Echo Burning

so.”
    She paused. “How is a person in the army all his life?”
    “My father was in, too. So I grew up on military bases all over the world, and then I stayed in afterward.”
    “But now you’re out.”
    He nodded. “All trained up and nowhere to go.”
    He saw her thinking about his answer. He saw her tension come back. She started stepping harder on the gas, maybe without realizing it, maybe like an involuntary reflex. He had the feeling her interest in him was quickening, like the car.

    Ford builds Crown Victorias at its plant up in St. Thomas, Canada, tens of thousands a year, and almost all of them without exception are sold to police departments, taxicab companies, or rental fleets. Almost none of them are sold to private citizens. Full-size turnpike cruisers no longer earn much of a market share, and for those die-hards who still want one from the Ford Motor Company, the Mercury Grand Marquis is the same car in fancier clothes for about the same money, so it mops up the private sales. Which makes private Crown Vics rarer than red Rolls-Royces, so the subliminalresponse when you see one that isn’t taxicab yellow or black and white with Police all over the doors is to think it’s an unmarked detective’s car. Or government issue of some other kind, maybe U.S. Marshals, or FBI, or Secret Service, or a courtesy vehicle given to a medical examiner or a big-city fire chief.
    That’s the subliminal impression, and there are ways to enhance it a little.
    In the empty country halfway to Abilene, the tall fair man pulled off the highway and headed through vast fields and past dense woodlands until he found a dusty turn-out probably ten miles from the nearest human being. He stopped there and turned off the motor and popped the trunk. The small dark man heaved the heavy valise out and laid it on the ground. The woman zipped it open and handed a pair of Virginia plates to the tall fair man. He took a screwdriver from the valise and removed the Texas plates, front and rear. Bolted the Virginia issue in their place. The small dark man pulled the plastic covers off all four wheels, leaving the cheap black steel rims showing. He stacked the wheel covers like plates and pitched them into the trunk. The woman took radio antennas from the valise, four of them, CB whips and cellular telephone items bought cheap at a Radio Shack in L.A. The cellular antennas stuck to the rear window with self-adhesive pads. She waited until the trunk was closed again and placed the CB antennas on the lid. They had magnetic bases. They weren’t wired up to anything. They were just for show.
    Then the small dark man took his rightful place behind the wheel and U-turned through the dust and headed back to the highway, cruising easily. A Crown Vic, plain steel wheels, a forest of antennas, Virginia plates. Maybe an FBI pool car, three agents inside, maybe on urgent business.

    “What did you do in the army?” the woman asked, very casually.
    “I was a cop,” Reacher said.
    “They have cops in the army?”
    “Sure they do,” he said. “Military police. Like cops, inside the service.”
    “I didn’t know that,” she said.
    She went quiet again. She was thinking hard. She seemed excited.
    “Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” she said.
    He shrugged. “You’re giving me a ride.”
    She nodded. “I wouldn’t want to offend you.”
    “That would be hard to do, in the circumstances. Hundred and ten degrees out there, sixty in here.”
    “There’ll be a storm soon. There has to be, with a temperature like this.”
    He glanced ahead at the sky. It was tinted bottle-green by the windshield glass, and it was blindingly clear.
    “I don’t see any sign of it,” he said.
    She smiled again, briefly. “May I ask where you live?”
    “I don’t live anywhere,” he said. “I move around.”
    “You don’t have a home somewhere?”
    He shook his head. “What you see is what I’ve got.”
    “You travel light,” she said.
    “Light as I can.”
    She paused for a fast mile.
    “Are you out of work?” she asked.
    He nodded. “Usually.”
    “Were you a good cop? In the army?”
    “Good enough, I guess. They made me a major, gave me some medals.”
    She paused. “So why did you leave?”
    It felt like an interview. For a loan, or for a job.
    “They downsized me out of there,” he said. “End of the Cold War, they wanted a smaller army, not so many people in it, so they didn’t need so many cops to look after