He nodded. “OK, I liked being a medium-sized fish. It was comfortable. Kind of anonymous.”

She shook her head. “That’s not enough reason to quit.”

He looked up at the stars. They were stationary in the sky, a billion miles above him.

“A big fish in a small pond has no place to swim,” he said. “I’d have been in one place, years at a time. Some big desk someplace, then five years on, another bigger desk some other place. Guy like me, no political skills, no social graces, I’d have made full colonel and no farther. I’d have served out my time stuck there. Could have been fifteen or twenty years.”

“But?”

“But I wanted to keep moving. All my life, I’ve been moving, literally. I was scared to stop. I didn’t know what being stuck somewhere would feel like, but my guess was I’d hate it.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “And now I am stuck someplace.”

“And?” she said again.

He shrugged again and said nothing. It was warm in the car. Warm, and comfortable.

“Say the words, Reacher,” she said. “Get it out. You’re stuck someplace, and?”

“And nothing.”

“Bullshit, nothing. And?”

He took a deep breath. “And I’m having a problem with it.”

The car went quiet. She nodded, like she understood. “Jodie doesn’t want to keep moving around, I guess.”

“Well, would you?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded. “Problem is, she does know. She and I grew up the same, always moving, base to base to base, all around the world, a month here, six months there. So she lives the life she lives because she went out there and created it for herself, because it’s exactly what she wants. She knows it’s exactly what she wants because she knows exactly what the alternative is.”

“She could move around a little. She’s a lawyer. She could change jobs, time to time.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. It’s about career. She’ll make partner sometime real soon, the way she’s going, and then she’ll probably work at the same firm her whole life. And anyway, I’m not talking about a couple of years here, three years there, buy a house, sell a house. I’m talking about if I wake up in Oregon tomorrow and I feel like going to Oklahoma or Texas or somewhere, I just go. With no idea about where I’m going the next day.”

“A wanderer.”

“It’s important to me.”

“How important, though?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly.”

“How are you going to find out?”

“Problem is, I am finding out.”

“So what are you going to do?”

He was quiet for another mile.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You might get used to it.”

“I might,” he said. “But I might not. It feels awful deep in my blood. Like right now, middle of the night, heading down the road someplace I’ve never been, I feel real good. I just can’t explain how good I feel.”

She smiled. “Maybe it’s the company.”

He smiled back. “Maybe it is.”

“So will you tell me something else?”

“Like what?”

“Why are we wrong about this guy’s motive?”

He shook his head. “Wait until we see what we find in Portland.”

“What are we going to find in Portland?”

“My guess is a carton full of paint cans, with absolutely no clue as to where they came from or who sent them there.”

“So?”

“So then we put two and two together and make four. The way you guys have got it, you ain’t making four. You’re making some big inexplicable number that’s a long, long way from four.”

REACHER RACKED HIS seat back a little more and dozed through most of Harper’s final hour at the wheel. The second-to-last leg of the trip took them up the northern flank of Mount Hood on Route 35. The Buick changed down to third gear to cope with the gradient, and the jerk from the transmission woke him again. He watched through the windshield as the road looped around behind the peak. Then Harper found Route 26 and swung west for the final approach, down the mountainside, toward the city of Portland.

The nighttime view was spectacular. There was broken cloud high in the sky, and a bright moon, and starlight. There was snow piled in the gullies. The world was like a jagged sculpture in gray steel, glowing below them.

“I can see the attraction of wandering,” Harper said. “Sight like this.”

Reacher nodded. “It’s a big, big planet.”

They passed through a sleeping town called Rhododendron and saw a sign pointing ahead to Rita Scimeca’s village, five miles farther down the slope. When they got there, it was nearly three in the morning. There was a gas station and a general store on the through road. Both of them were closed up tight. There was a cross street running north into the lower slope of the mountain. Harper nosed up it. The cross street had cross streets of its own. Scimeca’s was the third of them. It ran east up the slope.

Her house was easy to spot. It was the only one on the street with lights in the windows. And the only one with a Bureau sedan parked outside. Harper stopped behind the sedan and turned off her lights and the motor died with a little shudder and silence enveloped them. The rear window of the Bureau car was misted with breath and there was a single head silhouetted in it. The head moved and the sedan door opened and a young man in a dark suit stepped out. Reacher and Harper stretched and unclipped their belts and opened their doors. Slid out and stood in the chill air with their breath clouding around them.

“She’s in there, safe and sound,” the local guy said to them. “I was told to wait out here for you.”

Harper nodded. “And then what?”

“Then I stay out here,” the guy said. “You do all the talking. I’m security detail until the local cops take over, eight in the morning.”

“The cops going to cover twenty-four hours a day?” Reacher asked.

The guy shook his head, miserably.

“Twelve,” he said. “I do the nights.”

Reacher nodded. Good enough, he thought. The house was a big square clapboard structure, built side-on to the street so the front faced the view to the west. There was a generous front porch with gingerbread railings. The slope of the street made room for a garage under the house at the front. The garage door faced sideways, under the end of the porch. There was a short driveway. Then the land sloped upward, so that the rest of the basement would be dug into the hillside. The lot was small, surrounded with tall hurricane fencing marching up the rise. The yard was cultivated, with flowers everywhere, the color taken out of them by the silver moonlight.

“She awake?” Harper asked.

The local guy nodded. "She’s in there waiting for you.”

17

A WALKWAY CAME off the driveway on the left and looped through the dark around some rockery plantings to a set of wide wooden steps in the center of the front porch. Harper skipped up them but Reacher’s weight made them creak in the night silence and before the echo of the sound came back from the hills the front door was open and Rita Scimeca was standing there watching them. She had one hand on the inside doorknob and a blank look on her face.

“Hello, Reacher,” she said.

“Scimeca,” he said back. “How are you?”

She used her free hand to push her hair off her brow.

“Reasonable,” she said. “Considering it’s three o’clock in the morning and the FBI has only just gotten around to telling me I’m on some kind of hit list with ten of my sisters, four of whom are already dead.”

“Your tax dollars at work,” Reacher said.

“So why the hell are you hanging with them?”

He shrugged. “Circumstances didn’t leave me a whole lot of choice.”

She gazed at him, deciding. It was cold on the porch. The night dew was beading on the painted boards. There was a thin low fog in the air. Behind Scimeca’s shoulder the lights inside her house burned warm and yellow. She looked at him a moment longer.