Straight for the bag man, accelerating, front wheels spraying gravel.

The bag man froze.

Ten feet before hitting him head-on Reacher did three things. He twitched the wheel. He stamped on the brake. And he opened his door. The car slewed right and the front wheels washed into the loose stones and the door swung out through a moving arc and caught the guy like a full-on punch. It smacked him solidly from his waist up to his face. He went over backward and the car stopped dead and Reacher leaned down and grabbed the vinyl duffel left-handed from the floor. Pitched it into the passenger seat and hit the gas and slammed his door shut and pulled a tight U-turn inside the slow Mercedes. Roared back out of the lot and bounced over the curb onto Highland. In the mirror he saw dust in the air and confusion and the bag man flat on his back and two guys running. Ten yards later he was behind the bulk of the wax museum. Then he was through the light, back on Hollywood Boulevard.

Twelve seconds, beginning to end.

No reaction. No gunshots. No pursuit.

Nor would there be any, Reacher guessed. They would have clocked the plain-vanilla Ford and the appalling shirt and the short hair and put it down to an LAPD freelance looking to supplement his pension fund. The cost of doing business. And the Mercedes driver couldn’t afford to say a word to anyone.

Yeah baby, you do not mess with the special investigators.

Reacher slowed and caught his breath and made a right and drove a complete counterclockwise scenic circle. Nichols Canyon Road, Woodrow Wilson Drive, and back on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Nobody was behind him. He stopped on a deserted hairpin up high and emptied the bag and ditched it on the shoulder. Then he counted the money. Close to nine hundred dollars, mostly in twenties and tens. Enough for dinner. Even with Norwegian water. And a tip.

He got out and checked the car. The driver’s door was a little dented, right in the center. The bag man’s face. No blood. He got back in and buckled up. Ten minutes later he was in the Chateau Marmont’s lobby, sitting in a faded velvet armchair, waiting for the others.

Twelve hundred miles northeast of the Chateau Marmont, the dark-haired forty-year-old calling himself Alan Mason was riding the underground train from his arrival gate to the Denver airport’s main terminal. He was alone in the car, sitting down, tired, but smiling all the same at the crazy bursts of jug-band music that preceded the station announcements. He figured they had been specified by a psychologist to reduce travel stress. In which case they were working. He felt fine. A lot more relaxed than he had any right to be.

Dinner cost Reacher way less than nine hundred bucks. Either out of taste or preference or respect for the context or deference to his economic predicament, the others opted for a noisy hamburger barn on Sunset, just east of the Mondrian Hotel. There was no Norwegian water on offer. Just tap and domestic beer and thick juicy patties and pickles and loud vintage rhythm and blues. Reacher looked right at home, in a fifties kind of a way. The others looked a little out of place. They were at a round table set for four. Conversation stopped and started as the pleasure of being among old friends was overtaken by memories of the others who were missing. Reacher mostly listened. The dynamic of the round table meant that no one person was dominant. The center of attention bounced back and forth randomly. After thirty minutes of reminiscence and catch-up the talk turned back to Franz.

O’Donnell said, “Start at the very beginning. If we believe his wife, he quit everything except routine database mining more than four years ago. So why would he suddenly launch into something this serious?”

Dixon said, “Because someone asked him to.”

“Exactly,” O’Donnell said. “This thing starts with his client. So who was it?”

“Could have been anybody.”

“No,” O’Donnell said. “It was someone special. He went the extra mile here. He broke a four-year habit for this guy. Kind of broke faith with his wife and son, too.”

Neagley said, “It could have been a big payer.”

“Or someone he was obligated to somehow,” Dixon said.

Neagley said, “Or it might have looked routine at the get-go. Maybe he had no idea where it was leading. Maybe the client didn’t, either.”

Reacher listened. It had to be someone special. Someone he was obligated to somehow. He watched as O’Donnell took the floor, then Dixon, then Neagley. The vector bounced around between them and traced a heavy triangle in the air. Something stirred in the back of his mind. Something Dixon had said, hours ago, in the car leaving LAX. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t get it. He spoke up and the triangle changed to a square, to include him.

“We should ask Angela,” he said. “If he had some kind of a longstanding big-deal client, he might have mentioned him at home.”

“I’d like to meet Charlie,” O’Donnell said.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Reacher said. “Unless the deputies come for me. In which case you can go on ahead without me.”

“Look on the bright side,” Dixon said. “Maybe you gave the guy a concussion. Maybe he doesn’t remember who he is, let alone who you are.”

They walked back to the hotel and split up in the lobby. No appetite for a nightcap. Just an unspoken agreement to get some sleep and start work again bright and early. Reacher and O’Donnell headed up together. Didn’t talk much. Reacher was asleep five seconds after his head hit the pillow.

He woke up again at seven o’clock in the morning. Early sun was coming in the window. David O’Donnell was coming in the door. In a hurry. Fully dressed, a newspaper under his arm, cardboard cups of coffee in both hands.

“I went for a walk,” he said.

“And?”

“You’re in trouble,” he said. “I think.”

“Who?”

“That deputy. He’s parked a hundred yards from here.”

“The same guy?”

“The same guy and the same car. He’s got a metal splint on his face and a garbage bag taped across his window.”

“Did he see you?”

“No.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Just sitting there. Like he’s waiting.”

They ordered breakfast in Dixon’s room. First rule, learned a long time ago: Eat when you can, because you never know when the next chance will come. Especially when you’re about to disappear into the system. Reacher shoveled eggs and bacon and toast down his throat and followed it with plenty of coffee. He was calm, but frustrated.

“I should have stayed in Portland,” he said. “I might as well have.”

“How did they find us so fast?” Dixon asked.

“Computers,” Neagley said. “Homeland Security and the Patriot Act. They can search hotel registers anytime they want now. This is a police state.”

“We are the police,” O’Donnell said.

“We used to be.”

“I wish we still were. You’d hardly have to break a sweat anymore.”

“You guys get going,” Reacher said. “I don’t want you to get snarled up in this. We can’t spare the time. So don’t let the deputy see you leave. Go visit with Angela Franz. Chase the client. I’ll get back to you when I can.”

He drained the last of his coffee and headed back to his room. Put his folding toothbrush in his pocket and hid his passport and his ATM card and seven hundred of his remaining eight hundred dollars in O’Donnell’s suit carrier. Because certain things can go missing, after an arrest. Then he took the elevator down to the lobby. Just sat in an armchair and waited. No need to turn the whole thing into a big drama, running up and down hotel corridors. Because, second rule, learned from a lifetime of bad luck and trouble: Maintain a little dignity.