especially noticeable about him. No first-glance singularities. Nothingobvious. No scars, no tattoos, no missing ears, no glass eyes, no yard-long beard, no weird haircut.
Reacher had been a cop for thirteen years, and he remembered the rote expression very well: No distinguishing marks .
Sorenson and Goodman stepped over the muddy gutter again and climbed back into Goodman’s car and Sorenson said, “You should check in with your dispatcher. You should see if anyone reported a lone woman wandering about, maybe confused or disoriented. From now on our working hypothesis is that the two guys stole Delfuenso’s car. And they might have hit her over the head to get it.”
“They might have killed her.”
“We have to hope for the best. So you should get your deputies to check the area behind the lounge, too. Very carefully. She could be unconscious in the shadows somewhere.”
“By now she’d be halfway frozen to death.”
“So you should do it quickly.”
So Goodman got on the radio, and Sorenson got on her cell, to check in with the distant troopers in two separate states. They were both negative on a pair of men traveling together, with average appearance and no distinguishing marks, and they were negative on bloodstained clothing, and they were negative on bladed weapons. Sorenson did the math in her head. The two guys were almost certainly already through. Time and space said so. But she asked the troopers to stay in place for another hour. The two guys could have had a flat tire. Or some other kind of unexpected delay. She didn’t want to have the roadblocks dismantled only for the guys to roll through the vacated space five minutes later.
Then she clicked off her call and Goodman told her his dispatcher hadn’t heard a thing, and that all his deputies were searching hard, behind the Sin City lounge and all over town.
Chapter 18
Reacher drove on, with Alan King fast asleep next to him and Don McQueen fast asleep behind him. Karen Delfuenso was still awake, still upright and tense. Reacher could feel her gaze on his face in the mirror. He glanced up and made eye contact. She was staring at him. Staring hard, as if mutely willing him to understand something.
Understand what? Then numbers came back to him, this time specifically thirteen, and two, and three, and one, and nine. Delfuenso had blinked out those numbers, in five separate sequences, between emphatic shakes of her head.
Why?
Communication of some kind?
A simple alphabetical code? The thirteenth letter of the alphabet was M . The second was B . The third was C . The first was A . The ninth was I .
MBCAI .
Not a word. Not a Roman numeral. A corporation? An organization? An acronym, like SNAFU or FUBAR?
Reacher looked way ahead into the darkness and fixed the upcoming mile in his mind, all four dimensions, and then he met Delfuenso’s eyes in the mirror again and silently mouthed the letters, all lips and teeth and tongue and exaggerated enunciation: M, B, C, A, I?
Delfuenso glared back at him, eyes bright, half ecstatic that he was trying, half furious that he wasn’t getting it, like a thirsty woman who sees an offered drink snatched away.
She shook her head. No . She jerked her chin once to the left, and then once to the right. She stared hard at him, eyes wide, as if to say, See?
Reacher didn’t see. Not immediately. Except to grasp that maybe the jerk to the left signified one thing, and the jerk to the right signified another thing. Two different categories. Perhaps the blinks preceded by the jerks to the left were letters, and the blinks preceded by the jerks to the right were numbers. Or vice-versa.
M-2-C-A-1?
13-B-3-1-I?
Then Alan King stirred and woke up and moved in his seat, and Reacher saw Delfuenso turn her face away and stare out her window.
King looked at Reacher and asked, “You OK?”
Reacher nodded but said nothing.
King said, “You need another aspirin?”
Reacher shook his head, no.
King said, “Karen,
Reacher had been a cop for thirteen years, and he remembered the rote expression very well: No distinguishing marks .
Sorenson and Goodman stepped over the muddy gutter again and climbed back into Goodman’s car and Sorenson said, “You should check in with your dispatcher. You should see if anyone reported a lone woman wandering about, maybe confused or disoriented. From now on our working hypothesis is that the two guys stole Delfuenso’s car. And they might have hit her over the head to get it.”
“They might have killed her.”
“We have to hope for the best. So you should get your deputies to check the area behind the lounge, too. Very carefully. She could be unconscious in the shadows somewhere.”
“By now she’d be halfway frozen to death.”
“So you should do it quickly.”
So Goodman got on the radio, and Sorenson got on her cell, to check in with the distant troopers in two separate states. They were both negative on a pair of men traveling together, with average appearance and no distinguishing marks, and they were negative on bloodstained clothing, and they were negative on bladed weapons. Sorenson did the math in her head. The two guys were almost certainly already through. Time and space said so. But she asked the troopers to stay in place for another hour. The two guys could have had a flat tire. Or some other kind of unexpected delay. She didn’t want to have the roadblocks dismantled only for the guys to roll through the vacated space five minutes later.
Then she clicked off her call and Goodman told her his dispatcher hadn’t heard a thing, and that all his deputies were searching hard, behind the Sin City lounge and all over town.
Chapter 18
Reacher drove on, with Alan King fast asleep next to him and Don McQueen fast asleep behind him. Karen Delfuenso was still awake, still upright and tense. Reacher could feel her gaze on his face in the mirror. He glanced up and made eye contact. She was staring at him. Staring hard, as if mutely willing him to understand something.
Understand what? Then numbers came back to him, this time specifically thirteen, and two, and three, and one, and nine. Delfuenso had blinked out those numbers, in five separate sequences, between emphatic shakes of her head.
Why?
Communication of some kind?
A simple alphabetical code? The thirteenth letter of the alphabet was M . The second was B . The third was C . The first was A . The ninth was I .
MBCAI .
Not a word. Not a Roman numeral. A corporation? An organization? An acronym, like SNAFU or FUBAR?
Reacher looked way ahead into the darkness and fixed the upcoming mile in his mind, all four dimensions, and then he met Delfuenso’s eyes in the mirror again and silently mouthed the letters, all lips and teeth and tongue and exaggerated enunciation: M, B, C, A, I?
Delfuenso glared back at him, eyes bright, half ecstatic that he was trying, half furious that he wasn’t getting it, like a thirsty woman who sees an offered drink snatched away.
She shook her head. No . She jerked her chin once to the left, and then once to the right. She stared hard at him, eyes wide, as if to say, See?
Reacher didn’t see. Not immediately. Except to grasp that maybe the jerk to the left signified one thing, and the jerk to the right signified another thing. Two different categories. Perhaps the blinks preceded by the jerks to the left were letters, and the blinks preceded by the jerks to the right were numbers. Or vice-versa.
M-2-C-A-1?
13-B-3-1-I?
Then Alan King stirred and woke up and moved in his seat, and Reacher saw Delfuenso turn her face away and stare out her window.
King looked at Reacher and asked, “You OK?”
Reacher nodded but said nothing.
King said, “You need another aspirin?”
Reacher shook his head, no.
King said, “Karen,
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