The two state police cruisers drove on in convoy. They caught and passed the ambulance just short of the school and the gas station and the diner at the crossroads. Left it lumbering north in their wake.
“The morgue’s in Pecos, too,” the sergeant said. “One of the oldest institutions in town, I guess. They needed it right from the get-go. Pecos was that kind of a place.”
Reacher nodded, behind him.
“Carmen told me,” he said. “It was the real Wild West.”
“You going to stick around?”
“I guess so. I need to see she’s O.K. She told me there’s a museum in town. Things to see. Somebody’s grave.”
“Clay Allison’s,” the sergeant said. “Some old gunslinger.”
“Never killed a man who didn’t need killing.”
The sergeant nodded in the mirror. “That could be her position, right? She could call it the Clay Allison defense.”
“Why not?” Reacher said. “It was justifiable homicide, any way you cut it.”
The sergeant said nothing to that.
“Should be enough to make bail, at least,” Reacher said. “She’s got a kid back there. She needs bail, like tomorrow.”
The sergeant glanced in the mirror again.
“Tomorrow could be tough,” he said. “There’s a dead guy in the picture, after all. Who’s her lawyer?”
“Hasn’t got one.”
“She got money for one?”
“No.”
“Well, shit,” the sergeant said.
“What?” Reacher asked.
“How old is the kid?”
“Six and a half.”
The sergeant went quiet.
“What?” Reacher asked again.
“Having no lawyer is a big problem, is what. Kid’s going to be seven and a half before mom even gets a bail hearing.”
“She’ll get a lawyer, right?”
“Sure, Constitution says so. But the question is, when? This is Texas.”
“You ask for a lawyer, you don’t get one right away?”
“Not right away. You wait a long, long time. You get one when the indictment comes back. And that’s how old Hack Walker is going to avoid his little conflict problem, isn’t it? He’ll just lock her up and forget about her. He’d be a fool not to. She’s got no lawyer, who’s to know? Could be Christmas before they get around to indicting her. By which time old Hack will be a judge, most likely, not a prosecutor. He’ll be long gone. No more conflict of interest. Unless he happens to pull the case later, whereupon he’d have to excuse himself anyway.”
“Recuse.”
“Whatever, not having her own lawyer changes everything.”
The trooper in the passenger seat turned and spoke for the first time in an hour.
“See?” he said. “Didn’t matter what I called it on the radio.”
“So don’t you spend your time at the museum,” the sergeant said. “You want to help her, you go find her a lawyer. You go beg, borrow or steal her one.”
Nobody spoke the rest of the way into Pecos County. They crossed under Interstate 10 and followed the backup car across more empty blackness all the way to Interstate 20, about a hundred miles west of where Reacher had forced his way out of Carmen’s Cadillac sixty hours previously. The sergeant slowed the car and let the backup disappear ahead into the darkness. He braked and pulled off onto the shoulder a hundred yards short of the cloverleaf.
“We’re back on patrol from here,” he said. “Time to let you out.”
“Can’t you drive me to the jail?”
“You’re not going to jail. You haven’t done anything. And we’re not a taxicab company.”
“So where am I?”
The sergeant pointed straight ahead.
“Downtown Pecos,” he said. “Couple miles, that way.”
“Where’s the jail?”
“Crossroads before the railroad. In the courthouse basement.”
The sergeant opened his door and slid out and stretched. Stepped back and opened Reacher’s door with a flourish. Reacher slid out feet first and stood up. It was still hot. Haze hid the stars. Lonely vehicles whined by on the highway bridge, few enough in number that absolute silence descended between each one. The shoulder was sandy, and stunted velvet mesquite and wild indigo struggled at its margin. The cruiser’s headlights picked out old dented beer cans tangled among the stalks.
“You take care now,” the sergeant said.
He climbed back into his seat and slammed his door. The car crunched its way back to the blacktop and curved to the right, onto the cloverleaf, up onto the highway. Reacher stood and watched its taillights disappear in the east. Then he set off walking north, under the overpass, toward the neon glow of Pecos.
He walked through one pool of light after another, along a strip of motels that got smarter and more expensive the farther he moved away from the highway. Then there was a rodeo arena set back from the street with posters still in place from a big event a month ago. There’s a rodeo there in July, Carmen had said. But you’ve missed it for this year. He walked in the road because the sidewalks had long tables set up on them, like outdoor market stalls. They were all empty. But he could smell cantaloupe on the hot night air. The sweetest in the whole of Texas, she had said. Therefore in their opinion, in the whole of the world. He guessed an hour before dawn old trucks would roll in loaded with ripe fruit from the fields, maybe hosed down with irrigation water to make it look dewy and fresh and attractive. Maybe the old trucks would have whole families crammed in the cabs ready to unload and sell all day and find out whether their winter was going to be good or bad, lean or prosperous. But really he knew nothing at all about agriculture. All his ideas came from the movies. Maybe it was all different in reality. Maybe there were government subsidies involved, or giant corporations.
Beyond the cantaloupe market was a pair of eating places. There was a doughnut shop, and a pizza parlor. Both of them were dark and closed up tight. Sunday, the middle of the night, miles from anywhere. At the end of the strip was a crossroads, with a sign showing the museum was straight across. But before the turn, on the right, was the courthouse. It was a nice enough building, but he didn’t spend any time looking at it. Just ducked around the side to the back. No jail he had ever seen had an entrance on the street. There was a lit doorway in the back wall at semi-basement level with two cement steps leading down from a parking area. There was a dusty four-cylinder Chevrolet in one corner. The lot was fenced with razor wire and hung with large notices warning unauthorized parkers their cars would be towed. There were yellow lightbulbs mounted on the fence posts. Clouds of silent insects crowded each of them. The blacktop was still hot under his feet. No cooling breezes back there. The jail door was scarred steel and had No Admittance stenciled across it in faded paint. Above it was a small video camera angled down, with a red diode glowing above the lens.
He went down the steps and knocked hard on the door. Stepped back a pace so the camera could pick him up. Nothing happened for a long moment. He stepped forward and knocked again. There was the click of a lock and a woman opened the door. She was dressed in a court bailiff’s uniform. She was white, maybe fifty, with gray hair dyed the color of sand. She had a wide belt loaded with a gun and a nightstick and a can of pepper spray. She was heavy and slow, but she looked awake and on the ball.
“Yes?” she said.
“You got Carmen Greer in here?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
“No.”
“Not even for a minute?”
“Not even.”
“So when can I?”
“You family?”
“I’m a friend.”
“Not a lawyer, right?”
“No.”
“Then Saturday,” the woman said. “Visiting is Saturday, two to four.”
Almost a week.
“Can you write that down for me?” he said. He wanted to get inside. “Maybe give me a list of
what I’m allowed to bring her?”
The bailiff shrugged and turned and stepped inside. Reacher followed her into the dry chill of an air conditioner running on high. There was a lobby. The bailiff had a high desk, like a lectern. Like a barrier. Behind it were cubbyholes covering the back wall. He saw Carmen’s lizard-skin belt rolled into one of them. There was a small Ziploc bag with the fake ring in it. Off to the right was a barred door. A tiled corridor beyond.
“How is she?” he asked.
The bailiff shrugged again. “She ain’t happy.”
“About what?”
“About the cavity search, mainly. She was screaming fit to burst. But rules are rules. And what, she thinks I enjoy it either?”
She pulled a mimeographed sheet from a stack. Slid it across the top of the desk.
“Saturday, two to four,” she said. “Like I told you. And don’t bring her anything that’s not on the list, or we won’t let you in.”
“Where’s the DA’s office?”
She pointed at the ceiling. “Second floor. Go in the front.”
“When does it open?”
“About eight-thirty.”
“You got bail bondsmen in the neighborhood?”
She smiled. “Ever see a courthouse that didn’t? Turn left at the crossroads.”
“What about lawyers?”
“Cheap lawyers or expensive lawyers?”
“Free lawyers.”
She smiled again.
“Same street,” she said. “That’s all it is, bondsmen and community lawyers.”
“Sure I can’t see her?”
“Saturday, you can see her all you want.”
“Not now? Not even for a minute?”
“Not even.”
“She’s got a daughter,” Reacher said, irrelevantly.
“Breaks my heart,” the woman said back.
“When will you see her?”
“Every fifteen minutes, whether she likes it or not. Suicide watch, although I don’t think your friend is the type. You can tell pretty easy. And she’s a tough cookie. That’s my estimation. But rules are rules, right?”
“Tell her Reacher was here.”
“Who?”
“Reacher. Tell her I’ll stick around.”
The woman nodded, like she’d seen it all, which she probably had.
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” she said.
Then Reacher walked back to the motel strip, remembering all the jailhouse duty he’d pulled early in his career, wishing he could put his hand on his heart and say he’d acted a whole lot better than the woman he’d just met.
He walked almost all the way back to the highway, until the prices ducked under thirty bucks. Picked a place and woke the night clerk and bought the key to a room near the end of the row. It was worn and faded and crusted with the kind of dirt that shows the staff isn’t all the way committed to excellence. The bedding was limp and the air smelled dank and hot, like they saved power by turning the air conditioning off when the room wasn’t rented. But it was serviceable. One advantage of being ex-military was almost any place was serviceable. There was always somewhere worse to compare it with.
He slept restlessly until seven in the morning and showered in tepid water and went out for breakfast at the doughnut shop halfway back to the courthouse. It was open early and advertised Texas-sized doughnuts. They were larger than normal, and more expensive. He ate two with three cups of coffee. Then he went looking for clothes. Since he ended his brief flirtation with owning a house he had gone back to his preferred system of buying cheap items and junking them instead of laundering them. It worked well for him. It kept the permanence monkey off his back, literally.
He found a cheap store that had already been open an hour. It sold a little bit of everything, from bales of cheap toilet paper to work boots. He found a rack of chinos with the brand labels cut out. Maybe they were flawed. Maybe they were stolen. He found the right size and paired them with a khaki shirt. It was thin and cut loose like something from Hawaii, but it was plain, and it cost less than a Texas-sized doughnut. He found white underwear. The store had no fitting rooms. It wasn’t that kind of a place. He talked the clerk into letting him use the staff bathroom. He put on the new gear and transferred his stuff from pocket to pocket. He still had the eight shell cases from Carmen’s Lorcin, rattling around like loose change. He weighed them in his hand and then dropped them in his new pants pocket.
He balled up the old clothes and stuffed them in the bathroom trash. Went back out to the register and paid thirty bucks in cash. He might get three days out of it. Ten bucks a day, just for clothes, made no sense at all until you figured a washing machine cost four hundred and a dryer another three and the basement to put them in implied a house, which cost at least a hundred grand to buy and then tens of thousands a year in taxes and maintenance and insurance and associated bullshit. Then ten bucks a day for clothes suddenly made all the sense in the world.
He waited on the sidewalk until eight o’clock, leaning against a wall under an awning to stay out of the sun. He figured the bailiffs would change shifts at eight. That would be normal. And sure enough at five minutes past he saw the heavy woman drive herself out of the lot in the dusty four-cylinder Chevrolet. She made a left and drove right past him. He crossed the street and walked down the side of the courthouse again. If the night shift won’t help you, maybe the day shift will. Night workers are always tougher. Less regular contact with the public, less immediate supervision, makes them think they’re king of the castle.
But the day worker was just as bad. He was a man, a little younger, a little thinner, but otherwise the exact equivalent of his opposite number. The conversation was just the same. Can I see her? No. When, then? Saturday. Is she O.K.? As well as can be expected. It sounded like something you would hear in front of a hospital, from a cautious spokesperson. The guy confirmed that only lawyers were allowed unrestricted access to the prisoners. So Reacher came back up the steps and went out looking for a lawyer.
It was clear that the events of the previous night had left the red house stunned and quiet. And depopulated, which suited the killing crew just fine. The ranch hands weren’t there, the tall stranger was gone, and Carmen Greer was gone. And her husband, obviously. That left just the old woman, the second son, and the granddaughter. Three of them, all at home. It was Monday, but the kid hadn’t gone to school. The bus came and went without her. She just hung around, in and out of the barn. She looked confused and listless. They all did. Which made them easier to watch. Better targets.
The two men were behind a rock, opposite the ranch gate, well hidden and elevated about twenty feet up the slope. Their view was good enough. The woman had dropped them three hundred yards north and driven back toward Pecos.
“When do we do this?” they had asked her.
“When I say,” she had replied.
Reacher turned left at the crossroads in the center of Pecos and followed a street that ran parallel with the railroad tracks. He passed the bus depot and hit a strip that might have started out as anything but now was made up entirely of low-rent operations serving the courthouse population, bail bondsmen and storefront legal missions, like the night shift woman had said. The legal missions all had rows of desks facing the store windows with customer chairs in front of them and waiting areas inside the doors. All of them were grimy and undecorated and messy, with piles of files everywhere, and notes and memos taped and tacked to the walls next to the desks. Twenty past eight in the morning, they were all busy. They all had patient knots of people waiting inside and anxious clients perched on the customer chairs. Some of the clients were on their own, but most of them were in family groups, some of them with a bunch of children. All of them were Hispanic. So were some of the lawyers, but overall they were a mixed bunch. Men, women, young, old, bright, defeated. The only thing they had in common was they all looked harassed to the breaking point.
He chose the only establishment that had an emp
ty chair in front of a lawyer. It was halfway down the street and the chair was way in back of the store and the lawyer was a young white woman of maybe twenty-five with thick dark hair cut short. She had a good tan and was wearing a white sports bra instead of a shirt and there was a leather jacket slung over the back of her chair. She was nearly hidden behind two tall stacks of files. She was on the phone, and she was at the point of tears.
He approached her desk and waited for a sit down gesture. He didn’t get one, but he sat down anyway. She glanced at him and glanced away. Kept on talking into the phone. She had dark eyes and white teeth. She was talking slow Spanish with an East Coast accent, haltingly enough that he could follow most of it. She was saying yes, we won. Then but he won’t pay. He simply won’t. He just refuses. Time to time she would stop and listen to whoever was on the other end. Then she would repeat herself. We won, but he still won’t pay. Then she listened again. The question must have been so what do we do now, because she said we go back to court, to enforce the judgment. Then the question was obviously how long does that take because she went very quiet and said a year. Maybe two. Reacher heard clear silence at the other end and watched the woman’s face. She was upset and embarrassed and humiliated. Blinking back tears of bitter frustration. She said, “Llamaré de nuevo más tarde” and hung up. I’ll call again soon.
Then she faced front and closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, in and out, in and out. She rested her hands palms-down on the desk. Breathed some more. Maybe it was a relaxation technique they taught you in law school. But it didn’t seem to be working. She opened her eyes and dropped a file into a drawer and focused between the piles of paper across the desk at Reacher.
“Problem?” he asked her.
She shrugged and nodded all at the same time. An all-purpose expression of misery.
“Winning the case is only half the battle,” she said. “Sometimes, a lot less than half, believe me.”
“So what happened?”
She shook her head. “We don’t need to go into it.”
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