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[1924] My assumptions had been all wrong. I had seen Hubble as a banker, doing a straight job. Maybe turning a blind eye to some peripheral con, maybe with half a finger in some dirty pie. Maybe signing off on a few bogus figures. With his arm twisted way up his back. Involved, useful, tainted, but somehow not central. But he hadn’t been a banker. Not for a year and a half. He had been a criminal. Full time. Right inside the scam. Right at the center. Not peripheral at all.

[1925] I DROVE STRAIGHT BACK TO THE MARGRAVE STATION house. Parked up and went looking for Roscoe. Teale was stalking around in the open area, but the desk guy winked and nodded me back to a file room. Roscoe was in there. She looked weary. She had an armful of old files. She smiled.

[1926] “Hello, Reacher,” she said. “Come to take me away from all this?”

“What’s new?” I said.

[1927] She dumped the stack of paper onto a cabinet top. Dusted herself off and flicked her hair back. Glanced at the door.

[1928] “Couple of things,” she said. “Teale’s got a Foundation board meeting in ten minutes. I’m getting the fax from Florida soon as he’s out of here. And we’re due a call from the state police about abandoned cars.”

[1929] “Where’s the gun you’ve got for me?” I asked her.

[1930] She paused. Bit her lip. She was remembering why I needed one.

[1931] “It’s in a box,” she said. “In my desk. We’ll have to wait until Teale is gone. And don’t open it here, OK? Nobody knows about it.”

[1932] We stepped out of the file room and walked over toward the rosewood office. The squad room was quiet. The two backup guys from Friday were paging through computer records. Neat stacks of files were everywhere. The bogus hunt was on for the chief’s killer. I saw a big new bulletin board on the wall. It was marked Morrison. It was empty. Not much progress was being made.

[1933] We waited in the rosewood office with Finlay. Five minutes. Ten. Then we heard a knock and Baker ducked his head around the door. He grinned in at us. I saw his gold tooth again.

“Teale’s gone,” he said.

[1934] We went out into the open area. Roscoe turned on the fax machine and picked up the phone to call Florida. Finlay dialed the state police for news on abandoned rental cars. I sat down at the desk next to Roscoe’s and called Charlie Hubble. I dialed the mobile number that Joe had printed out and hidden in his shoe. I got no answer. Just an electronic sound and a recorded voice telling me the phone I was calling was switched off.

[1935] I looked across at Roscoe.

“She’s got the damn mobile switched off,” I said.

[1936] Roscoe shrugged and moved over to the fax machine. Finlay was still talking to the state police. I saw Baker hanging around on the fringe of the triangle the three of us were making. I got up and went to join Roscoe.

[1937] “Does Baker want in on this?” I asked her.

[1938] “He seems to,” she said. “Finlay’s got him acting as a kind of a lookout. Should we get him involved?”

[1939] I thought about it for a second, but shook my head.

[1940] “No,” I said. “Smaller the better, a thing like this, right?”

[1941] I sat down again at the desk I was borrowing and tried the mobile number again. Same result. Same patient electronic voice telling me it was switched off.

[1942] “Damn,” I said to myself. “Can you believe that?”

[1943] I needed to know where Hubble had spent his time for the last year and a half. Charlie might have given me some idea. The time he left home in the morning, the time he got home at night, toll receipts, restaurant bills, things like that. And she might have remembered something about Sunday or something about Pluribus. It was possible she might have come up with something useful. And I needed something useful. I needed it very badly. And she’d switched the damn phone off.

[1944] “Reacher?” Roscoe said. “I got the stuff on Sherman Stoller.”

[1945] She was holding a couple of fax pages. Densely typed.

[1946] “Great,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”

[1947] Finlay got off the phone and stepped over.

[1948] “State guys are calling back,” he said. “They may have something for us.”

[1949] “Great,” I said again. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere.”

[1950] We all went back into the rosewood office. Spread the Sherman Stoller stuff out on the desk and bent over it together. It was an arrest report from the police department in Jacksonville, Florida.

[1951] “Blind Blake was born in Jacksonville,” I said. “Did you know that?”

[1952] “Who’s Blind Blake?” Roscoe asked.

[1953] “Singer,” Finlay said.

[1954] “Guitar player, Finlay,” I said.

[1955] Sherman Stoller had been flagged down by a sector car for exceeding the speed limit on the river bridge between Jacksonville and Jacksonville Beach at a quarter to midnight on a September night, two years ago. He had been driving a small panel truck eleven miles an hour too fast. He had become extremely agitated and abusive toward the sector car crew. This had caused them to arrest him for suspected DUI. He had been printed and photographed at Jacksonville Central and both he and his vehicle had been searched. He had given an Atlanta address and stated his occupation as truck driver.

[1956] The search of his person produced a negative result. His truck was searched by hand and with dogs and produced a negative result. The truck contained nothing but a cargo of twenty new air conditioners boxed for export from Jacksonville Beach. The boxes were sealed and marked with the manufacturer’s logo, and each box was marked with a serial number.

[1957] After being Mirandized, Stoller had made one phone call. Within twenty minutes of the call, a lawyer named Perez from the respected Jacksonville firm of Zacarias Perez was in attendance, and within a further ten minutes Stoller had been released. From being flagged down to walking out with the lawyer, fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

[1958] “Interesting,” Finlay said. “The guy’s three hundred miles from home, it’s midnight, and he gets lawyered up within twenty minutes? With a partner from a respected firm? Stoller was some kind of a truck driver, that’s for sure.”

[1959] “You recognize his address?” I asked Roscoe.

[1960] She shook her head.

[1961] “Not really,” she said. “But I could find it.”

[1962] The door cracked open and Baker stuck his head in again.

[1963] “State police on the line,” he said. “Sounds like they got a car for you.”

[1964] Finlay checked his watch. Decided there was time before Teale got back.

[1965] “OK,” he said. “Punch it through here, Baker.”

[1966] Finlay picked up the phone on the big desk and listened. Scribbled some notes and grunted a thank-you. Hung the phone up and got out of his chair.

[1967] “OK,” he said. “Let’s go take a look.”

[1968] We all three filed out quickly. We needed to be well clear before Teale got back and started asking questions. Baker watched us go. Called out after us.

[1969] “What should I tell Teale?” he said.

[1970] “Tell him we traced the car,” Finlay said. “The one the crazy ex-con used to get down to Morrison’s place. Tell him we’re making some real progress, OK?”

[1971] THIS TIME FINLAY DROVE. HE WAS USING AN UNMARKED Chevy, identical to Roscoe’s issue. He bounced it out of the lot and turned south. Accelerated through the little town. The first few miles I recognized as the route down toward Yellow Springs, but then we swung off onto a track which struck out due east. It led out toward the highway and ended up in a kind of maintenance area, right below the roadway. There were piles of asphalt and tar barrels lying around. And a car. It had been rolled off the highway and it was lying on its roof. And it was burned out.

[1972] “They noticed it Friday morning,” Finlay said. “Wasn’t here Thursday, they’re sure about that. It could have been Joe’s.”

[1973] We looked it over very carefully. Wasn’t much left to see. It was totally burned out. Everything that wasn’t steel had gone. We couldn’t even tell what make it had been. By the shape, Finlay thought it had been a General Motors product, but we couldn’t tell which division. It had been a midsize sedan, and once the plastic trim has gone, you can’t tell a Buick from a Chevy from a Pontiac.

[1974] I got Finlay to support the front fender and I crawled under the upside-down hood. Looked for the number they stamp on the scuttle. I had to scrape off some scorched flakes, but I found the little aluminum strip and got most of the number. Crawled out again and recited it to Roscoe. She wrote it down.

[1975] “So what do you think?” Finlay asked.

[1976] “Could be the one,” I said. “Say he rented it Thursday evening up at the airport in Atlanta, full tank of gas. Drove it to the warehouses at the Margrave cloverleaf, then somebody drove it on down here afterward. Couple of gallons gone, maybe two and a half. Plenty left to burn.”

Finlay nodded.

[1977] “Makes sense,” he said. “But they’d have to be local guys. This is a great spot to dump a car, right? Pull onto the shoulder up there, wheels in the dirt, push the car off the edge, scramble down and torch it, then jump in with your buddy who’s already down here in his own car waiting for you, and you’re away. But only if you knew about this little maintenance track. And only a local guy would know about this little maintenance track, right?”

[1978] We left the wreck there. Drove back up to the station house. The desk sergeant was waiting for Finlay.

[1979] “Teale wants you in the office,” he said.

[1980] Finlay grunted and was heading back there, but I caught his arm.

[1981] “Keep him talking a while,” I said. “Give Roscoe a chance to phone in that number from the car.”

[1982] He nodded and carried on to the back. Roscoe and I headed over to her desk. She picked up the phone, but I stopped her.

[1983] “Give me the gun,” I whispered. “Before Teale is through with Finlay.”

[1984] She nodded and glanced around the room. Sat down and unclipped the keys from her belt. Unlocked her desk and rolled open a deep drawer. Nodded down to a shallow cardboard box. I picked it out. It was an office storage box, about two inches deep, for holding papers. The cardboard was printed with elaborate woodgrain. Someone had written a name across the top. Gray. I tucked it under my arm and nodded to Roscoe. She rolled the drawer shut and locked it again.

[1985] “Thanks,” I said. “Now make those calls, OK?”

[1986] I walked down to the entrance and levered the heavy glass door open with my back. Carried the box over to the Bentley. I set the box on the roof of the car and unlocked the door. Dumped the box on the passenger seat and got in. Pulled the box over onto my lap. Saw a brown sedan slowing up on the road about a hundred yards to the north.

[1987] Two Hispanic men in it. The same car I’d seen outside Charlie Hubble’s place the day before. The same guys. No doubt about that. Their car came to a stop about seventy-five yards from the station house. I saw it settle, like the engine had been turned off. Neither of the guys got out. They just sat there, seventy-five yards away, watching the station house parking lot. Seemed to me they were looking straight at the Bentley. Seemed to me my new friends had found me. They’d looked all morning. Now they didn’t have to look anymore. They didn’t move. Just sat there, watching. I watched them back for more than five minutes. They weren’t going to get out. I could see that. They were settled there. So I turned my attention back to the box.

[1988] It was empty apart from a box of bullets and a gun. A hell of a weapon. It was a Desert Eagle automatic. I’d used one before. They come from Israel. We used to get them in exchange for all kinds of stuff we sent over there. I picked it up. Very heavy, fourteen-inch barrel, more than a foot and a half long, front to back. I clicked out the magazine. This was the eight-shot.44 version. Takes eight.44 Magnum shells. Not what you would call a subtle weapon. The bullet weighs about twice as much as the.38 in a police revolver. It leaves the barrel going way faster than the speed of sound. It hits the target with more force than anything this side of a train wreck. Not subtle at all. Ammunition is a problem. You’ve got a choice. If you load up with a hard-nose bullet, it goes right through the guy you’re shooting and probably right on through some other guy a hundred yards away. So you use a soft-nose bullet and it blows a hole out of your guy about the size of a garbage can. Your choice.

[1989] The bullets in the box were all soft-nose. OK with me. I checked the weapon over. Brutal, but in fine condition. Everything worked. The grip was engraved with a name. Gray. Same as the file box. The dead detective, the guy before Finlay. Hanged himself last February. Must have been a gun collector. This wasn’t his service piece. No police department in the world would authorize the use of a cannon like this on the job. Altogether too heavy.