her place, which left just two empty spaces, one of which was immediately taken by another woman, probably another department head, because she said hey and hi to a whole different bunch of people. Which left the only spare chair in the garden directly across from Reacher.
Then the movie star guy stepped in. Up close and personal he was everything Reacher had seen from a distance, and also good looking, in a rugged kind of way. Like a cowboy who went to college. Tall, rangy, capable. Maybe thirty-five years old. Reacher made a small bet with himself the guy was ex-military. Everything said so. In a second he constructed a whole imaginary bio for the guy, from ROTC at a western university to a wound in Iraq or Afghanistan, and a spell at Walter Reed, and then separation and a new job in New Hampshire, maybe an executive position, maybe something that required him to go argue with the city. He was holding a go-cup of coffee and a paper bag slightly translucent with butter. He scanned the garden and located the only empty seat. He set out toward it.
Both department heads called out, “Hey, Carter.”
The guy said hey back, with a smile that probably killed them dead, and then he continued on his way. He sat down across from Reacher.
Who said, “Is your name Carter?”
The guy said, “Yes, it is.”
“Carter Carrington?”
“Pleased to meet you. And you are?”
He sounded more curious than annoyed. He spoke like an educated man.
Reacher said, “A lady named Elizabeth Castle suggested I speak to you. From the city records department. My name is Jack Reacher. I have a question about an old-time census.”
“Is it a legal issue?”
“It’s a personal thing.”
“You sure?”
“The only issue is whether I get on the bus today or tomorrow.”
“I’m the town attorney,” Carrington said. “I’m also a census geek. For ethical reasons I need to be absolutely certain which one you think you’re talking to.”
“The geek,” Reacher said. “All I want is background information.”
“How long ago?”
Reacher told him, first the year his father was two, and then the year he was twelve.
Carrington said, “What’s the question?”
So Reacher told him the story, the family paperwork, the Marine Corps clerks and their typewriters, cubicle two’s computer screen, the conspicuous absence of Reachers.
“Interesting,” Carrington said.
“In what way?”
Carrington paused a beat.
He said, “Were you a Marine, too?”
“Army,” Reacher said.
“That’s unusual. Isn’t it? For the son of a Marine to join the army, I mean.”
“It wasn’t unusual in our family. My brother did it, too.”
“It’s a three-part answer,” Carrington said. “The first part is all kinds of random mistakes were made. But twice in a row makes that statistically unlikely. What were the odds? So we move on. And neither part two or part three of the answer reflect all that well on a theoretical person’s theoretical ancestors. So you need to accept I’m talking theoretically. In general, as in most of the people most of the time, the vast majority, nothing personal, lots of exceptions, all that kind of good stuff, OK? So don’t get offended.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “I won’t.”
“Focus on the count when your dad was twelve. Ignore the earlier one. The later one is better. By then we’d had seven years of the Depression and the New Deal. Counting was really important. Because more people equaled more federal dollars. You can be sure that state and city governments tried like crazy not to miss anyone that year. But they did, even so. The second part of the answer is that the highest miss percentages were among renters, occupants of multi-family dwellings or overcrowded quarters, the unemployed, those of low education and income levels, and those receiving public assistance. Folks on the margins, in other words.”
“You find people don’t like to hear that about their grandparents?”
“They like it better than part three of the answer.”
“Which is?”
“Their grandparents were hiding from the law.”
“Interesting,” Reacher said.
“It happened,” Carrington said. “Obviously no one with a federal warrant would fill out a census form. Other folks thought laying low might help them in the future.”
Reacher said nothing.
Carrington said, “What did you do in the army?”
“Military police,” Reacher said. “You?”
“What makes you think I was in the army?”
“Your age, your appearance, your manner and bearing, your air of decisive competence, and your limp.”
“You noticed.”
“I was trained to. I was a cop. My guess is you have an artificial lower leg. Barely detectable, therefore a really good one. And the army has the best, these days.”