Page 23 of Cold Target

They passed a sign: CADILLAC 18 MILES.

They drove in silence for another few miles. The forest thinned out, giving way to farmland and then the outskirts of Cadillac. It was bigger than Grayling but not by much. Maybe ten thousand people.

The kind of town that had probably thrived once, back when manufacturing was strong and people stayed in the places they were born.

Now it looked tired. Storefronts with faded signs. Parking lots with more empty spaces than full ones. A Walmart on the edge of town that had probably killed half the local businesses.

Simmons turned off the main road onto a side street, then into a neighborhood that looked like it had been built in the fifties and hadn't been updated since. Ranch houses with peeling paint. Chain-link fences. Cars on blocks in driveways.

"There," Reacher said, pointing.

The building sat at the end of the block, set back from the street with a large parking lot in front. It was a single-story structure, maybe ten thousand square feet, with brick walls and a flat roof.

A sign out front read: CADILLAC CIVIC CENTER.

The parking lot was mostly empty. A few cars clustered near the entrance, but the rest of the asphalt was cracked and weed-choked. The building itself looked like it had seen better days.

Simmons pulled into a spot near the entrance and killed the engine.

"This is it," he said.

They got out. The air was cold, the wind cutting through Reacher's jacket. He could smell snow coming, maybe in the next day or two.

The front entrance was unlocked. They pushed through a set of glass doors into a small lobby. Linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, walls painted institutional beige. A bulletin board on one wall was covered with flyers for bake sales, church services, AA meetings, and a notice about a lost dog.

To the right was a small office with a window. A woman sat behind a desk, maybe sixty, gray hair, reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She looked up as they entered.

"Help you?" she asked.

Reacher walked over. "Do you have a calendar of events?"

"Yes. Here, let me find you one.” She opened and closed a few drawers and then a cabinet before finally handing something to Reacher.

He skimmed the lists and the dates. He saw frequent gun shows held throughout the year.

“When was your last gun show?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. "Let’s see. Maybe… two weeks ago?"

Reacher glanced at Simmons. The timing was right.

"Do you keep records of vendors?" Reacher asked.

"We do, but I can't give those out. Privacy policy."

Reacher nodded. He wasn't surprised. "Can we look around?"

"The main hall's open. Just don't touch anything."

"Thank you."

They walked past the office and through a set of double doors into the main hall. It was a large open space, maybe a hundred feet by fifty, with a high ceiling and exposed ductwork.

Folding tables were stacked against one wall. Chairs were stacked against another. The floor was scuffed and worn, marked with tape residue from where booths had been set up.

Reacher could picture it. Rows of tables. Vendors selling firearms, ammunition, knives, tactical gear. Cash transactions. No paperwork. No questions asked.

Reacher walked the perimeter of the room, looking for anything that might give them a lead. But there was nothing. Just an empty hall that had hosted dozens of events over the years, each one leaving no trace behind.