“The track through the trees was more than two miles long. You’d be carrying the suitcase. It’s bigger than you are. We can’t leave it here. And then all we got anyway is a back road. With no traffic. We planned it that way, remember? We could wait there all day for a ride. Especially with a big suitcase. That kind of thing puts people off. They don’t stop. Maybe their trunk is already full.”
“OK, maybe the mechanic will fix it. Or at least he could give us a ride to town. In his truck. With the big suitcase. We could figure something out from there.”
“Another fifty bucks will surely make a dent.”
“It’s worse than that,” Shorty said. “Fifty bucks is a drop in the ocean. We could stay here all week, compared to what the mechanic will cost. Those guys get a call-out charge, can you believe that? Which is basically like getting paid for still being alive. It’s not like that when you grow potatoes, let me tell you. Which mechanics eat, by the way. They love potatoes. French fries, hash browns, twice baked with cheese and bacon. What if I asked them to pay me just to think about growing them a potato?”
Patty got up suddenly, bouncing the bed, and she said, “I’m going out for some air.”
She crossed to the door and turned the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. It was jammed again. She checked the lock.
She said, “This is what happened in the night.”
Shorty got off the bed and stepped over.
He turned the handle.
The door opened.
He said, “Maybe you’re turning the handle wrong.”
She said, “How many ways are there to turn a handle?”
He closed the door and stood back.
She stepped up and tried again. She used the same grip as before, the same turn, the same pull.
The door swung open.
She said, “Weird.”
The sun was shining on downtown Laconia, a little low in the sky, like the first days of fall, but it was still as warm as summer. Reacher got to the coffee shop across the light at ten past eleven, five minutes ahead of schedule, and he got a seat at a small iron table in the corner of the garden, where he could see the sidewalk coming down from the city office door. He wasn’t sure what kind of a person he expected Carter Carrington to be. Although there were a number of clues. One, Elizabeth Castle found it absurd to imagine the guy as her boyfriend. Two, she had taken pains to point out he wasn’t even her regular friend. Three, the guy was banished to a back office. Four, he was kept away from customers. Five, he was enthusiastic about census methodology.
The signs were not good.
The garden had a side gate also, for the parking lot. People came and went. Reacher ordered regular black coffee, in a go-cup, not because he was planning on rushing away, but because he didn’t like the look of the table service alternatives, which were about the size and weight of chamber pots. Poor cups for coffee, in his opinion, but other people must have been satisfied, because the garden was filling up. Pretty soon there were only three spare seats. One of which was opposite Reacher, inevitably. A fact of his life. People didn’t find him approachable.
First in from the direction of the city office was a woman about forty, bustling, competent, probably in charge of some big department. She said hey and hi to a couple of customers, routine co-worker courtesies, and she dumped her bag on an empty seat, not the one opposite Reacher, and then she went in to the counter to get whatever it was she wanted. Reacher watched the sidewalk. In the distance he saw a guy come out of the city office, and start walking down the block. Even far away it was clear he was tall and well dressed. His suit was fine, and his shirt was white, and his tie was neat. He had fair hair, short, but a little unruly. Like he tried his best with it. He was tan and he looked fit and strong and full of vigor and energy. He had presence. Against the old brick he looked like a movie star on a film set.
Except he walked with a limp. Very slight, left leg.
The woman who had been to the counter came back with a cup and a plate, and she sat where she had saved 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.”