minutes later Reacher got back in the damaged truck and drove south and crossed Third Street, and Fourth, and turned left on Fifth. Way ahead of him he could make out Vaughan's cruiser parked at the curb. He drove on and pulled up behind it, level with the mailbox with the perfectly aligned letters. He idled in the middle of the traffic lane for a moment. Then he got out and walked ahead and put a palm on the Crown Vic's hood. It was still very warm. She had left the diner nearly an hour ago, but clearly she had driven around a little afterward. Maybe looking for her Chevy, or looking for him. Or neither, or both. He got back in the truck and backed up and swung the wheel and bumped up onto her driveway. He parked with the grille an inch from her garage door and slid out. Didn't lock up. There didn't seem to be much point.
He found the winding path and followed it through the bushes to her door. He hooked her keyring on his finger and tapped the bell, briefly, just once. If she was awake, she would hear it. If she was asleep, it wouldn't disturb her.
She was awake.
The door opened and she looked out of the gloom straight at him. Her hair was wet from the shower and combed back. She was wearing an oversized white T-shirt. Possibly nothing else. Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare. She looked younger and smaller than before.
She said, "How did you find me?"
He said, "Phone book."
"You were here last night. Looking. A neighbor told me."
"It's a nice house."
She said, "I like it."
She saw the truck keys on his finger. He said, "I have a confession to make."
"What now?"
"Someone broke all the windows."
She pushed past him and stepped out to the path. Turned to face the driveway and studied the damage and said, "Shit." Then it seemed to dawn on her that she was out in the yard barefoot in her nightwear and she pushed back inside.
"Who?" she asked.
"One of a thousand suspects."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Where?"
"I stopped by the metal plant."
"You're an idiot."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll pay for the glass." He slipped the keys off his finger and held them out. She didn't take them. Instead she said, "You better come in."
The house was laid out the way he had guessed. Right to left it went garage, mudroom, kitchen, living room, bedrooms. The kitchen seemed to be the heart of the home. It was a pretty space with painted cabinets and a wallpaper border at the top of the walls. The dishwasher was running and the sink was empty and the counters were tidy but there was enough disarray to make the room feel lived in. There was a four-place table with only three chairs. There were what Reacher's mother had called "touches." Dried flowers, bottles of virgin olive oil that would never be used, antique spoons. Reacher's mother had said such things gave a room personality. Reacher himself had been unsure how anything except a person could have personality. He had been a painfully literal child. But over the years he had come to see what his mother had meant. And Vaughan's kitchen had personality.