Part 38 (2/2)

Reacher said, 'OK, let's not go there. Not just yet. Let's think for a minute.'

They went back to the station house. Holland parked in the slot reserved for him and they walked between the garbage cans to the door. They went to the squad room, to the desk that Peterson had used. Holland said, 'You should check his messages. Voice mail and e-mail. Something might have come in that led him there.'

Reacher said, 'You're clutching at straws.'

'Allow me the privilege.'

'Did he even come here first?'

'I don't know.'

'Did he even have time?'

'Probably not. But we should check the messages anyway. Because we need to be sure, with a thing like this.'

'You should do the checking. It's your department. I'm just a civilian.'

Holland said, 'I don't know how. I never learned. I'm not good with technology. I'm old school. Everyone knows that. I'm the past. Andrew was the future.'

So Reacher puzzled his way through the telephone console and the computer keyboard. No pa.s.swords were required. No PINs. Everything was set up for fast and casual access. There was only one voice mail message. It was from Kim Peterson, much earlier in the evening, just after six o'clock, just after Reacher and her husband had hustled back to Janet Salter's house after watching the surveillance video from the prison.

Kim's recorded voice was suspended somewhere between panicked and brave and resigned and querulous.

She had asked, 'When are you coming home?'

Reacher moved on to e-mail. He opened the application. Two messages downloaded. The first was from the DEA in Was.h.i.+ngton D.C. An agent there was confirming his belief that there was no meth lab under the facility west of Bolton, South Dakota. Expensive satellite surveillance time proved it. Peterson was thanked for his interest and asked to get back in touch should new information come to light.

The second e-mail was a routine nightly round robin BOLO bulletin from the Highway Patrol. Statewide coordination. Be on the lookout. For, in this instance, a whole bunch of stuff, including any or all of three stolen cars and four stolen trucks taken that day from random locations around the state, a stolen snowplough taken from a highway maintenance depot east of Mitch.e.l.l, a thing called an Isuzu N-series pump and a de-icing truck stolen by two absconded employees from a commercial airfield east of Rapid City, a stolen Ithaca shotgun from Pierre, four suspects believed to be at large in a 1979 Chevrolet Suburban after a messy and aborted burglary in Sioux Falls, and finally Peterson's own contribution, a bartender fleeing a suspected Bolton homicide in a 2005 Ford pick-up truck.

Reacher said, 'Nothing.'

Holland sat down.

'So say it,' he said. 'Let's go there now.'

'Three questions,' Reacher said. 'Why did the lawyer stop on the road with such total confidence? Why did Peterson stop in the lot? And why was he killed tonight of all nights?'

'Answers?'

'Because the lawyer felt safe to do so. Because Peterson felt safe to do so. And because you announced the meth bust on the police department radio net.'

Holland nodded.

'The shooter is one of us,' he said. 'He's a cop.'

Five minutes to midnight.

Four hours to go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

HOLLAND AND R REACHER HASHED IT OUT BETWEEN THEM, LIKE people do, searching for weaknesses in a theory, finding none, and thereby strengthening it to the point of certainty. A bent cop already in town explained why the watch for incoming strangers had proved fruitless. A bent cop in a car, flas.h.i.+ng his lights, maybe patting the air with a gloved hand out a window, explained why a cautious lawyer would come to a dead stop on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. A bent cop, hearing Holland's triumphant radio message earlier that night, explained why Peterson had died so soon afterwards. The guy would have realized the need for action before morning. people do, searching for weaknesses in a theory, finding none, and thereby strengthening it to the point of certainty. A bent cop already in town explained why the watch for incoming strangers had proved fruitless. A bent cop in a car, flas.h.i.+ng his lights, maybe patting the air with a gloved hand out a window, explained why a cautious lawyer would come to a dead stop on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. A bent cop, hearing Holland's triumphant radio message earlier that night, explained why Peterson had died so soon afterwards. The guy would have realized the need for action before morning. Start of business tomorrow he'll be calling the DEA in Was.h.i.+ngton with the details Start of business tomorrow he'll be calling the DEA in Was.h.i.+ngton with the details, Holland had said. A no-brainer. And a bent cop parked in a lot, maybe waving urgently, explained why Peterson had come straight to his side, completely unsuspecting, completely unready.

And a bent cop hauled unwillingly away by the siren and the crisis plan explained why Janet Salter had lived through the prison riot, all five hours of it.

Holland said, 'It's my fault. What I said on the radio got Andrew killed.'

'I might have done the same,' Reacher said. 'In fact, sometimes I did do the same.'

'I was trying to help him.'

'Unintended consequences. Don't blame yourself.'

'How can I not?'

'Why did he even go there? He wasn't on duty. He wasn't just pa.s.sing by, because it wasn't on his way home.'

'He was always on duty, in his head, at least. And it could have been on his way home. More or less. I mean, it was a very minor detour. Two extra minutes, maybe. And that was Andrew, through and through. Always willing to give a little extra to the cause. Always ready to try one last thing, check one last place.'

Reacher said nothing.

Holland said, 'I'm a.s.suming the Mexican is behind all of this. The one we keep hearing about.'

Reacher said, 'Plato.'

Holland asked, 'How long ago do you suppose he turned our guy around?'

'A year,' Reacher said. 'This whole business seems to be a year old.'

'Was it money?'

'Most things are.'

'Who is it?'

'I don't know.'

'A new guy, I'm guessing. I hardly know them. Not enough to trust any of them, anyway. The department is a mess. Which is my fault too, I guess. I couldn't keep up.'

Reacher said nothing.

Holland asked, 'Where do we start?'

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