"Face it toward the motor barn," he said. "And leave the headlights on. I want to take a look at that old pick-up truck."
"O.K.," she said.
She coasted a yard or two and hauled on the steering wheel until the headlight beams washed into the right-hand end of the barn. They lit up half of die new pick-up, half of the Jeep Cherokee, and all of the old pick-up between them.
"Stay close to me," he said.
They got out of the car. The night air felt suddenly hot and damp. Different than before. It was cloudy and there were disturbed insects floating everywhere. But the yard was quiet. No sound. They walked over together for a better look at the abandoned truck. It was some kind of a Chevrolet, maybe twenty years old, but still a recognizable ancestor of the newer truck alongside it. It had bulbous fenders and dulled paint and a roll bar built into the load bed. It must have had a million miles on it. Probably hadn't been started in a decade. The springs sagged and the tires were flat and the rubber was perished by the relentless heat.
"So?" Alice said.
"I think it's the truck in the photograph," Reacher said. "The one in Walker's office? Him and Sloop and Eugene leaning on the fender?"
"Trucks all look the same to me," she said.
"Sloop had the same photograph."
"Is that significant?"
He shrugged. "They were good friends."
They turned away. Alice ducked back into the VW and killed the lights. Then he led her to the foot of the porch steps. Up to the main entrance. He knocked. Waited. Bobby Greer opened the door. Stood there, surprised.
"So you came home," Reacher said.
Bobby scowled, like he had already heard it.
"My buddies took me out," he said. "To help with the grieving process."
Reacher opened his palm to show off the chromium star. The badge flip. It felt good. Not quite as good as flashing a United States Army Criminal Investigation Division credential, but it had an effect on Bobby. It stopped him closing the door again.
"Police," Reacher said. "We need to see your mother."
"Police? You?"
"Hack Walker just deputized us. Valid throughout Echo County. Where's your mother?"
Bobby paused a beat. Leaned forward and glanced up at the night sky and literally sniffed the air.
"Storm's rolling in," he said. "It's coming now. From the south."
"Where's your mother, Bobby?"
Bobby paused again.
"Inside," he said.
Reacher led Alice past Bobby into the red foyer with the rifles and the mirror. It was a degree or two cooler inside the house. The old air conditioner was running hard. It thumped and rattled patiently, somewhere upstairs. They walked through the foyer and into the parlor in back. Rusty Greer was sitting at die table in the same chair as the first time he had seen her. She was wearing the same style of clothes. Tight jeans and a fringed blouse. Her hair was lacquered up into a halo as hard as a helmet.
"We're here on official business, Mrs. Greer," Reacher said. He showed her the badge in his palm. "We need some answers."
"Or what, big man?" Rusty said. "You going to arrest me?"
Reacher pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. Just looked at her.
"I've done nothing wrong," she said.
Reacher shook his head. "As a matter of fact, you've done everything wrong."
"Like what?"
"Like, my grandmother would have died before she let her grandchildren get taken away. Literally. Over her dead body, she'd have said, and she'd have damn well meant every word."
Silence for a second. Just the endless tick of the fan.
"It was for the child's own good," Rusty said. "And I had no choice. They had papers."
"You given grandchildren away before?"
"No."
"So how do you know they were the right papers?"
Rusty just shrugged. Said nothing.
"Did you check?"
"How could I?" Rusty said. "And they looked right. All full of big words, aforementioned, hereinafter, the State of Texas."
"They were fakes," Reacher said. "It was a kidnap, Mrs. Greer. It was coercion. They took your granddaughter to threaten your daughter-in-law with."
He watched her face, for dawning realization, for guilt or shame or fear or remorse. There was some expression there. He wasn't exactly sure what it was.
"So we need descriptions," he said. "How many were there?"
She said nothing.
"How many people, Mrs. Greer?"
"Two people. A man and a woman."
"White?"
"Yes."
"What did they look like?"
Rusty shrugged again.
"Ordinary," she said. "Normal. Like you would expect. Like social workers. From a city. They had a big car."