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A late-nineteenth-century core supplemented by an influx of cash in the fifties, judging by the buildings. Some old ones weeded out. Some newer ones to fill the gaps, now showing their own age. The overall layout unchanged. A standard grid. Compact enough to require traffic signals at one intersection, only.
Cops are the same the world over. Once they commit to a position in public they never back down. Trying to make them is a waste of time. Reacher knew that from personal experience. But still, there are standards to uphold.
“I didn’t see any lakes on my way into town,” Reacher said. “I guess that explains it.” “Explains what?” “Why you’re trying to go fishing in here.
“Where did Rutherford go before the coffee shop?” “The moon. He has a secret love nest there. I was thinking of renting it but the mirrors on the ceiling are too small.”
“Did he mention having been anywhere recently?” “No. But he did say he’s leaving in a couple of days for a fishing cabin he has in Nova Scotia. But when he pulled out his pocketbook to pay for dinner I saw he had a Mexican passport in there. A plane ticket. And a bunch of pesos.”
His problem was mainly one of temperament. Good driving called for a balance of action and reaction, speed and restraint, measurement and control. A middle ground, stable and sustained. Reacher on the other hand was built for extremes. His default was to move extremely slow or extremely fast. One moment he could appear languid, lazy, almost comatose. The next he could erupt into a frenzy of action, furious, relentless, for as long as necessary, then relapse into serene stillness until the next threat presented itself.
give him the choice and Reacher would always prefer a paper map. The kind he’d trained with at West Point. Large enough and granular enough to reveal the underlying terrain. A critical factor for a soldier. The difference between victory and annihilation. Or between setting a trap and walking into one.
“Always eat when you can. Then you won’t have to when you can’t.
Each new landmark seemed to relax or rejuvenate him. Each one made Reacher feel more claustrophobic. The idea of spending an entire life in one place made real and solid before his eyes.
he had a rule when it came to fights. Finish them. And finish them fast.
most investigations go with the numbers. A wife turns up dead, it’s usually the husband who killed her. Something goes missing from the stores, it’s usually a quartermaster who stole it. Someone shares secrets, it’s usually for the money.
Someone made it personal. I’m not some faceless guy who got in the way anymore. They’re coming after me specifically. They need to understand that’s the wrong thing to do.”
It’s like the difference between being alone and being lonely. Two separate, distinct things.”
he wasn’t the world’s greatest connoisseur when it came to flavor. He was mainly a fan of strength.
The guys at Quantico did some modeling. They figured the fallout from even one compromised general election could be anything from civil disobedience to full-scale rioting to possible insurrection. Imagine some of these foil-hat militia guys if they had evidence someone stole an election.
They were lined up, bubbling with aggression. Gripped by ideological fury. The pack versus the infidel. He was the infidel.
Places that were too hot. Or too cold. Where everything that moved wanted to bite him. Or where everyone he met wanted to kill him. But in those days he didn’t have a choice about where he went. He was following orders.
