Nothing To Lose Part 32

He said, "They told you it was Despair PD business."

She didn't answer.

He said, "Maybe I could help you. Or maybe the Hope PD could. You want to tell me what it's all about?"

She said nothing.

He said, "I can't help you unless I understand the problem."

She shook her head.

"I can't tell you," she said. "I can't tell anyone."

The way she said the wordcan't was definitive. Not surly or angry or moody or plaintive, but calm, considered, mature, and ultimately just plain informative. As if she had looked at a whole bunch of options, and boiled them down to the only one that was viable. As if a world of trouble was surely inevitable if she opened her mouth. was definitive. Not surly or angry or moody or plaintive, but calm, considered, mature, and ultimately just plain informative. As if she had looked at a whole bunch of options, and boiled them down to the only one that was viable. As if a world of trouble was surely inevitable if she opened her mouth.

She couldn't tell anyone.

Simple as that.

"OK," Reacher said. "Hang in there."

He walked away, to the diner, and had breakfast.

He guessed Vaughan planned to pick him up at the motel, so at five to ten he was sitting in the plastic lawn chair outside his door. She showed up three minutes past the hour, in a plain black Crown Vic. Dull paint, worn by time and trouble. An unmarked squad car, like a detective would drive. She stopped close to him and buzzed the window down. He said, "Did you get promoted?"

"It's my watch commander's ride. He took pity on me and loaned it out. Since you got my truck smashed up."

"Did you find the litterbug?"

"No. And it's a serial crime now. I saw the silver foil later. Technically that's two separate offenses."

"Maria is back. The MPs brought her home early this morning."

"Is she saying anything?"

"Not a word." He got out of the chair and walked around the hood and slid in beside her. The car was very plain. Lots of black plastic, lots of mouse-fur upholstery of an indeterminate color. It felt like a beat-up rental. The front was full of police gear. Radios, a laptop on a bracket, a video camera on the dash, a hard-disc recorder, a red bubble light on a curly cord. But there was no security screen between the front and the rear, and therefore the seat was going to rack all the way back. It was going to be comfortable. Plenty of legroom. The water sample was on the rear seat. Vaughan was looking good. She was in old blue jeans and a white Oxford shirt, the neck open two b.u.t.tons and the sleeves rolled to her elbows.

She said, "You've changed."

"In what way?"

"Your clothes, you idiot."

"New this morning," he said. "From the hardware store."

"Nicer than the last lot."

"Don't get attached to them. They'll be gone soon."

"What's the longest you ever wore a set of clothes?"

"Eight months," Reacher said. "Desert BDUs, during Gulf War One. Never took them off. We had all kinds of supply snafus. No spares, no pajamas."

"You were in the Gulf, the first time?"

"Beginning to end."

"How was it?"

"Hot."

Vaughan pulled out of the motel lot and headed north to First Street. Turned left, east, toward Kansas. Reacher said, "We're taking the long way around?"

"I think it would be better."

Reacher said, "Me too."

It was an obvious cop car and the roads were empty and Vaughan averaged ninety most of the way, charging head-on toward the mountains. Reacher knew Colorado Springs a little. Fort Carson was there, which was a major army presence, but it was really more of an Air Force town. Aside from that, it was a pleasant place. Scenery was pretty, the air was clean, it was often sunny, the view of Pikes Peak was usually spectacular. The downtown area was neat and compact. The state lab was in a stone government building. It was a satellite operation, an offshoot of the main facility in Denver, the capital. Water was a big deal all over Colorado. There wasn't much of it. Vaughan handed over her bottle and filled out a form and a guy wrapped the form around the bottle and secured it with a rubber band. Then he carried it away, ceremoniously, like that particular quart had the power to save the world, or destroy it. He came back and told Vaughan that she would be notified of the results by phone, and to please let the lab know some figures for Despair's total TCE consumption. He explained that the state used a rough rule-of-thumb formula, whereby a certain percentage of evaporation could be a.s.sumed, and a further percentage of absorption by the ground could be relied upon, so that what really mattered was how much was running off and how deep an aquifer was. The state knew the depth of Halfway County's aquifer to the inch, so the only variable would be the exact amount of TCE heading down toward it.

"What are the symptoms?" Vaughan asked. "If it's there already?"

The lab guy glanced at Reacher.

"Prostate cancer," he said. "That's the early warning. Men go first."

They got back in the car. Vaughan was distracted. A little vague. Reacher didn't know what was on her mind. She was a cop and a conscientious member of her community, but clearly she was worrying about more than a distant chemical threat to her water table. He wasn't sure why she had asked him to travel with her. They hadn't spoken much. He wasn't sure that his company was doing her any good at all.

She pulled out off the curb and drove a hundred yards on a tree-lined street and stopped at a light at a T-junction. Left was west and right was east. The light turned green and she didn't move. She just sat there, gripping the wheel, looking left, looking right, as if she couldn't choose. A guy honked behind her. She glanced in the mirror and then she glanced at Reacher.

She said, "Will you come with me to visit my husband?"

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Vaughan turned left into the hills and then left again and headed south, following a sign for Pueblo. Years before, Reacher had traveled the same road. Fort Carson lay between Colorado Springs and Pueblo, south of one and north of the other, bulked a little ways west of the main drag.

"You OK with this?" Vaughan asked him.

"I'm fine with it."

"But?"

"It's an odd request," he said.

She didn't answer.

"And it's an odd word," he said. "You could have said, come and meet my husband. Or see him. But you said visit. And who gets visitors? You already told me he isn't in jail. Or in the hospital. So where is he? In a rooming house, working away from home? Permanently on duty somewhere? Locked in his sister's attic?"

"I didn't say he wasn't in the hospital," Vaughan said. "I said he didn't have cancer from smoking."

She forked right, away from an I-25 on-ramp, and used a state four-lane that seemed way too wide for the traffic it was getting. She drove a mile between green hills and turned left through a grove of pines on a worn gray road that had no center line. There was no wire and no painted sign, but Reacher was sure the land on both sides was owned by the army. He knew there were thousands of spare acres beyond the northern tip of Fort Carson, requisitioned decades ago at the height of Hot or Cold War fever, and never really used for much. And what he was seeing out the window looked exactly like Department of Defense property. It looked the same everywhere. Nature, made uniform. A little sullen, a little halfhearted, somewhat beaten down, neither raw nor developed.

Vaughan slowed after another mile and made a right into a half-hidden driveway. She pa.s.sed between two squat brick pillars. The bricks were smooth tan items and the mortar was yellow. Standard army issue, back in the middle fifties. The pillars had hinges but no gates. Twenty yards farther on was a modern billboard on thin metal legs. The billboard had some kind of a corporate logo and the wordsOlympic TBI Center on it. Twenty yards later another billboard said: on it. Twenty yards later another billboard said:Authorized Personnel Only. Twenty yards after that the driveway's shoulders had been mowed, but not recently. The mown section ran on straight for a hundred yards and led to a carriage circle in front of a group of low brick buildings. Army buildings, long ago deemed surplus to requirements and sold off. Reacher recognized the architecture. Brick and tile, green metal window cas.e.m.e.nts, green tubular handrails, radiused corners built back when chamfered edges had looked like the future. In the center of the carriage circle was a round patch of weedy dirt, where once a CO would have been proud of a rose garden. The change of ownership was confirmed by a repeat of the first billboard, next to the main entrance hall: the corporate logo, plus Twenty yards after that the driveway's shoulders had been mowed, but not recently. The mown section ran on straight for a hundred yards and led to a carriage circle in front of a group of low brick buildings. Army buildings, long ago deemed surplus to requirements and sold off. Reacher recognized the architecture. Brick and tile, green metal window cas.e.m.e.nts, green tubular handrails, radiused corners built back when chamfered edges had looked like the future. In the center of the carriage circle was a round patch of weedy dirt, where once a CO would have been proud of a rose garden. The change of ownership was confirmed by a repeat of the first billboard, next to the main entrance hall: the corporate logo, plusOlympic TBI Center again. again.

A section of lawn on the right had been hacked out and replaced by gravel. There were five cars on it, all of them with local plates, none of them new or clean. Vaughan parked the Crown Vic on the end of the line and shut it down, first the shifter, then the brake, then the key, a slow and deliberate sequence. She sat back in her seat and dropped her hands to her lap.

"Ready?" she asked.

"For what?" he said.

She didn't answer. Just opened her door and swiveled on the sticky mouse-fur seat and climbed out. Reacher did the same on his side. They walked together to the entrance. Three steps up, through the doors, onto the kind of mottled green tile floor Reacher had walked a thousand times before. The place was recognizably mid-fifties U.S. Army. It felt abandoned and run-down and there were new mandated smoke detectors sloppily wired through exposed plastic conduits, but otherwise it couldn't have changed much. There was an oak hutch on the right, where once a busy sergeant would have sat. Now it was occupied by a mess of what looked like medical case notes and a civilian in a gray sweatshirt. He was a thin sullen man of about forty. He had unwashed black hair worn a little too long. He said, "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Vaughan." Nothing more. No warmth in his voice. No enthusiasm.

Vaughan nodded but didn't look at the guy or reply. She just walked to the back of the hall and turned into a large room that in the old days might have served any one of a number of different purposes. It might have been a waiting room, or a reception lounge, or an officers' club. Now it was different. It was dirty and badly maintained. Stained walls, dull floor, dust all over it. Cobwebs on the ceiling. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and urine. It had big red waist-high panic b.u.t.tons wired through more plastic conduit. It was completely empty, except for two men strapped into wheelchairs. Both men were young, both were entirely slack and still, both had open mouths, both had empty gazes focused a thousand miles in front of them.

Both had shaved heads, and misshapen skulls, and wicked scars.

Reacher stood still.

Looked at the panic b.u.t.tons.

Thought back to the medical files.

He was in a clinic.

He looked at the guys in the wheelchairs.

He was in a residential home.

He looked at the dust and the dirt.

He was in a dumping ground.

He thought back to the initials on the billboard.

TBI.

Traumatic Brain Injury.

Vaughan had moved on, into a corridor. He caught up with her, halfway along its length.

"Your husband had an accident?" he said.

"Not exactly," she said.

"Then what?"

"Figure it out."

Reacher stopped again.

Both men were young.

An old army building, mothballed and then reused.

"War wounds," he said. "Your husband is military. He went to Iraq."

Vaughan nodded as she walked.

"National Guard," she said. "His second tour. They extended his deployment. Didn't armor his Humvee. He was blown up by an IED in Ramadi."

She turned into another corridor. It was dirty. Dust b.a.l.l.s had collected against the baseboards. Some were peppered with mouse droppings. The lightbulbs were dim, to save money on electricity. Some were out and had not been changed, to save money on labor.

Reacher asked, "Is this a VA facility?"

Vaughan shook her head.

"Private contractor," she said. "Political connections. A sweetheart deal. Free real estate and big appropriations."

She stopped at a dull green door. No doubt fifty years earlier it had been painted by a private soldier, in a color and in a manner specified by the Pentagon, with materials drawn from a quartermaster's stores. Then the private soldier's workmanship had been inspected by an NCO, and the NCO's approval had been validated by an officer's. Since then the door had received no further attention. It had dulled and faded and gotten battered and scratched. Now it had a wax pencil scrawl on it:D. R. Vaughan, and a string of digits that might have been his service number, or his case number. and a string of digits that might have been his service number, or his case number.

"Ready?" Vaughan asked.

"When you are," Reacher said.

"I'm never ready," she said.

She turned the handle and opened the door.

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