“He wasn’t.”

“What about another guy? Same age, much smaller. Wiry, maybe five-eight, one-forty.”

“Didn’t see him.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You ever work up at the plant?”

“Couple of years, way back.”

“And then?”

“He moved me here.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Thurman. He owns the plant.”

“And this bar, too?”

“He owns everything.”

“And he moved you? He sounds like a hands-on manager.”

“He figured I’d be better working here than there.”

“And are you?”

“Not for me to say.”

Reacher took a long pull on his bottle. Asked, “Does Mr. Thurman pay you well?”

“I don’t complain.”

“Is that Mr. Thurman’s plane that flies every night?”

“Nobody else here owns a plane.”

“Where does he go?”

“I don’t ask.”

“Any rumors?”

“No.”

“You sure you never saw any young guys around here?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suppose I gave you a hundred bucks?”

The guy paused a beat and looked a little wistful, as if a hundred bucks would make a welcome change in his life. But in the end he just shrugged again and said, “I’d still be sure.”

Reacher drank a little more of his beer. It was warming up a little and tasted metallic and soapy. The bartender stayed close. Reacher glanced at the mirrors. Checked reflections of reflections. Nobody in the room was moving. He asked, “What happens to dead people here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You got undertakers in town?”

The bartender shook his head. “Forty miles west. There’s a morgue and a funeral home and a burial ground. No consecrated land in Despair.”

“The smaller guy died,” Reacher said.

“What smaller guy?”

“The one I was asking you about.”

“I didn’t see any small guys, alive or dead.”

Reacher went quiet again and the bartender said, “So, you’re just passing through?” A meaningless, for-the-sake-of-it conversational gambit, which confirmed what Reacher already knew.Bring it on, he thought. He glanced at the fire exit in back and checked the front door in the mirrors. He said, “Yes, I’m just passing through.”

“Not much to see here.”

“Actually I think this is a pretty interesting place.”

“You do?”

“Who hires the cops here?”

“The mayor.”

“Who’s the mayor?”

“Mr. Thurman.”

“There’s a big surprise.”

“It’s his town.”

Reacher said, “I’d like to meet him.”

The bartender said, “He’s a very private man.”

“I’m just saying. I’m not asking for an appointment.”

Six minutes,Reacher thought.I’ve been working on this beer for six minutes. Maybe ten more to go. He asked, “Do you know the judge?”

“He doesn’t come in here.”

“I didn’t ask where he goes.”

“He’s Mr. Thurman’s lawyer, up at the plant.”

“I thought it was an elected position.”

“It is. We all voted for him.”

“How many candidates were on the ballot?”

“He was unopposed.”

Reacher said, “Does this judge have a name?”

The bartender said, “His name is Judge Gardner.”

“Does Judge Gardner live here in town?”

“Sure. You work for Mr. Thurman, you have to live in town.”

“You know Judge Gardner’s address?”

“The big house on Nickel.”

“Nickel?”

“All the residential streets here are named for metals.”

Reacher nodded. Not so very different from the way streets on army bases were named for generals or Medal of Honor winners. He went quiet again and waited for the bartender to fill the silence, like he had to. Like he had been told to. The guy said, “A hundred and some years ago there were only five miles of paved road in the United States.”

Reacher said nothing.

The guy said, “Apart from city centers, of course, which were cobbled anyway, not really paved. Not with blacktop, like now. Then county roads got built, then state, then the Interstates. Towns got passed by. We were on the main road to Denver, once. Not so much anymore. People use I-70 now.”

Reacher said, “Hence the closed-down motel.”

“Exactly.”

“And the general feeling of isolation.”

“I guess.”

Reacher said, “I know those two young guys were here. It’s only a matter of time before I find out who they were and why they came.”

“I can’t help you with that.”

“One of them died.”

“You told me that already. And I still don’t know anything about it.”

Eleven minutes,Reacher thought.Five to go. He asked, “Is this the only bar in town?”

The guy said, “One is all we need.”

“Movies?”

“No.”

“So what do people do for entertainment?”

“They watch satellite television.”

“I heard there’s a first-aid station at the plant.”

“That’s right.”

“With an ambulance.”

“An old one. It’s a big plant. It covers a big area.”

“Are there a lot of accidents?”

“It’s an industrial operation. Shit happens.”

“Does the plant pay disability?”

“Mr. Thurman looks after people if they get hurt on the job.”

Reacher nodded and sipped his beer. Watched the other customers sipping theirs, directly and in the mirrors.Three minutes, he thought.

Unless they’re early.

Which they were.

Reacher looked to his right and saw two deputies step in through the fire door. He glanced in a mirror and saw the other two walk in the front.

The telephone. A useful invention, and instructive in the way it was used. Or not used. Four deputies heading east to make a surprise arrest would not tip their hand with a courtesy telephone call. Not in the real world. They would swoop down unannounced. They would aim to grab up their prey unawares. Therefore their courtesy call was a decoy. It was a move in a game. A move designed to flush Reacher westward into safer territory. It was an invitation.

Which Reacher had interpreted correctly.

And accepted.

And the bartender had not called the station house. Had not gotten voice mail. Had not made a local call at all. He had dialed too many digits. He had called a deputy’s cell, and spoken just long enough to let the deputy know who he was, and therefore where Reacher was. Whereupon he had changed his attitude and turned talkative and friendly, to keep Reacher sitting tight. Like he had been told to, beforehand, should the opportunity arise.

Which is why Reacher had not left the bar. If the guy wanted to participate, he was welcome to. He could participate by cleaning up the mess.

And there was going to be a mess.

That was for damn sure.

The deputies who had come in the back walked through the short corridor past the restrooms and stopped where the main room widened out. Reacher kept his eyes on them. Didn’t turn his head. A two-front attack was fairly pointless in a room full of mirrors. He could see the other guys quite clearly, smaller than life and reversed. They had stopped a yard inside the front door and were standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting.

The big guy who had thrown up the night before was one of the pair that had come in the front. With him was the guy Reacher had smacked outside the family restaurant. Neither one of them looked in great shape. The two who had come in the back looked large and healthy enough, but manageable. Four against one, but no real cause for concern. Reacher had first fought four-on-one when he was five years old, against seven-year-olds, on his father’s base in the Philippines. He had won then, easily, and he expected to win now.

But then the situation changed.

Two guys stood up from the body of the room. They put their glasses down and dabbed their lips with napkins and scraped their chairs back and stepped forward and separated. One went left, and one went right. One lined up with the guys in back, and one lined up with the guys in front. The newcomers were not the biggest people Reacher had ever seen, but they weren’t the smallest, either. They could have been the deputies’ brothers or cousins. They probably were. They were dressed the same and looked the same and were built the same.