Bad Luck and Trouble

38

Neagley insisted on making the call to Diana Bond alone. When they got back to the hotel she parked herself in a far corner of the lobby and did a whole lot of dialing and redialing. Then some serious talking. She came back a long twenty minutes later. Slight distaste on her face. Slight discomfort in her body language. But a measure of excitement, too.

“Took me some time to track her down,” she said. “Turns out she’s not far away. She’s up at Edwards Air Force Base for a few days. Some big presentation.”

O’Donnell said, “That’s why your guy said call her soonest. He knew she was in California. Every word counts.”

“What did she say?” Reacher asked.

“She’s coming down here,” Neagley said. “She wants to meet face-to-face.”

“Really?” Reacher said. “When?”

“Just as soon as she can get away.”

“That’s impressive.”

“You bet your ass it is. Little Wing must be important.”

“Feel bad about the call?”

Neagley nodded. “I feel bad about everything.”

They went up to Neagley’s room and looked at maps and figured out Diana Bond’s earliest possible arrival time. Edwards was on the other side of the San Gabriel Mountains, out in the Mojave, about seventy miles north and east, past Palmdale and Lancaster, about halfway to Fort Irwin. A two-hour wait, minimum, if Bond got away immediately. Longer if she didn’t.

“I’m going for a walk,” Reacher said.

O’Donnell said, “I’ll come with you.”

They headed east on Sunset again to where West Hollywood met regular Hollywood. It was early afternoon and Reacher felt the sun burning his head through his shaved hair. It was like the rays had extra intensity after bouncing around through glittering particles of air pollution.

“I should buy a hat,” he said.

“You should buy a better shirt,” O’Donnell said. “You can afford one now.”

“Maybe I will.”

They saw a store they had passed on the way to Tower Records. It was some kind of a popular chain. It had an artfully pale and un-crowded window, but it wasn’t expensive. It sold cotton stuff, jeans, chinos, shirts, and T-shirts. And ball caps. They were brand new but looked like they had been worn and washed a thousand times already. Reacher picked one out, blue, no writing on it. He never bought anything with writing on it. He had spent too long in uniform. Name tapes and badges and alphabet soup all over him for thirteen long years.

He loosened the strap at the back of the cap and tried it on.

“What do you think?” he asked.

O’Donnell said, “Find a mirror.”

“Doesn’t matter what I see in a mirror. You’re the one laughing at how I look.”

“It’s a nice hat.”

Reacher kept it on and moved across the store to a low table piled high with T-shirts. In the center of the table was a mannequin torso wearing two of them, one under the other, pale green and dark green. The underneath shirt showed at the hem and the sleeves and the collar. Together the two layers were reassuringly thick and hefty.

Reacher asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s a look,” O’Donnell said.

“Do they need to be different sizes?”

“Probably not.”

Reacher picked a light blue and a dark blue, both XXLs. He took off the hat and carried the three items to the register. Refused a bag and bit off the tags and stripped off his bowling shirt right there in the middle of the store. Stood and waited, naked to the waist in the chill of the air conditioning.

“Got a trash can?” he asked.

The girl behind the counter bent down and came back with a plastic item with a liner. Reacher tossed his old shirt in and put his new shirts on, one after the other. Tugged them around and rolled his shoulders to get them comfortable and jammed the cap on his head. Then he headed back to the street. Turned east.

O’Donnell asked, “What are you running from?”

“I’m not running from anything.”

“You could have kept the old shirt.”

“Slippery slope,” Reacher said. “I carry a spare shirt, pretty soon I’m carrying spare pants. Then I’d need a suitcase. Next thing I know, I’ve got a house and a car and a savings plan and I’m filling out all kinds of forms.”

“People do that.”

“Not me.”

“So like I said, what are you running from?”

“From being like people, I guess.”

“I’m like people. I’ve got a house and a car and a savings plan. I fill out forms.”

“Whatever works for you.”

“Do you think I’m ordinary?”

Reacher nodded. “In that respect.”

“Not everyone can be like you.”

“That’s ass-backward. The fact is, a few of us can’t be like you.”

“You want to be?”

“It’s not about wanting. It just can’t be done.”

“Why not?”

“OK, I’m running.”

“From what? Being like me?”

“From being different than I used to be.”

“We’re all different than we used to be.”

“We don’t all have to like it.”

“I don’t like it,” O’Donnell said. “But I deal with it.”

Reacher nodded. “You’re doing great, Dave. I mean it. It’s me that I worry about. I’ve been looking at you and Neagley and Karla and feeling like a loser.”

“Really?”

“Look at me.”

“All that we’ve got that you don’t is suitcases.”

“But what have I got that you don’t?”

O’Donnell didn’t answer. They turned north on Vine, middle of the afternoon in America’s second-largest city, and saw two guys with pistols in their hands jumping out of a moving car.