Part 24 (2/2)
”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, ”s.h.i.+t.” 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 gla.s.s.” 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 s.p.a.ce 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.
Her personality, he guessed.
It seemed to him that one mind had chosen everything and one pair of hands had done everything. There was no evidence of compromise or dueling tastes. He knew that way back a kitchen was considered a woman's domain. Certainly it had been that way in his mother's day, but she had been French, which had made a difference. And since then he had been led to believe that things had changed. Guys cooked now, or at least left six-packs lying around, or put oil stains on the linoleum from fixing motorcycle engines.
There was no evidence of a second person in the house. None at all. Not a trace. From his position by the sink Reacher could see into the living room through an arch that was really just a doorway with the door taken out. There was a single armchair in there, and a TV set, and a bunch of moving boxes still taped shut.
Vaughan said, ”Want coffee?”
”Always.”
”Did you sleep last night?”
”No.”
”Don't have coffee, then.”
”It keeps me awake until bedtime.”
”What's the longest you ever stayed awake?”
”Seventy-two hours, maybe.”
”Working?”
He nodded. ”Some big deal, twenty years ago.”
”A big MP deal?”
He nodded again. ”Somebody was doing something to somebody. I don't recall the details.”
Vaughan rinsed her coffee pot and filled her machine with water. The machine was a big steel thing withCuisinart embossed on it in large letters. It looked reliable. She spooned coffee into a gold basket and hit a switch. She said, ”Last night the deputies from Despair headed home after an hour.” embossed on it in large letters. It looked reliable. She spooned coffee into a gold basket and hit a switch. She said, ”Last night the deputies from Despair headed home after an hour.”
”They found me in the bar,” Reacher said. ”They flushed me west with the phone call and then came after me. It was a trap.”
”And you fell for it.”
”Theyfell for it. I knew what they were doing.”
”How?”
”Because twenty years ago I used to stay up for seventy-two hours at a time dealing with worse folks than you'll ever find in Despair.”
”What happened to the deputies?”
”They joined their full-time buddies in the infirmary.”
”All four of them?”
”All six of them. They added some on-site moral support.”
”You're a one-man crime wave.”
”No, I'm Alice in Wonderland.”
Now Vaughan nodded.
”I know,” she said. ”Why aren't they doing anything about it? You've committed a.s.sault and battery on eight individuals, six of them peace officers, and you've wrecked two police cars. And yet you're still walking around.”
”That's the point,” Reacher said. ”I'm still walking around, but in Hope, not in Despair. That's weirdness number one. All they ever want to do is keep people out of there. They're not interested in the law or justice or punishment.”
”What's weirdness number two?”
”They came at me six against one and I walked away with two bruises and sore knuckles from pounding on them. They're all weak and sick. One of them even had to call it quits so he could find time to throw up.”
”So what's that about?”
”The clerk at my motel figures they're breaking environmental laws. Maybe there's all kinds of poisons and pollution out there.”
”Is that what they're hiding?”
”Possibly,” Reacher said. ”But it's kind of odd that the victims would help to hide the problem.”
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