Part 26 (2/2)

'Not a word.'

'Where is he?'

'Back on post, in a cell.'

'Did he live on-post or off-post?'

'Off.'

'So he's looking at Texas law for the homicide or the Uniform Code for the treason. That's a rock and a hard place. Either way he's going to fry. He doesn't have an incentive to talk.'

'What would you do?'

'What's your goal?'

'The non-state actors. Who he's talking to, and how, and why.'

'The why is easy. He probably served in Iraq or Afghanistan and got seduced by all the humanitarian bulls.h.i.+t and made friends and got played like a fish. The how will be cell phone or e-mail or an encrypted web site. The who will be very interesting, I agree.'

'So how do I get him to talk?'

'Order him to. You outrank him. He's trained to obey.'

'That won't be enough. It never is.'

'Are his parents still alive?'

'Yes.'

'Siblings?'

'A younger brother, training with the navy SEALs.'

'That's good. That's close to perfect, in fact. You need to bring your boy north, and sit him down, and offer him a deal.'

'I can't do that.'

'You can, in terms of publicity. Tell him he's going to fry, no question, but for what is up to him. Domestic violence by returning officers is up what, a thousand per cent? n.o.body condones it, but most folks kind of understand it. So tell him if he cooperates, that's all the world will know about him. But tell him if he doesn't cooperate, then you'll do the treason thing out in the open. His parents will be ashamed and mortified, his brother will have to quit the SEALs, his old high school will disown him.'

'Will that work?'

'All he's got left is his name. He's Fourth Infantry. That stuff matters over there.'

No reply.

'Believe me,' Reacher said. 'Let him get out with honour.'

'Domestic violence is honourable?'

'Compared to the alternative.'

'OK, I'll give it a try.'

'Don't forget about me,' Reacher said. 'I need to know what the air force built here. The scope, purpose and architecture, same as I always did. As soon as possible.'

'Anything else?'

'Are you married?'

She hung up without answering.

All six people that were awake and in the house had coffee. Janet Salter herself, Holland, Peterson, Reacher, and the two women cops. Maybe they joined in because they needed to get warm. They all got halfway through their first cup, and then Holland's cell phone rang. He balanced his mug and opened the phone one-handed and listened for a minute. Then he closed the phone again and stuffed it back in his pocket.

'Highway Patrol,' he said. 'The bikers are leaving. Right now. Thirty-six pick-up trucks just hit the highway.'

Five to one in the afternoon.

Fifteen hours to go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

REACHER RODE BACK TO THE STATION HOUSE WITH H HOLLAND and got the story on the way. The Highway Patrol was out in force on the highway to check that there were no remaining weather problems. One of their number had been parked on the eastbound shoulder. He had been watching the traffic coming and going, but then in the left corner of his eye had seen a long fast convoy heading down the snowy ribbon that led from the construction camp. It was quite a sight. Between thirty and forty pick-up trucks driving nose to tail, each one with three people in the cab and a tarp-covered motorbike and piles of boxes strapped down in the load bed. They had slowed and turned and then streamed and snaked and swooped around the cloverleaf and merged on to the highway and accelerated west. Like a train, the officer had said. Like the Northern Pacific itself. The convoy looked a quarter-mile long and was taking twenty whole seconds to pa.s.s any given point. and got the story on the way. The Highway Patrol was out in force on the highway to check that there were no remaining weather problems. One of their number had been parked on the eastbound shoulder. He had been watching the traffic coming and going, but then in the left corner of his eye had seen a long fast convoy heading down the snowy ribbon that led from the construction camp. It was quite a sight. Between thirty and forty pick-up trucks driving nose to tail, each one with three people in the cab and a tarp-covered motorbike and piles of boxes strapped down in the load bed. They had slowed and turned and then streamed and snaked and swooped around the cloverleaf and merged on to the highway and accelerated west. Like a train, the officer had said. Like the Northern Pacific itself. The convoy looked a quarter-mile long and was taking twenty whole seconds to pa.s.s any given point.

The desk sergeant confirmed the news. Highway Patrol cruisers were calling in reports, one after the other. The convoy was now ten miles west of Bolton, and still moving fast. But not fast enough to get ticketed. They were holding to an easy sixty-five, driving straight and true, still steadfastly keeping their noses clean.

They used the office with the crime scene photographs. Four desks boxed together, four chairs. Holland and Peterson sat side by side, and Reacher sat facing Holland, with his back to the pictures of the dead guy dressed in black. He asked, 'You happy to just let them go?'

Holland asked, 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'They were selling meth.'

'This is a small town at heart,' Holland said. 'We operate under small town rules. If I see the back of a thing, that's generally as good as solving it.'

Peterson said, 'End of problem.'

'Not really,' Reacher said. 'They cleaned up and got out because the real estate closing is about to happen. And a closing needs a good t.i.tle. Janet Salter is the last little smudge on it. She's in more danger now than she ever was. She's the only thing standing between someone and a lot of money.'

'Plato the Mexican.'

'Whoever.'

'We're doing everything we can,' Holland said. 'We have seven officers in place, and they're staying there. We'll be OK.'

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