Nothing to Lose

He didn’t know how long Vaughan would sleep. He guessed she had gotten her head on the pillow a little after nine that morning, which was six hours ago. Eight hours’ rest would take her to five o’clock, which was reasonable for an on-deck time of seven in the evening. Or maybe she was already up and about. Some people slept worse in the daytime than the night. Habit, degree of acclimatization, circadian rhythms. He decided to head for the diner. Either she would be there already or he could leave her keys with the cashier.

She was there already.

He pulled to the curb and saw her alone in the booth they had used before. She was dressed in her cop uniform, four hours before her watch. She had an empty plate and a full coffee cup in front of her.

He locked the truck and went in and sat down opposite her. Up close, she looked tired.

“Didn’t sleep?” he asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“I have a confession to make.”

“You went to Despair. In my truck. I knew you would.”

“I had to.”

“Sure.”

“When was the last time you drove out to the west?”

“I try to stay out of Despair.”

“There’s a military base just inside the line. Fairly new. Why would that be?”

Vaughan said, “There are military bases all over.”

“This was a combat MP unit.”

“They have to put them somewhere.”

“Overseas is where they need to put them. The army is hurting for numbers right now. They can’t afford to waste good units in the back of beyond.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a good unit.”

“It was.”

“So maybe it’s about to ship out.”

“It just shipped back in. It just spent a year under the sun. The guy I spoke to had squint lines like you wouldn’t believe. His gear was worn from the sand.”

“We have sand here.”

“Not like that.”

“So what are you saying?”

The waitress came by and Reacher ordered coffee. Vaughan’s cup was still full. Reacher said, “I’m asking why they pulled a good unit out of the Middle East and sent it here.”

Vaughan said, “I don’t know why. The Pentagon doesn’t explain itself to neighboring police departments.”

The waitress brought a cup for Reacher and filled it from a Bunn flask. Vaughan asked, “What does a combat MP unit do exactly?”

Reacher took a sip of coffee and said, “It guards things. Convoys or installations. It maintains security and repels attacks.”

“Actual fighting?”

“When necessary.”

“Did you do that?”

“Some of the time.”

Vaughan opened her mouth and then closed it again as her mind supplied the answer to the question she was about to ask.

“Exactly,” Reacher said. “What’s to defend in Despair?”

“And you’re saying these MPs made you drive on through?”

“It was safer. They would have checked your plate if I hadn’t.”

“Did you get through OK?”

“Your truck is fine. Although it’s not exactly yours, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who is David Robert Vaughan?”

She looked blank for a second. Then she said, “You looked in the glove box. The registration.”

“A man with a gun wanted to see it.”

“Good reason.”

“So who is David Robert?”

Vaughan said, “My husband.”

25

Reacher said, “I didn’t know you were married.” Vaughan turned her attention to her lukewarm coffee and took a long time to answer.

“That’s because I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Would you expect me to?”

“Not really, I suppose.”

“Don’t I look married?”

“Not one little bit.”

“You can tell just by looking?”

“Usually.”

“How?”

“Fourth finger, left hand, for a start.”

“Lucy Anderson doesn’t wear a ring either.”

Reacher nodded. “I think I saw her husband today.”

“In Despair?”

“Coming out of the rooming house.”

“That’s way off Main Street.”

“I was dodging roadblocks.”

“Terrific.”

“Not one of my main talents.”

“So how did they not catch you? They’ve got one road in and one road out.”

“Long story,” Reacher said.

“But?”

“The Despair PD is temporarily understaffed.”

“You took one of them out?”

“Both of them. And their cars.”

“You’re completely unbelievable.”

“No, I’m a man with a rule. People leave me alone, I leave them alone. If they don’t, I don’t.”

“They’ll come looking for you here.”

“No question. But not soon.”

“How long?”

“They’ll be hurting for a couple of days. Then they’ll saddle up.”

Reacher left her alone with her truck keys on the table in front of her and walked down to Third Street and bought socks and underwear and a dollar T-shirt in an old-fashioned outfitters next to a supermarket. He stopped in at a pharmacy and bought shaving gear and then headed up to the hardware store at the western end of First Street. He picked his way past ladders and wheelbarrows and wound through aisles filled with racks of tools and found a rail of canvas work pants and flannel shirts. Traditional American garments, made in China and Cambodia, respectively. He chose dark olive pants and a mud-colored check shirt. Not as cheap as he would have liked, but not outrageous. The clerk folded them up into a brown paper bag and he carried it back to the motel and shaved and took a long shower and dried off and dressed in the new stuff. He crammed his old gray janitor uniform in the trash receptacle.

Better than doing laundry.