Reacher smiled. Harper ignored the guy.

“So which one is the real target?” she asked again.

“You can figure it out,” Reacher said.

The plane moved back and turned. Headed out for the runway. A minute later it was in the air, smooth, quiet, and powerful. Then it was over the sprawl of D.C., climbing hard. Then it was high in the clouds, settling to a westward cruise.

THE GUY’S STILL holding it in. He hasn’t moved out of his car, and his car has stayed right there in front of her house. You watched his partner bring his lunch bag. There was a twenty-ounce cup of coffee with it. Poor bastard is going to be real miserable real soon. But it doesn’t affect your plan. How could it? It’s two o’clock, and time for the call.

You open the stolen mobile. Dial her number. Press on the little green telephone pictogram. You hear the connection go through. You hear ring tone. You crouch low in the lee of your rock, ready to speak. It’s warmer down there. You’re out of the wind. The ring tone continues. Is she going to answer? Maybe she won’t. The type of contrary bitch who won’t let her bodyguard use her bathroom might not be above ignoring her phone. You feel a momentary thrill of panic. What are you going to do? What if she doesn’t pick up?

She picks up.

“Hello?” she says.

She’s wary, annoyed, defensive. She thinks it’s the police sergeant, about to complain. Or the Bureau coordinator, about to persuade her back into line.

“Hello, Rita,” you say.

She hears your voice. You feel her relax.

“Yes?” she says.

You tell her what you want her to do.

"NOT THE FIRST one,” Harper said. "The first one would be random. Leading us away from the scent. Probably not the second either. The second establishes the pattern. ”

“I agree,” Reacher said. “Callan and Cooke were background noise. They started the smoke screen.”

Harper nodded. Went quiet. She had moved out from behind him. Now she was sprawled across the opposite row in the empty plane. It was a weird feeling. Familiar, but strange. Nothing around them but neat uniform rows of vacant seats.

“But he wouldn’t leave it too late,” Harper said. “He’s got a target, he’d want to hit it before anything unraveled, right?”

“I agree,” Reacher said again.

“So it’s the third or the fourth.”

Reacher nodded. Said nothing.

“But which one?” Harper asked. “What’s the key?”

“Everything,” Reacher said. “Same as it always was. The clues. The geography, the paint, the lack of violence. ”

LUNCH WAS A cold wrinkled apple and a square of Swiss cheese, which was about all her refrigerator had to offer. She served it to herself on a plate, to preserve some semblance of order. Then she washed the plate and put it back in the cupboard and walked through the hallway and unlocked the front door. Stood in the cold for a second and walked down her path to the driveway. The police car was still parked right across the opening. The cop saw her coming and buzzed his passenger window down.

“I came to apologize,” she said. She kept it as sweet as she could. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It’s just getting to me a little, is all. Of course you should come in, anytime you need to.”

The guy was staring at her, half puzzled, like he was thinking women! to himself. She kept her smile going and lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head like she was reinforcing her invitation.

“Well, I’ll come in right now,” the guy said. “If you’re sure it’s OK.”

She nodded and waited for him to get out. She noticed he left the passenger window down. The car would be cold when he got back. She led him back up the path. He was hurrying behind her. Poor guy must be desperate, she thought.

“You know where it is,” she said.

She waited in the hallway. He came back out of the powder room with a relieved expression on his face. She held the front door for him.

“Anytime,” she said. “Just ring the bell.”

“OK, ma’am,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

“What we’re here for,” the guy said, proud and shy.

She watched him all the way back to the car. Locked the door again and stepped into the parlor. Stood and looked at the piano and decided to give it another forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.

THAT’S BETTER. AND the timing might be about right. You can’t be sure. You’re an expert in a lot of things, but you’re not a urologist. You watch him on the way back to the car, and you figure he’s too young to be into prostate trouble, so all that’s going to count is the fullness of his bladder balanced against his natural reluctance to bother her again. Two-thirty now, he’s bound to want to go at least twice more before eight. Probably once before and once after she’s dead.

THE CLOUD CLEARED over North Dakota. The ground was visible seven miles below them. The copilot wandered back into the cabin and pointed down to where he was born. A little town south of Bismarck. The Missouri River ran through it, a tiny silver thread. Then the guy wandered back again and left Reacher puzzling over navigation. He knew nothing about it. Virginia to Oregon, he’d have flown across Kentucky, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho. He wouldn’t have gone up to North Dakota. But something called great circle routes made it shorter to go way out of your way. He knew that. But he didn’t understand it. How could it be quicker to go way out of your way?

“Lorraine Stanley stole the paint,” Harper said. “The lack of violence proves the guy is faking it. But what does the geography prove?”

“We talked about that,” Reacher said.

“It demonstrates scope.”

He nodded. “And speed.”

She nodded in turn.

“And mobility,” he added. “Don’t forget mobility.”

IN THE END, she played for an hour and a half. The cop stayed away and she relaxed and her touch improved, better than it had ever been. Her mind locked on to the notes and she brought the speed higher and higher, right to the point where the forward motion got a little ragged. Then she backed it off and settled at a point just a little slower than the tempo was marked. But what the hell, it sounded magnificent. Maybe even better than it would played at exactly the right speed. It was involving, logical, stately. She was pleased with it.

She pushed back on the stool and knitted her fingers and flexed them above her head. Then she closed the keyboard lid and stood up. Stepped out to the hallway and skipped up the stairs to her bathroom. Stood at the mirror and brushed her hair. Then she went back down to the coat closet and took out her jacket. It was short enough to be comfortable in the car and warm enough for the weather. She changed her shoes for her heavier pair. Unlocked the door to the basement stairs and went down. Unlocked the door to the garage and used the key-chain remote to open her car. The light came on inside. She switched the power on for the opener and slid into the car and started the engine while the garage door rumbled upward.

She backed onto the driveway and hit the button to close the door again. Twisted in her seat and saw the police cruiser parked in her way. She left the motor running and got out and walked down toward it. The cop was watching her. He buzzed the window open.

“I’m going to the store,” she said.

The guy looked at her for a second, like this was outside the range of permissible scenarios.

“How long you going to be gone?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Half hour, an hour,” she said.

“The store?” he said.

She nodded. “I need some things.”

He stared some more, and arrived at a decision.

“OK, but I wait here,” he said. “We’re watching the house, not you personally. Domicile-based crimes, that’s what we do.”