“Do we really know his name and where he lives?”

“I might have been glamorizing our situation a little. Or exaggerating for effect. As in, we fake it till we make it. Because we will know, sooner or later. Somehow. Maybe your phone guy could list his calls by location. There’s only a week’s worth, on that number. He can’t have strayed far from home. We could zero in.”

“Would the information lead to physical harm or serious injury?”

“That would be its sole purpose.”

“Then my phone guy won’t do it. That’s his deal.”

“Do you have to tell him?”

“He would put two and two together after the fact. Then he would go work for someone else. I can’t let that happen.”

“Even for Keever?”

“Keever would understand. So should you. You had a code. A deal is a deal.”

“Works for me,” Reacher said. “I guess. I expect we can figure it out some other way. After we talk to the sister. Who might figure it out for us. Depending on how much she knows. And whether it means anything to us.”

“Nothing else does. This is not a small thing in a wheat field anymore. Hackett is from California, and he has armorers in Illinois, and his boss is in Arizona. This is a nationwide organization. They’ll be watching the airport. You told them we’re coming.”

“That’s why I told them. We won’t find them otherwise.”

“It’s a risk.”

“Everything is a risk. Getting on the plane is a risk. All the other passengers have phones. Think of the songs and the pictures. Think of the extra mass.”

In the event the jet engines coped perfectly with the challenge the on-board phones presented. Their plane took off smoothly and climbed away, just like every other plane that day at America’s busiest airport. Reacher was confident they had not been followed, certainly airside. But their real names were in an airline’s computer, and their ETA was widely advertised. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

They had seats together over the leading edge of the wing. Window and middle. Not the exit row. That was two behind them. Reacher was at the window. Chang had taken the middle, voluntarily. Next to her on the aisle was a woman with ear buds.

Reacher said, “I was thinking about the Moynahan cousins. Or brothers, or whatever they were.”

Chang said, “And?”

“There were two of them, and they were a hundred times less trouble than Hackett on his own.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit three times. Which is my point. As opposed to zero times before. I agree with you about Hackett in California and the gun guys in Illinois and the boss in Arizona. It’s a national organization. But I don’t see how Mother’s Rest can be a part of it. Those folks are a far lower standard. They can’t be a local division. They would be the weak link in the chain. They’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So what are they?”

“Clients, possibly,” Reacher said. “McCann hired Keever. Maybe Mother’s Rest hired someone too. Maybe that’s what happens now. Maybe bad guys outsource their muscle to national organizations. Maybe they outsource everything. Why not? It’s a service economy.”

Chang said, “Then the sister could be in danger. Theoretically. Because organizations behave like organizations. They ask for a detailed brief. Did Mother’s Rest know McCann talked to his sister? If so, she’s in the brief. She’s a loose end. Because we are, too. We could meet. And organizations don’t like loose ends to meet. Cover-your-ass is way too important.”

Reacher said nothing.

Chang said, “What?”

“I wanted to say I’m sure the sister is OK. She has to be, logically. I mean, Keever was there just a couple of days, and now we’re asking if someone knows his client’s sister’s address? The odds against would be enormous, surely. Big numbers.”

“But?”

“Being on a plane is a helpless feeling. Things can prey on your mind.”

The Phoenix airport was properly titled Sky Harbor International, and it was a safe harbor, at least airside. Because of the metal detectors. Landside was a different ball game. So Reacher and Chang got off the plane and walked away from the exit, toward more distant gates. Where they stopped in at a coffee shop and sat on high stools and waited. For the last Chicago passenger to be in a hotel bus. For anyone waiting out there for Chicago passengers to have long ago given up and gone home.

Then they strolled out, window shopping, infinitely slow, watching for belated recognition, for phoned-ahead alerts, but seeing nothing. The airport was spacious, and crowds were thin, and folks were relaxed. After Chicago it felt like Sunday. They stopped short of the airside exit and looked at shoes and sweatshirts and turquoise jewelry, until the next plane landed, and a crowd of disembarking passengers bore down, maybe a hundred people, from Minnesota, Reacher thought, with a hundred carry-on bags, and he and Chang slipped in ahead of the last stragglers, and they hustled through the baggage hall in a loose mobile crowd, through the last of the air-conditioned chill, and out to the taxi line, into the baking desert heat. But the wait there was not more than a breathless minute. No one paid attention. No one shuffled, and no one looked at them, and no one looked away.

They took the cab to the car rental compound. No one followed. Reacher had no driver’s license, so Chang lined up and rented a mid-sized Chevrolet. It was bland and white, for anonymity, and it had GPS, for getting around. They waited at the document booth and scanned ahead. No idling cars at the curb. No one else around. It was too hot for pedestrians.

They drove random and incoherent directions for ten minutes, and then they set the GPS for the tony suburb. Where the doctor lived, with McCann’s sister. They found news radio, but there was nothing from Chicago. No time for it. Apparently Phoenix had problems of its own. The GPS took them north, and then east toward Scottsdale, then into a suburban street that led to another, and finally to the right development.

Which had a gatehouse at its entrance.

The gatehouse was built in a decorative style, with a hipped roof and cactus plantings, and a red-striped barrier coming out on the right, and a red-striped barrier coming out on the left. Like a fat bird with two skinny wings.

A gated community. Rich people. Taxpayers. Political donors. The Maricopa County sheriffs on speed dial.

They waited at the curb, a hundred yards short.

It was three in the afternoon. Five, in Chicago.

There was one guard behind the glass.

Reacher said, “We should have figured.”

Chang said, “If she’s heard about her brother, we’ll never get in. Not if that guy has to call the house first. Which I’m sure he does.”

Reacher said, “You have an FBI card.”

“It’s not a badge. He’ll know the difference.”

“He’s a rent-a-cop.”

“He’s a human being with a pulse. That’s all it takes.”

“Mrs. Hopkins was impressed by it.”

“Different generation. Different instincts about the government.”

Reacher said nothing.

Chang said, “You OK?”

“My head hurts.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Let’s try to get in.”

“OK, but any problems, we withdraw gracefully. We live to fight another day. The sister is a bridge we can’t afford to burn.”

She drove on and turned in, and stopped ahead of the barrier, right next to the sliding glass partition. She buzzed her window down. She flipped her hair and turned her head and smiled. She said, “We’re here for Dr. and Mrs. Evan Lair.”

The rent-a-cop was an elderly white man, in a gray polyester uniform. A short-sleeved shirt. Thin, mottled arms.

He hit a red button.

He said, “I hope you folks have a wonderful afternoon.”