“Well, I’m ready at least,” she said.

She grinned and tossed him his clothes from the floor and he put them on, with the cotton dragging against his damp skin. He borrowed her comb and ran it through his hair. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of her behind him. She looked like a princess about to go out to dinner with her gardener.

“They might not let me in,” he said.

She stretched up and smoothed the back of his collar down over the new exaggerated bulk of his deltoid muscle.

“How would they keep you out? Call the National Guard?”

It was a four-block walk to the restaurant. A June evening in Missouri, near the river. The air was soft and damp. The stars were out above them, in an inky sky the color of her dress. The chestnut trees rustled in a slight, warm breeze. The streets got busier. There were the same trees, but cars were moving and parking under them. Some of the buildings were still hotels, but some of them were smaller and lower, with painted signs showing restaurant names in French. The signs were lit with aimed spotlights. No neon anywhere. The place she’d picked was called La Prefecture. He smiled and wondered if lovers in a minor city in France were eating in a place called “the Municipal Offices,” which was the literal translation, as far as he recalled.

But it was a pleasant enough place. A boy from somewhere in the Midwest trying a French accent greeted them warmly and showed them to a table in a candlelit porch overlooking the rear garden. There was a fountain with underwater lighting playing softly and the trees were lit with spotlamps fastened to their trunks. The tablecloth was linen and the silverware was silver. Reacher ordered American beer and Jodie ordered Pernod and water.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she said.

He nodded. The night was warm and still, and calm.

“Tell me how you feel,” he said.

She looked at him, surprised. “I feel good.”

“Good how?”

She smiled, shyly. “Reacher, you’re fishing.”

He smiled back. “No, I’m just thinking about something. You feel relaxed?”

She nodded.

“Safe?”

She nodded again.

“Me too,” he said. “Safe and relaxed. So what does that mean?”

The boy arrived with the drinks on a silver tray. The Pernod was in a tall glass and he served it with an authentic French water jug. The beer was in a frosted mug. No long-neck bottles in a place like this.

“So what does it mean?” Jodie asked.

She splashed water into the amber liquid and it turned milky. She swirled the glass to mix it. He caught the strong aniseed smell.

“It means whatever is happening is small,” he said. “A small operation, based in New York. We felt nervous there, but we feel safe here.”

He took a long sip of the beer.

“That’s just a feeling,” she said. “Doesn’t prove anything.”

He nodded. “No, but feelings are persuasive. And there’s some hard evidence. We were chased and attacked there, but nobody out here is paying any attention to us.”

“You been checking?” she asked, alarmed.

“I’m always checking,” he said. “We’ve been walking around, slow and obvious. Nobody’s been after us.”

“No manpower?”

He nodded again. “They had the two guys who went to the Keys and up to Garrison, and the guy driving the Suburban. My guess is that’s all they’ve got, or they’d be out here looking for us. So it’s a small unit, based in New York.”

She nodded.

“I think it’s Victor Hobie,” she said.

The waiter was back, with a pad and a pencil. Jodie ordered pate and lamb, and Reacher ordered soup and porc aux pruneaux, which had always been his Sunday lunch as a kid, anytime his mother could find pork and prunes in the distant places they were stationed. It was a regional dish from the Loire, and although his mother was from Paris she liked to make it for her sons because she felt it was a kind of shorthand introduction to her native culture.

“I don’t think it’s Victor Hobie,” he said.

“I think it is,” she said. “I think he survived the war somehow, and I think he’s been hiding out somewhere ever since, and I think he doesn’t want to be found.”

He shook his head. “I thought about that, too, right from the start. But the psychology is all wrong. You read his record. His letters. I told you what his old buddy Ed Steven said. This was a straight-arrow kid, Jodie. Totally dull, totally normal. I can’t believe he’d leave his folks hanging like that. For thirty years? Why would he? It just doesn’t jibe with what we know about him.”

“Maybe he changed,” Jodie said. “Dad always used to say Vietnam changed people. Usually for the worse.”

Reacher shook his head.

“He died,” he said. “Four miles west of An Khe, thirty years ago.”

“He’s in New York,” Jodie said. “Right now, trying to stay hidden.”

HE WAS ON his terrace, thirty floors up, leaning on the railing with his back to the park. He had a cordless phone pressed to his ear, and he was selling Chester Stone’s Mercedes to the guy out in Queens.

“There’s a BMW, too,” he was saying. “Eight-series coupe. It’s up in Pound Ridge right now. I’ll take fifty cents on the dollar for cash in a bag, tomorrow.”

He stopped and listened to the guy sucking in air through his teeth, like car guys always do when you talk to them about money.

“Call it thirty grand for the both of them, cash in a bag, tomorrow.”

The guy grunted a yes, and Hobie moved on down his mental list.

“There’s a Tahoe and a Cadillac. Call it forty grand, you can add either one of them to the deal. Your choice.”

The guy paused and picked the Tahoe. More resale in a four-wheel-drive, especially some way south, which is where Hobie knew he was going to move it. He clicked the phone off and went inside through the sliders to the living room. He used his left hand to open his little leather diary and kept it open by flattening it down with the hook. He clicked the button again and dialed a real estate broker who owed him serious money.

“I’m calling the loan,” he said.

He listened to the swallowing sounds as the guy started panicking. There was desperate silence for a long time. Then he heard the guy sit down, heavily.

“Can you pay me?”

There was no reply.

“You know what happens to people who can’t pay me?”

More silence. More swallowing.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We can work something out. I got two properties to sell. A mansion up in Pound Ridge, and my apartment on Fifth. I want two million for the house, and three-point-five for the apartment. You get me that and I’ll write off the loan against your commission, OK?”

The guy had no choice but to agree. Hobie had him copy down the bank details in the Caymans and told him to wire the proceeds within a month.

“A month is pretty optimistic,” the guy said.

“How are your kids?” Hobie asked.

More swallowing.

“OK, a month,” the guy said.

Hobie clicked the phone off and wrote five million five hundred forty thousand dollars on the page where he had scored out three automobiles and two residences. Then he called the airline and inquired about flights to the coast, evening of the day after tomorrow. There was plenty of availability. He smiled. The ball was soaring right over the fence, heading for the fifth row of the bleachers. The outfielder was leaping like crazy, but he was absolutely nowhere near it.

WITH HOBIE GONE. Marilyn felt safe enough to take a shower. She wouldn’t have done it with him out there in the office. There was too much in his leer. She would have felt he could see right through the bathroom door. But the one called Tony was not such a problem. He was anxious and obedient. Hobie had told him to make sure they didn’t come out of the bathroom. He would do that, for sure, but nothing more. He wouldn’t come in and hassle them. He would leave them alone. She was confident of that. And the other guy, the thickset one who had brought the coffee, he was doing what Tony told him. So she felt safe enough, but she still had Chester stand by the door with his hand on the handle.