No one spoke.

‘What was she wearing?’

No reply.

‘Come on, one of you has been in this lounge on your night off. Don’t pretend you haven’t.’

‘Black pants,’ Goodman said.

‘And?’

‘A black and silver top,’ Goodman said. ‘Kind of sparkly. Not much to it. Very low cut.’

‘Distinctive?’

‘Unless you’re legally blind. We’re talking about a major display here.’

‘Of what?’

‘Well, you know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I mean, she would be practically falling out of it.’

‘And this is the respectable lounge? What do they wear in the others?’

‘Thong underwear.’

‘Is that all?’

‘And high-heeled shoes.’

Sorenson got back on her cell. Long distance traffic, through Nebraska and Iowa, in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. Truckers, farmers, solid Bible-believing Midwestern citizens. A low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit would have stood out like a beacon. Bored troopers would have spent extra time on that car, for sure.

But no Nebraska trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit.

And no Iowa trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit either.

Reacher drove on, his left hand resting on the bottom curve of the wheel, his right hand resting on the shifter, for variety, to stop his shoulders locking up and getting sore. He could feel a little vibration in the shifter. His right palm was registering a faint buzz. The linkage was transmitting some kind of internal commotion. He nudged the lever one way and the other, just fractionally, to make sure it was seated properly. He glanced down. It was squarely lined up on the D. The tiny vibration was still there. No big deal, probably. He hoped. He knew very little about cars. But army vehicles vibrated like crazy, and no one worried about it.

Next to the shifter the sequence P-R-N-D-L was lit up with a soft glow. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, and Low. Alphabetically the sixteenth letter, then the eighteenth, then the fourteenth, then the fourth, and finally the twelfth. An unlucky and cumbersome sequence, if you had to blink it out, for instance. Three of the five letters were beyond the halfway point. Better than WOOZY or ROOST or RUSTY or TRUST, but still. Blinking or tapping or flashing a light in a linear fashion was not an efficient transmission method for a twenty-six-letter alphabet. Too time-consuming, and too easy for either the transmitter or the receiver to lose count. Or both of them together. Old Sam Morse had figured all that out a long time ago.

Reacher glanced down again.

Reverse.

Karen Delfuenso had not blinked more than thirteen times. Which meant that all her letters were in the first half of the alphabet. Which was possible, but not statistically likely.

And an amateur who didn’t know Morse Code might still understand the same basic drawbacks Samuel Morse had foreseen. Especially an amateur who was for some reason tense and anxious and who had limited time for communication. Such an amateur might have improvised, and come up with a shortcut system.

Drive, and reverse.

Forward, and backward.

Maybe the jerk of the head to the left meant count forward from A, because in the Western nations people read from left to right, and therefore the jerk of the head to the right would mean count backward from Z.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Right thirteen, left two, right three, right one, left nine.

N-B-X-Z-I.

Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. NB could be the standard Latin abbreviation for nota bene, which meant note well, or in other words pay attention, but what was XZI?

Gibberish, that’s what.

Reacher glanced in the mirror.

Delfuenso was staring at him again, willing him to understand.

In the mirror.

Her image was reversed.

Maybe she had anticipated that. Maybe left was right, and right was left.

Forward thirteen, back two, forward three, forward one, back nine.

M-Y-C-A-R.

My car.

Reacher looked in the mirror again and mouthed, ‘This is your car?’

Delfuenso nodded, urgently and eagerly and desperately and happily.

TWENTY

SORENSON STEPPED BACK and turned and looked and said, ‘They went south first, and then they got back on the road and went north. Why?’

Goodman said, ‘That was the way they came. Maybe they didn’t know they could get back on the road any other way.’

‘Bullshit. They glance north, they see the old bar and an acre of gravel, and they know they can get out that way.’

‘So maybe they went for gas at the other station.’

‘Why would they? There’s a gas station right here, at this end of the strip, staring them right in the face. Or do you think they were worried about price comparisons?’

‘Maybe they saw the cameras.’

‘If one has cameras, the other has cameras too. You can bet on that.’

‘The price is the same anyway, both ends. It always is.’

‘So why did they loop back south?’

Goodman said, ‘For some other reason, I guess.’

Sorenson set off walking south, fast over the frozen gravel, past the back of a closed-up diner, past the back of a no-name bar, past the back of a broken-down motel, past the back of a lit-up and open convenience store.

She stopped.

Ahead of her was a wide gap, and then another bar, and then another cocktail lounge, and then nothing at all until the other gas station.

She said, ‘Let’s assume they didn’t want a drink or a meal. Let’s assume they weren’t interested in a room for the night. And if they wanted gas, they’d have used the nearer station. So why did they come back this way?’

‘The convenience store,’ Goodman said. ‘They needed something.’

They hustled around to its front door and went inside to bright cold fluorescent glare and the smell of old coffee and microwaved food and antiseptic floor cleaner. A bored clerk behind the register didn’t even raise his head. Sorenson scanned the ceiling. There were no cameras.

The aisles were close-packed with junk food and canned food and bread and cookies and basic toiletries, and automotive requirements like quarts of oil and gallons of antifreeze and screen wash and clip-on cup holders and patent self-extinguishing ashtrays and collapsible snow shovels. There were rubber overshoes for wet conditions, and tube socks, and white underwear for a dollar an item, and cheap T-shirts, and cheap denim shirts, and canvas work shirts, and canvas work pants.

Sorenson took a close look at the clothing aisle, and then she headed straight for the register, her ID at the ready. The clerk looked up.

‘Help you?’ he said.

‘Between about twenty past and half past midnight, who was in here?’

‘Me,’ the guy said.

‘No customers?’

‘Maybe one.’

‘Who?’

‘A tall skinny guy in a shirt and tie.’

‘No coat?’

‘It was like he ran in from a car. No time to get cold. No one walks here. This is the middle of nowhere.’

‘Did you see the car?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘I think the guy parked around the back. He sort of came around the corner. I guess that was my impression, anyway.’

Sorenson asked, ‘What did he buy?’

The guy straightened out a curling helix of register tape spilling out of a slot. He traced his thumbnail over pale blue ink, in an irregular pattern, stop and go, leaping backward from one time stamp to another, then pausing at an eleven-line entry.

‘Six items,’ he said. ‘Plus subtotal, tax, total, tender, and change.’

‘He paid cash?’

‘He must have, if I made change.’