The Affair

Chapter 21

The waitress was a typical eyewitness. She was completely unable to describe the woman who had been looking for me. Tall, short, heavy, slender, old, young, she had no reliable recollection. She hadn’t gotten a name. She had formed no impression of the woman’s status or profession or her relationship to me. She hadn’t seen a car or any other mode of transportation. All she could remember was a smile and the question. Was there a new guy in town, very big, very tall, answering to the name Jack Reacher?

I thanked her for the information and she sat me at my usual table. I ordered a piece of pie and a cup of coffee and I asked her for coins for the phone. She opened the register and gave me a wrapped roll of quarters in exchange for a ten dollar bill. She brought my coffee and told me my pie would be right along in a moment. I walked across the silent room to the phone by the door and split the roll with my thumbnail and dialed Garber’s office. He answered the phone himself, instantly.

I asked, “Have you sent another agent down here?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“There’s a woman asking for me by name.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who. She hasn’t found me yet.”

“Not one of mine,” Garber said.

“And I saw two cars heading for Kelham. Limousines. DoD or politicians, probably.”

“Is there a difference?”

I asked, “Have you heard anything from Kelham?”

“Nothing about the Department of Defense or politicians,” he said. “I heard that Munro is pursuing something medical.”

“Medical? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Is there a medical dimension here?”

“With a potential perpetrator? Not that I’ve seen. Apart from the gravel rash question I asked before. The victim is covered in it. The perp should have some too.”

“They’ve all got gravel rash. Apparently there’s some crazy running track there. They run till they drop.”

“Even Bravo Company right after they get back?”

“Especially Bravo Company right after they get back. There’s some serious self-image at work there. These are seriously hard men. Or so they like to think.”

“I got the license plate off the wreck. Light blue car, from Oregon.” I recited the number from memory, and I heard him write it down.

He said, “Call me back in ten minutes. Don’t speak to a soul before that. No one, OK? Not a word.”

I ignored the letter of the law by speaking to the waitress. I thanked her for my pie and coffee. She hung around a beat longer than she needed to. She had something on her mind. Turned out she was worried she might have gotten me in trouble by telling a stranger she had seen me. She was prepared to feel guilty about it. I got the impression Carter Crossing was the kind of place where private business stayed private. Where a small slice of the population didn’t want to be found.

I told her not to worry. By that point I was pretty sure who the mystery woman was. A process of elimination. Who else had the information and the imagination to find me?

The pie was good. Blueberries, pastry, sugar, and cream. Nothing healthy. No vegetable matter. It hit the spot. I took the full ten minutes to eat it, a little at a time. I finished my coffee. Then I walked over to the phone again and called Garber back.

He said, “We traced the car.”

I said, “And?”

“And what?”

“Whose is it?”

He said, “I can’t tell you that.”

“Really?”

“Classified information, as of five minutes ago.”

“Bravo Company, right?”

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t confirm or deny. Did you write the number down?”

“No.”

“Where’s the plate?”

“Where I found it.”

“Who have you told?”

“Nobody.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

“OK,” Garber said. “Here are your orders. Firstly, do not, repeat, do not give that number to local law enforcement. Not under any circumstances. Secondly, return to the wreck and destroy that plate immediately.”