Lee Child - The Midnight Line

He moved on through the gloom, out of the kitchen, into the dining area. From where he saw the living room, all open plan, with a complicated cathedral ceiling, and a full-height rock fireplace, made out of stones the size of tractor tires.

A trophy cabin. Authentic designs didn’t have fireplaces built with forklift trucks and hydraulic cranes. They used smaller rocks. And why make a weird ceiling, where a flat one would fit?

But it was a lived-in trophy cabin. Reacher didn’t hate it. The log walls were stained a light honey shade. The furniture looked comfortable but unobtrusive. There were weird collections on shelves. Animal skulls, interesting stones, interesting pine cones. Almost a family feel. A rich-family feel.

He walked back to the kitchen. To the broken window. Bramall was looking in at him.

Reacher said, “Nothing to worry about. It’s like a time capsule. Which rules out a burglary. Because nothing is out of place. The dust is a uniform thickness everywhere. There’s no mess at all. Which I guess rules out squatters, too.”

“I’m coming in,” Bramall said.

He was stiffer in the joints than Reacher, but those joints started out much closer together, because he was smaller, so overall his maneuver was easier. He pushed himself upright, and looked around the same way Reacher had. Kitchen, dining area, living room.

Undisturbed.

Bramall said, “Not what I expected.”

“In what way?” Reacher said.

“If I had a cabin it might look like this.”

“Dope dealers don’t have taste?”

“Not usually.”

Reacher checked the hallway.

He said, “There are bedrooms at both ends.”

Bramall said, “If it wasn’t burglars or squatters, who broke the window?”

“Not the sheriff,” Reacher said. “But like the sheriff. A pro with a reason to search.”

“But where’s the mess? Pro searchers tear a place apart.”

“Maybe they found what they wanted the first place they looked. Maybe that’s what it means to be a pro. Or maybe they knew where it was all along. Maybe they came to get something back.”

“Get what back?”

“I don’t care,” Reacher said. “All I want to do is find Sanderson.”

“You think she was here. Back when she was dating a dope dealer worth getting gut shot or stabbed in the stomach.”

“You’re her older brother now?”

“I doubt the relationship would have happened. She would have done better for herself.”

“She said, shut up, Sy, I’m on the phone. Even the uptight twin called it friendly and comfortable and happy. Best case, they were real good friends.”

“Even worse,” Bramall said. “You choose your friends.”

“Either way, they spent time together. Here, and her place. Wherever that is.”

“A year and a half ago.”

“Better than nothing.”

“If your Sy is the right Sy.”

“Fifty-fifty right or wrong. Not bad odds.”

Bramall took out his phone.

“Two bars,” he said. “She could have called from here.”

“What did the cell records say?”

“You need three masts to triangulate. There’s only one here. Omnidirectional. She was calling from somewhere inside a giant circular area about the size of New Jersey. That’s all we know.”

“Could have been here. No reason why not.”

Bramall moved to the center of the living room. He said, “It was a year and a half ago and this place has been searched twice since then. And if you’re right about someone getting something back, then the most important thing we could have found is already gone. So this is about looking for what two other parties missed. Which is slow work. How long have we got?”

“Out here, about a hundred years, I would think,” Reacher said. “Pull your car around the back, and we could move in and live here forever. No one would ever know.”

“OK, we’ll search together. No look-out. Two heads are better than one.”

They found the first missed item in less than a minute.

Chapter 19

It was in a mud room near the back door. In a closet where snow clothes were kept. A pair of snow pants had slipped off a hanger. Some kind of stiff nylon. They had hit the floor like spears, and then half crumpled and half stayed rigid, like wobbly legs, like a cartoon picture of a guy who just received a nasty shock. They had toppled backward and had ended up half propped in the corner. Reacher moved them, purely out of habit, and behind them he found a pair of women’s snow boots. A technical product, with hooks and loops. A woman’s size six. Which was small.

He said, “Boots in the closet is a thing, right? She spent quality time here.”

“If it was her. Could have been anybody.”

“I agree. But it’s evidence a guy two separate people described as a loner living alone actually had a companion in his house. Which should have tilted the investigation a little, when such a guy shows up dead. Maybe we can forgive the sheriff. He had a preconceived notion. And I bet everyone in Wyoming has a closet like that. Hard to see what you always see. But whoever came along afterward should have seen it. They should have had fresh eyes. Makes me wonder who they were. And what they were doing. Maybe they didn’t really look at anything. Maybe it really was a fast in-and-out, to get something back. Has to be. Nothing else has been touched.”

Bramall said, “We should check the other closets.”

They did, but there was nothing in them, except Porterfield’s own stuff. Apparently he had been a guy who liked blue jeans, and saw no problem at all with laundering things until they went threadbare.

No women’s clothing.

No dresses, no blouses, no pants.

Bramall said, “Why would she leave only her boots behind?”

“She left at the start of spring. She hadn’t used them for a month. She forgot them. Or maybe they were uncomfortable. Maybe she left them on purpose. Maybe she was fixing to buy new. But she was here. Or someone was. Porterfield didn’t live alone. Not all the time.”

“That’s a lot to read into a pair of boots.”

“I bet we find more.”

—

They did. But not much more. After two hours they had a very modest haul. More persuasive than conclusive. They saved time by ignoring what was on open view. Instead they looked inside things, and under things, and behind things.

They found a woman’s comb between the sofa cushions. It was made of pink plastic. All the teeth were widely spaced. Not half and half, like a regular comb. In the master bathroom they found two sinks, each with a soap dish, one with a dried-out cake of scented soap, and one with a dried-out cake of plain. Also in the bathroom they found two sets of towels laid out. In the laundry room behind the dryer they found a pair of women’s athletic socks. Some kind of miracle fiber, small in size, pink in color, stuck all over with dust bunnies.

That was it.

Not enough for a courtroom. But suggestive. Reacher said, “She was here. Or someone was. At least some of the time. Maybe just a casual on-again, off-again type of thing. But she was here long enough to get somewhat ingrained. When she left, she did it in style. She made a clean break. Some kind of statement. She scoured the place and packed up everything of hers she could see, leaving behind only the few things she couldn’t. Like her lost comb. She couldn’t take her soap anyway. At the time it was all wet and slimy. Couldn’t just toss it in a bag with her clothes. She didn’t count the towels. Who would? She forgot her snow boots. But it’s the socks I like best.”

“Why?”

“They prove she still has two legs. The Purple Heart might not be as bad as it could be.”

“If it’s her.”

“Suppose it was. Porterfield must have gone to her place from time to time. Where would that be? How far from here? Suppose you were a guy like Porterfield. How far would you drive to get laid?”