"One simple question," Alice said. "Is it plausible that domestic abuse could be so covert that close friends are totally unaware of it?"
"I don't know," Reacher said. "I don't have much experience."
"Neither do I."
They were on opposite sides of Alice's desk in the back of the legal mission. It was the middle of the day, and the heat was so brutal it was enforcing a de facto siesta on the whole town. Nobody was out and about who didn't desperately need to be. The mission was largely deserted. Just Alice and Reacher and one other lawyer twenty feet away. The inside temperature was easily over a hundred and ten degrees. The humidity was rising. The ancient air conditioner above the door was making no difference at all. Alice had changed into shorts again. She was leaning back in her chair, arms above her head, her back arched off the sticky vinyl. She was slick with sweat from head to foot. Over the tan it made her skin look oiled. Reacher's shirt was soaked. He was reconsidering its projected three-day life span.
"It's a catch-22," Alice said. "Abuse you know about isn't covert. Really covert abuse, you might assume it isn't happening. Like, I assume my dad isn't beating my mom. But maybe he is. Who would know? What about yours?"
Reacher smiled. "I doubt it. He was a U.S. Marine. Big guy, not especially genteel. But then, you should have seen my mother. Maybe she was beating him."
"So yes or no about Carmen and Sloop?"
"She convinced me," Reacher said. "No doubt about it."
"Despite everything?"
"She convinced me," he said again. "Maybe she's all kinds of a liar about other things, but he was beating her. That's my belief."
Alice looked at him, a lawyer's question in her eyes.
"No doubt at all?" she asked.
"No doubt at all," he said.
"O.K., but a difficult case just got a lot harder. And I hate it when that happens."
"Me too," he said. "But hard is not the same thing as impossible."
"You understand the exact legalities here?"
He nodded. "It's not rocket science. She's in deep shit, whichever way you cut it. If there was abuse, she's blown it anyway by being so premeditated. If there wasn't, then it's murder one, pure and simple. And whatever, she has zero credibility because she lies and exaggerates. Ballgame over, if Walker didn't want to be judge so bad."
"Exactly," Alice said.
"You happy about riding that kind of luck?"
"No."
"Neither am I."
"Not morally, not practically," Alice said. "Anything could happen here. Maybe Hack's got a love child somewhere, and it'll come out and he'll have to withdraw anyway. Maybe he likes to have sex with armadillos. It's a long time until November. Counting on him to stay electable no matter what would be foolish. So his tactical problem with Carmen could disappear at any time. So she needs a properly structured defense."
Reacher smiled again. "You're even smarter than I figured."
"I thought you were going to say than I looked."
"I think more lawyers should dress that way."
"You need to stay off the stand," she said. "Much safer for her. No deposition, either. Without you, the gun is the only thing that suggests premeditation. And we should be able to argue that buying the gun and actually using it weren't necessarily closely connected. Maybe she bought it for another reason."
Reacher said nothing.
"They're testing it now," she said. "Over at the lab. Ballistics and fingerprints. Two sets of prints, they say. Hers, I guess, maybe his, too. Maybe they struggled over it. Maybe the whole thing was an accident."
Reacher shook his head. "The second set must be mine. She asked me to teach her how to shoot. We went up on the mesa and practiced."
"When?"
"Saturday. The day before he got home."
She stared at him.
"Christ, Reacher," she said. "You definitely stay off the stand, O.K.?"
"I plan to."
"What about if things change and they subpoena you?"
"Then I'll lie, I guess."
"Can you?"
"I was a cop of sorts for thirteen years. It wouldn't be a totally radical concept."
"What would you say about your prints on the gun?"
"I'd say I found it dumped somewhere. Innocently gave it back to her. Make it look like she had reconsidered after buying it."
"You comfortable with saying stuff like that?"
"If the ends justify the means, I am. And I think they do here. She's given herself a problem proving it, is all. You?"
She nodded. "A case like this, I guess so. I don't care about the lies about her background. People do stuff like that, all the time, all kinds of reasons. So all that's left is the premeditation thing. And most other states, premeditation wouldn't be an issue. They recognize the reality. A battered woman can't necessarily be effective on the spur of the moment. Sometimes she needs to wait until he's drunk, or asleep. You know, bide her time. There are lots of cases like that in other jurisdictions."
"So where do we start?"
"Where we're forced to," Alice said. "Which is a pretty bad place. The circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. Res ipsa loquitur, they call it. The thing speaks for itself. Her bedroom, her gun, her husband lying there dead on the floor. That's murder one. We leave it like that, they'll convict her on the first vote."
"So?"
"So we back-pedal on the premeditation and then we prove the abuse through the medical records. I already started the paperwork. We joined with the DA's office for a common-cause subpoena. All Texas hospitals, and all neighboring states. Domestic violence, that's standard procedure, because people sometimes drive all over to hide it. The hospitals generally react pretty fast, so we should get the records overnight. Then it's res ipsa loquitur again. If the injuries were caused by violence, then the records will at least show they could have been. That's just common sense. Then she takes the stand and she talks about the abuse. She'll have to take it on the chin over the bullshit stories about her past. But if we present it right, she could even look quite good. No shame in being an ex-hooker trying to reform. We could build up some sympathy there."
"You sound like a pretty good lawyer."
She smiled. "For one so young?"
"Well, what are you, two years out of school?"
"Six months," she said. "But you learn fast down here."
"Evidently."
"Whatever, with careful jury selection, we'll get at least half and half don't-knows and not-guiltys. The not-guiltys will wear down the don't-knows within a couple of days. Especially if it's this hot."
Reacher pulled the soaked fabric of his shirt off his skin. "Can't stay this hot much longer, can it?"
"Hey, I'm talking about next summer," Alice said. "That's if she's lucky. Could be the summer after that."
He stared at her. "You're kidding."
She shook her head. "The record around here is four years in jail between arrest and trial."
"What about Ellie?"
She shrugged. "Just pray the medical records look real good. If they do, we've got a shot at getting Hack to drop the charges altogether. He's got a lot of latitude."
"He wouldn't need much pushing," Reacher said. "The mood he's in."
"So look on the bright side. This whole thing could be over in a couple of days."
"When are you going to go see her?"
"Later this afternoon. First I'm going to the bank to cash a twenty-thousand-dollar check. Then I'm going to put the money in a grocery bag and drive out and deliver it to some very happy people."
"O.K.," Reacher said.
"I don't want to know what you did to get it."
"I just asked for it."
"I don't want to know," she said again. "But you should come with me and meet them. And be my bodyguard. Not every day I carry twenty thousand dollars around the Wild West in a grocery bag. And it'll be cool in the car."
"O.K.," Reacher said again.
* * *
The bank showed no particular excitement about forking over twenty grand in mixed bills. The teller treated it like a completely routine part of her day. She just counted the money three times and stacked it carefully in a brown-paper grocery bag Alice provided for the purpose. Reacher carried it back to the parking lot for her. But she didn't need him to. There was no danger of getting mugged. The fearsome heat had just about cleared the streets, and what few people remained were moving slowly and listlessly.
The interior of the VW had heated up to the point where they couldn't get in right away. Alice started the air going and left the doors open until the blowers took thirty degrees off it. It was probably still over a hundred when they slid inside. But it felt cool. All things are relative. Alice drove, heading north and east. She was good. Better than him. She didn't stall out a single time.
"There'll be a storm," she said.
"Everybody tells me that," he said. "But I don't see it coming."
"You ever felt heat like this before?"
"Maybe," he said. "Once or twice. Saudi Arabia, the Pacific. But Saudi is drier and the Pacific is wetter. So, not exactly."
The sky ahead of them was light blue, so hot it looked white. The sun was a diffuse glare, like it was located everywhere. There was no cloud at all. He was squinting so much the muscles in his face were hurting.
"It's new to me," she said. "That's for sure. I figured it would be hot here, but this is completely unbelievable."
Then she asked him when he'd been in the Middle East and the Pacific islands, and he responded with the expanded ten-minute version of his autobiography because he found he was enjoying her company. The first thirty-six years were easy enough, as always. They made a nicely linear tale of childhood and adulthood, accomplishment and progress, punctuated and underlined in the military fashion with promotions and medals. The last few years were harder, as usual. The aimlessness, the drifting. He saw them as a triumph of disengagement, but he knew other people didn't. So as always he just told the story and answered the awkward questions and let her think whatever she wanted.
Then she responded in turn with an autobiography of her own. It was more or less the same as his, in an oblique way. He was the son of a soldier, she was the daughter of a lawyer. She had never really considered straying away from the family trade, just like he hadn't. All her life she had seen people talk the talk and walk the walk and then she had set about following after them, just like he had. She spent seven years at Harvard where he spent four at West Point. Now she was twenty-five and the rough equivalent of an ambitious lieutenant in the law business. He had been an ambitious lieutenant at twenty-five, too, and he could remember exactly how it felt.
"So what's next?" he asked.
"After this?" she said. "Back to New York, I guess. Maybe Washington, D.C. I'm getting interested in policy."
"You won't miss this down-and-dirty stuff?"
"I will, probably. And I won't give it up completely. Maybe I'll volunteer a few weeks a year. Certainly I'll try to fund it. That's where all our money comes from, you know. Big firms in the big cities, with a conscience."
"I'm glad to hear it. Somebody needs to do something."
"That's for sure."
"What about Hack Walker?" he asked. "Will he make a difference?"
She shrugged at the wheel. "I don't know him very well. But his reputation is good. And he can't make things any worse, can he? It's a really screwed-up system. I mean, I'm a democrat, big D and little d, so theoretically to elect your judges is perfectly fine with me. Theoretically. But in practice, it's totally out of hand. I mean, what does it cost to run a campaign down here?"
"No idea."
"Well, figure it out. We're talking about Pecos County, basically, because that's where the bulk of the electorate is. A bunch of posters, some newspaper ads, half a dozen homemade commercials on the local TV channels. A market like this, you'd have to work really hard to spend more than five figures. But these guys are all picking up contributions running to hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Millions, maybe. And the law says if you don't get around to spending it, you don't have to give it back. You just keep it, for miscellaneous future expenses. So what it amounts to is they're all picking up their bribes in advance. The law firms and the oil people and the special interests are paying now for future help. You can get seriously rich, running for judge in Texas. And if you get elected and do the right things all your years on the bench, you retire straight into some big law partnership and you get asked onto the boards of a half-dozen big companies. So it's not really about trying to get elected a judge. It's about trying to get elected a prince. Like turning into royalty overnight."
"So will Walker make a difference?" he asked again.
"He will if he wants to. Simple as that. And right now, he'll make a difference to Carmen Greer. That's what we need to focus on."
He nodded. She slowed the car, hunting a turn. They were back up in ranch country. Somewhere near the Brewer place, he guessed, although he didn't recognize any specific features of the landscape. It was laid out in front of him, so dry and so hot it seemed the parched vegetation could burst into flames at any moment.
"Does it bother you she told all those lies?" Alice asked.
He shrugged. "Yes and no. Nobody likes to be lied to, I guess. But look at it from her point of view. She reached the conclusion he had to be gotten rid of, so she set about achieving it."
"So there was extensive premeditation?"
"Should I be telling you this?"
"I'm on her side."
He nodded. "She had it all planned. She said she looked at a hundred guys and sounded out a dozen before she picked on me."
Alice nodded back. "Actually that makes me feel better somehow, you know? Kind of proves how bad it was. Surely nobody would do that without some kind of really urgent necessity."
"Me too," he said. "I feel the same way."
She slowed again and turned the car onto a farm track. After ten yards the track passed under a poor imitation of the older ranch gates he had seen elsewhere. It was just a rectangle of unpainted two-by-fours nailed together, leaning slightly to the left. The crossbar had a name written on it. It was indecipherable, scorched and faded to nothing by the sun. Beyond it were a few acres of cultivated ground. There were straight rows of turned dirt and an irrigation system pieced together from improvised parts. There were piles of fieldstone here and there. Neat wooden frames to carry wires to support the bushes that no longer grew. Everything was dry and crisp and fallow. The whole picture spoke of agonizing months of back-breaking manual labor in the fearsome heat, followed by tragic disappointment.
There was a house a hundred yards beyond the last row of turned earth. It wasn't a bad place. It was small and low, wood-framed, painted dull white with a finish that had cracked and crazed in the sun. There was a windmill behind it. There was a barn, with an irrigation pump venting through the roof and a damaged three-quarter-ton truck standing idle. The house had a closed front door. Alice parked the VW right next to it.
"They're called Garcia," she said. "I'm sure they're home."
Twenty thousand dollars in a grocery bag had an effect like he'd never seen before. It was literally a gift of life. There were five Garcias, two generations, two in the older and three in the younger. They were all small and scrappy people. The parents were maybe in their late forties and the eldest child was a girl of maybe twenty-four. The younger offspring were both boys and could have been twenty-two and twenty. They all stood quietly together inside the doorway. Alice said a bright hello and walked straight past them and spilled the money on their kitchen table.
"He changed his mind," she said, in Spanish. "He decided to pay up, after all."
The Garcias formed a semicircle around the table, silent, looking at the money, like it represented such a stunning reversal of fortune that no reaction was possible. They didn't ask any questions. Just accepted it had finally happened and then paused a second and burst out with a long list of plans. First, they would get the telephone reconnected so they wouldn't have to walk eight miles to their neighbor's place. Then the electricity. Then they would pay back what they had borrowed from friends. Then they would buy diesel fuel, so the irrigation pump could run again. Then they would get their truck fixed and drive it to town for seed and fertilizer. They went quiet again when it dawned on them they could get a whole crop grown and harvested and sold before the winter came.
Reacher hung back and looked around the room. It was an eat-in, live-in kitchen, opening to a front parlor. The parlor was hot and airless and had a yard-long encyclopedia set and a bunch of religious statuettes on a low shelf. A single picture on the wall. The picture was a photograph of a boy. It was a studio portrait. The boy was maybe fourteen, with a precocious smudge of mustache above his lip. He was wearing a white confirmation robe and smiling shyly. The picture was in a black frame and had a dusty square of black fabric hung around it.
"My eldest son," a voice said. "That picture was made just before we left our village in Mexico."
Reacher turned and found the mother standing behind him.
"He was killed, on the journey here," she said.
Reacher nodded. "I know. I heard. The border patrol. I'm very sorry."
"It was twelve years ago. His name was Raoul Garcia."
The way she said his name was like a small act of remembrance.
"What happened?" Reacher asked.
The woman was silent for a second.
"It was awful," she said. "They hunted us for three hours in the night. We were walking and running, they had a truck with bright lights. We got split up. Divided, in the dark. Raoul was with his sister. He was protecting her. She was twelve. He sent her one way and walked the other way, into the lights. He knew it was worse, if they captured girls. He gave himself up to save his sister. But they didn't try to arrest him or anything. Didn't even ask him any questions. They just shot him down and drove away. They came near where I was hiding. They were laughing. I heard them. Like it was a sport."
"I'm very sorry," Reacher said again.
The woman shrugged. "It was very common then. It was a bad time, and a bad area. We found that out, later. Either our guide didn't know, or didn't care. We found out that there were more than twenty people killed on that route in a year. For fun. Some of them in horrible ways. Raoul was lucky, just to be shot. Some of them, their screams could be heard for miles, across the desert, in the darkness. Some of the girls were carried away and never seen again."
Reacher said nothing. The woman gazed at the picture for a moment longer. Then she turned away with an immense physical effort and forced a smile and gestured that Reacher should rejoin the party in the kitchen.
"We have tequila," she said quietly. "Saved especially for this day."
There were shot glasses on the table, and the daughter was filling them from a bottle. The girl that Raoul had saved, all grown up. The younger son passed the glasses around. Reacher took his and waited. The Garcia father motioned for quiet and raised his drink toward Alice in a toast.
"To our lawyer," he said. "For proving the great Frenchman Honore de Balzac wrong when he wrote, 'Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.'"
Alice blushed a little. Garcia smiled at her and turned to Reacher. "And to you, sir, for your generous assistance in our time of need."
"De nada," Reacher said. "No hay de que. "
The tequila was rough and Raoul's memory was everywhere, so they refused a second shot and left the Garcias alone with their celebrations. They had to wait again until the air conditioner made the VW's interior bearable. Then they headed back to Pecos.
"I enjoyed that," Alice said. "Felt like I finally made a difference."
"You did make a difference."
"Even though it was you made it happen."
"You did the skilled labor," he said.
"Nevertheless, thanks."
"Did the border patrol ever get investigated?" he asked.
She nodded. "Thoroughly, according to the record. There was enough noise made. Nothing specific, of course, but enough general rumors to make it inevitable."
"And?"
"And nothing. It was a whitewash. Nobody was even indicted."
"But did it stop?"
She nodded again. "As suddenly as it started. So obviously they got the message."
"That's how it works," he said. "I've seen it before, different places, different situations. The investigation isn't really an investigation, as such. It's more like a message. Like a coded warning. Like saying, you can't get away with this anymore, so you better stop doing it, whoever you are."
"But justice wasn't done, Reacher. Twenty-some people died. Some of them gruesomely. It was like a pogrom, a year long. Somebody should have paid."
"Did you recognize that Balzac quotation?" he asked.
"Sure," she said. "I went to Harvard, after all."
"Remember Herbert Marcuse, too?"
"He was later, right? A philosopher, not a novelist."
He nodded. "Born ninety-nine years after Balzac. A social and political philosopher. He said, 'Law and order are everywhere the law and order which protect the established hierarchy.' "
"That stinks."
"Of course it does," he said. "But that's the way it is."
* * *
They made it back to Pecos inside an hour. She parked on the street right outside the legal mission so they only had to walk ten feet through the heat. But ten feet was enough. It was like walking ten feet through a blast furnace with a hot towel wrapped around your head. They made it inside and found Alice's desk covered in little handwritten notes stuck randomly to its surface. She peeled them off and scooped them up and read them through, one by one. Then she dropped them all in a drawer.
"I'm going to check in with Carmen at the jail," she said. "But the prints and the ballistics are back from the lab. Hack Walker wants to see you about them. Sounds like he's got a problem."
"I'm sure he has," Reacher said.
They walked to the door and paused a second before braving the sidewalk again. Then they split up in front of the courthouse. Alice walked on toward the jailhouse entrance and Reacher went up the front steps and inside. The public areas and the staircase had no air-conditioning. Making it up just one floor soaked him in sweat. The intern at the desk pointed silently to Hack Walker's door. Reacher went straight in and found Walker studying a technical report. He had the look of a man who thinks if he reads a thing often enough, maybe it will change what it says.
"She killed him," he said. "Everything matches. The ballistics are perfect."
Reacher sat down in front of the desk.
"Your prints were on the gun, too," Walker said.
Reacher made no reply. If he was going to lie, he was going to save it for when it would count for something.
"You're in the national fingerprint database," Walker said. "You know that?"
Reacher nodded. "All military personnel are."
"So maybe you found the gun discarded," Walker said. "Maybe you handled it because you were worried about a family with a kid having a stray firearm around. Maybe you picked it up and put it away in a place of safety."
"Maybe," Reacher said.
Walker turned a page in the file.
"But it's worse than that, isn't it?" he said.
"Is it?"
"You a praying man?"
"No," Reacher said.
"You damn well should be. You should get on your knees and thank somebody."
"Like who?"
"Maybe the state cops. Maybe old Sloop himself for calling the sheriff."
"Why?"
"Because they just saved your life."
"How?"
"Because you were on the road in a squad car when this went down. If they'd left you in the bunkhouse, you'd be our number-one suspect."
"Why?"
Walker turned another page.
"Your prints were on the gun," he said again. "And on every one of the shell cases. And on the magazine. And on the ammunition box. You loaded that gun, Reacher. Probably test-fired it too, they think, then reloaded it ready for action. She bought it, so it was technically her possession, but it looks from the fingerprint evidence that it was effectively your weapon."
Reacher said nothing.
"So you see?" Walker asked. "You should set up a little shrine to the state police and give thanks every morning you wake up alive and free. Because the obvious thing for me to do would be come right after you. You could have crept up from the bunkhouse to the bedroom, easy as anything. Because you knew where the bedroom was, didn't you? I talked to Bobby. He told me you spent the previous night in there. Did you really think he'd just sit quiet in the barn? He probably watched you two going at it, through the window."
"I didn't sleep with her," Reacher said. "I was on the sofa."
Walker smiled. "Think a jury would believe you? Or an ex-whore? I don't. So we could easily prove some kind of a sexual jealousy motive. The next night you could have crept up there and got the gun out of the drawer and shot Sloop dead, and then crept back again. Only you couldn't have, because you were in the back of a police car at the time. So you're a lucky man, Reacher. Because right now a white male shooter would be worth his weight in gold to me. You could go integrate death row single-handed. A big WASP like you, in among all the blacks and the Hispanics, I'd look like the fairest prosecutor in Texas. The election would be over before it started."
Reacher said nothing. Walker sighed.
"But you didn't do it, unfortunately," he said. "She did it. So now what have I got? The premeditation thing is going from bad to worse. It's just about shot to hell now. Clearly she thought, and she thought, even to the extent of hooking up with some ex-army guy to give her weapons training. We got your record, after we got your prints. You were a pistol-shooting champ two straight years. You did a spell as an instructor, for Christ's sake. You loaded her gun for her. What the hell am I going to do?"
"What you planned," Reacher said. "Wait for the medical reports."
Walker went quiet. Then he sighed again. Then he nodded.
"We'll have them tomorrow," he said. "And you know what I did? I hired a defense expert to take a look at them. You know there are experts who only appear for the defense? Normally we wouldn't go near them. Normally we want to know how much we can get out of a thing, not how little. But I hired a defense guy, the exact same guy Alice Aaron would hire if she could afford him. Because I want somebody who can persuade me there's a faint possibility Carmen's telling the truth, so I can let her go without looking like I'm crazy."
"So relax," Reacher said. "It'll be over tomorrow."
"I hope so," Walker said. "And it might be. Al Eugene's office is sending over some financial stuff. Al did all that kind of work for Sloop. So if there's no financial motive, and the medical reports are good, maybe I can relax."
"She had no money at all," Reacher said. "It was one of her big problems."
Walker nodded. "Good," he said. "Because her big problems solve my big problems."
The office went quiet underneath the drone of the air conditioners. The back of Reacher's neck felt cold and wet.
"You should be more proactive," he said. "With the election."
"Yeah, how?"
"Do something popular."
"Like what?"
"Like reopen something about the border patrol. People would like that. I just met a family whose son was murdered by them."
Walker went quiet again for a second, then just shook his head.
"Ancient history," he said.
"Not to those families," Reacher said. "There were twenty-some homicides in a year. Most of the survivors live around here, probably. And most of them will be voters by now."
"The border patrol was investigated," Walker said. "Before my time, but it was pretty damn thorough. I went through the files years ago."
"You have the files?"
"Sure. Mostly happened down in Echo, and all that stuff comes here. It was clearly a bunch of rogue officers on a jag of their own, and the investigation most likely served to warn them off. They probably quit. Border patrol has a pretty good turnover of staff. The bad guys could be anywhere by now, literally. Probably left the state altogether. It's not just the immigrants who flow north."
"It would make you look good."
Walker shrugged. "I'm sure it would. A lot of things would make me look good. But I do have some standards, Reacher. It would be a total waste of public money. Grandstanding, pure and simple. It wouldn't get anywhere. Nowhere at all. They're long gone. It's ancient history."
"Twelve years ago isn't ancient history."
"It is around here. Things change fast. Right now I'm concentrating on what happened in Echo last night, not twelve years ago."
"O.K.," Reacher said. "Your decision."
"I'll call Alice in the morning. When we get the material we need. Could be all over by lunchtime."
"Let's hope so."
"Yeah, let's," Walker said.
Reacher went out through the hot trapped air in the stairwell and stepped outside. It was hotter still on the sidewalk. So hot, it was difficult to breathe properly. It felt like all the oxygen molecules had been burned out of the air. He made it across the street and down to the mission with sweat running into his eyes. He pushed in through the door and found Alice sitting alone at her desk.
"You back already?" he asked, surprised.
She just nodded.
"Did you see her?"
She nodded again.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing at all," Alice said. "Except she doesn't want me to represent her."
"What do you mean?"
"What I said. Literally the only words I got out of her were, and I quote, 'I refuse to be represented by you.' "
"Why?"
"She didn't say. She said nothing at all. I just told you that. Except she doesn't want me on the case."
"Why the hell not?"
Alice just shrugged and said nothing.
"Has this kind of a thing ever happened before?"
Alice shook her head. "Not to me. Not to anybody within living memory in this place. Normally they can't make their minds up whether to bite your hand off or smother you with hugs and kisses."
"So what the hell happened?"
"I don't know. She was fairly calm, fairly rational."
"Did you try to persuade her?"
"Of course I did. To a point. But I wanted to get out of there before she lost it and started hollering. A witness hears her say it, I lose all standing. And then she's really in trouble. I plan to go back and try again later."
"Did you tell her I sent you?"
"Sure I did. I used your name. Reacher this, Reacher that. Made no difference. All she said was she refused representation. Over and over again, three or four times. Then she gave me the silent treatment."
"Can you think of a reason?"
Alice shrugged. "Not really, in the circumstances. I mean, I'm not exactly Perry Mason. Maybe I don't inspire much confidence. I go in there half-naked and sweating like a pig, and if this was Wall Street or somewhere I could understand somebody taking one look and thinking wow, like, forget about it. But this isn't Wall Street. This is Pecos County jail, and she's Hispanic, and I'm a lawyer with a pulse, so she should have been dancing with joy I came at all."
"So why?"
"It's inexplicable."
"What happens now?"
"Now it's a balancing act. I have to get her to accept representation before anybody hears her refuse it."
"And if she still doesn't?"
"Then I go about my business and she's completely on her own. Until six months from now when the indictment's in and some crony of the judge's sends some useless jerk to see her."
Reacher was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Alice. I had no idea this would happen."
"Not your fault."
"Go back about seven, O.K.?" he said. "When the upstairs offices are empty and before the night shift woman comes on. She struck me as nosier than the day guy. He probably won't pay too much attention. So you can press her some. Let her holler if she wants to."
"O.K.," she said. "Seven o'clock it is. Hell of a day. Up and down, like a roller coaster."
"Like life itself," Reacher said.
She smiled, briefly. "Where will I find you?"
"I'm in the last motel before the highway."
"You like traffic noise?"
"I like cheap. Room eleven, name of Millard Fillmore."
"Why?"
"Habit," he said. "I like aliases. I like anonymity."
"So who is Millard Fillmore?"
"President, two before Abraham Lincoln. From New York."
She was quiet for a moment. "Should I dress up like a lawyer for her? You think that might make a difference?"
Reacher shrugged. "I doubt it. Look at me. I look like a scarecrow, and she never said anything about it."
Alice smiled again. "You do a little, you know. I saw you come in this morning and I thought you were the client. Some kind of homeless guy in trouble."
"This is a new outfit," Reacher said. "Fresh today."
She looked him over again and said nothing.
He left her with paperwork to do and walked as far as the pizza parlor south of the courthouse. It was nearly full with people and had a huge air conditioner over the door spilling a continuous stream of moisture on the sidewalk. Clearly it was the coldest place in town, and therefore right then the most popular. He went in and got the last table and drank ice water as fast as the busboy could refill his glass. Then he ordered an anchovy pizza, heavy on the fish. He figured his body needed to replace salt.
* * *
As he ate it a new description was being passed by phone to the killing crew. The call was carefully rerouted through Dallas and Las Vegas to a motel room a hundred miles from Pecos. The call was made by a man, speaking quietly but clearly. It contained a detailed identification of a new target, a male, starting with his full name and his age, and accompanied by an exact rundown of his physical appearance and all of his likely destinations within the next forty-eight hours.
The information was taken by the woman, because she had sent her partners out to eat. She made no notes. She was naturally cautious about leaving written evidence, and she had an excellent memory. It had been honed by constant practice. She listened carefully until the caller stopped talking and then she decided the crew's price. She wasn't reluctant to speak on the phone. She was talking through an electronic device bought in the Valley that made her sound like a robot with a head cold. So she named the price and then listened to the silence on the other end. Listened to the guy deciding whether to negotiate the cost. But he didn't. Just said O.K. and hung up. The woman smiled. Smart guy, she thought. Her crew didn't work for cheapskates. A parsimonious attitude about money betrayed all kinds of other negative possibilities.
* * *
Reacher had ice cream after the pizza, and more water, and then coffee. He lingered over it as long as was reasonable and then he paid his check and walked back to his motel room. The heat felt worse than ever after being cold and dry for an hour. He took a long shower in tepid water and rinsed his clothes in the sink. Shook them hard to eliminate the wrinkles and arranged them on a chair to dry. Then he turned the room air to high and lay down on the bed to wait for Alice. Checked his watch. He figured if she got there anytime after eight o'clock it would be a good sign, because if Carmen decided to get serious they would need to talk for at least an hour. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.