“We don’t want breakfast.”
“Not even coffee?”
“We can get water from the bathroom tap. If that’s OK with you.”
“You’ll ask us to feed you lunch. Pride can make you skip one meal, but not two.”
“Just give us a ride to town. We’ll send a tow truck for the car.”
“A ride to town is not on offer.”
“Then call a mechanic for us.”
“We will,” Mark said. “Immediately after you’ve spoken.”
“You want a public confession?”
“Do you have something to confess?”
“I guess I could have done better,” Shorty said. “Some guy told me Japanese motors could take it. Like you could skip a year. Then I guess some years I couldn’t remember what year I was up to. So overall I guess some years got missed, that shouldn’t have.”
“Only some?”
“Maybe all of them. Like you said, I didn’t have the time.”
“Good policy in the short term.”
“It was easiest.”
“But not in the long term.”
“I guess not,” Shorty said.
“A mistake, in fact.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s the part we want you to say out loud, Mr. Fleck. We want to hear you say you made a dumb mistake that is causing all kinds of people all kinds of trouble. And we want to hear you say you’re sorry about that, to Patty especially, who we think is being touchingly loyal. You’ve got a good one there, Mr. Fleck.”
“I guess so.”
“We need to hear you say it out loud.”
“About Patty?”
“About the mistake.”
No response.
Mark said, “A moment ago you asked us to assume responsibility. But it’s you that must do that. We didn’t neglect your car. We didn’t treat a fine machine like a piece of shit, and then set out on a long important journey without so much as kicking the tires. It was you that did all that, Mr. Fleck. Not us. All we’re trying to do is make that clear.”
No response.
The sun was bright. It was hot on the top of Patty’s head.
She said, “Just say it, Shorty. It won’t be the end of the world.”
Shorty said, “OK, I made a dumb mistake that is causing all kinds of people all kinds of trouble. I apologize to all concerned.”
“Thank you,” Mark said. “Now we’ll go call a mechanic.”
* * *
—
Reacher walked back the way he had come, past the stores with the bags, and the shoes, and the wares, past the place he had picked out for lunch, past the place he had spent the night, back to the records department, inside the city offices. The waist-high counter was once again unattended. He rang the bell for service. There was a short delay, and then Elizabeth Castle came in.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello again.”
“Hello,” he said.
“Any luck?”
“Not so far,” he said. “They weren’t in either census.”
“You sure you got the right town? Or state, even. There could be a Laconia somewhere else. New Mexico, or New York or New Jersey. There are a lot of N-states.”
“Eight,” Reacher said. “Between New and North and Nevada and Nebraska.”
“Then it might not have been N-H you saw. It might have been N-something else. Old-time handwriting can be weird.”
“I saw it typed,” Reacher said. “Mostly by Marine Corps clerks. Who usually get things right. And I heard him say it, a dozen times. My mother would be ribbing him about something, most likely a missing romantic gesture, and he would say, well hell, I’m just a plain New Hampshire Yankee.”
Elizabeth Castle said, “Huh.”
Then she said, “I guess every census misses people. All kinds of geeky reasons. They’re forever trying to improve the methodology. There’s a guy here you should talk to. He’s a census enthusiast.”
“Is that a new thing?”
“Probably not,” she said, a little sharply. “I’m sure it’s a serious pursuit with a long and honorable history.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I think I offended you.”
“How could you? I’m not a census enthusiast.”
“If the census enthusiast was your boyfriend, for instance.”
“He isn’t,” she said, with an indignant gasp, as if the idea was absurd.
“What’s his name?”
“Carter,” she said.
“Where will I find him?”
“What time is it?” she said, suddenly looking around for her phone, which wasn’t there. Reacher had noticed many fewer people wearing watches. Phones did everything.
“Nearly eleven o’clock,” he said. “Four minutes to, plus a few seconds.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not? I took it as a serious question.”
“Plus a few seconds?”
“You think that’s too exact?”
“Most people would say five to. Or about eleven o’clock.”
“Which I would have, if you had asked me what time it was approximately. But you didn’t. You asked me what time it was, period. Three minutes and change now.”
“You’re not looking at your watch.”
“I don’t wear one,” he said. “Like you.”
“Then how do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“For real?”
“Now it’s two minutes and maybe fifty seconds before eleven in the morning.”
“Wait,” she said. She went back out through the door in the rear wall. A long moment later she came back in with her phone. She laid it on the counter. The screen was dark.
She said, “What time is it now?”
“Wait,” he said.
Then he said, “Three, two, one, it’s the top of the hour. Eleven o’clock exactly.”