Without Fail

Froelich stood in the chill and spoke to Armstrong at the foot of the plane's steps. It was a short conversation. She told him about the discovery of the concealed rifle and told him it was more than enough to justify the extraction. He didn't argue. Didn't ask any awkward leading questions. He seemed completely unaware of any larger picture. And he seemed completely unconcerned about his own safety. He was more anxious to calculate the public-relations consequences for his successor. He looked away and ran through the pluses and minuses in his head like politicians do and came back with a tentative smile. No damage done. Then he ran up the steps to the warmth inside the plane, ready to resume his agenda with the waiting journalists.



Reacher was faster with the seat selection second time around. He took a place in the forward-facing front row, next to Froelich and across the aisle from Neagley. Froelich used the taxi time doing the rounds of her team, quietly congratulating them on their performance. She spoke to each of them in turn, leaning close, talking, listening, finishing with discreet fist-to-fist contact like ballplayers after a vital hit. Reacher watched her. Good leader, he thought. She came back to her seat and buckled her belt. Smoothed her hair and pressed her fingertips hard into her temples like she was clearing her mind of past events and preparing to concentrate on the future.



"We should have stayed around," Reacher said.



"The place is swarming with cops," Froelich said. "FBI will join them. That's their job. We focus on Armstrong. And I don't like it any better than you do."



"What was the rifle? Did you see it?"



She shook her head. "We'll get a report. They said it was in a bag. Some kind of vinyl carrying case."



"Hidden in the grass?"



She nodded. "Where it's long at the base of the fence."



"When was the church locked?"



"Last thing Sunday. More than sixty hours ago."



"So I guess our guys picked the lock. It's a crude old mechanism. The keyhole's so big you can practically get your whole hand in there."



"You sure you didn't see them?"



Reacher shook his head. "But they saw me. They were in there with me. They saw where I hid the key. They let themselves out."



"You probably saved Armstrong's life. And my ass. Although I don't understand their plan. They were in the church and their rifle was a hundred yards away?"



"Wait until we know what the rifle was. Then maybe we'll understand."



The plane turned at the end of the runway and accelerated immediately. Took off and climbed hard. The engine noise throttled back after five minutes and Reacher heard the journalists starting their foreign-relations conversation again. They didn't ask any questions about the early return.



They touched down at Andrews at six-thirty local time. The city was quiet. The long Thanksgiving weekend had already started, halfway through the afternoon. The motorcade headed straight in on Branch Avenue and drove through the heart of the capital and out again to Georgetown. Armstrong was shepherded into his house through the white tent. Then the cars turned listlessly and headed back to base. Stuyvesant wasn't around. Reacher and Neagley followed Froelich to her desk and she accessed her NCIC search results. They were hopeless. There was a small proud rubric at the top of the screen that claimed the software had compiled for five hours and twenty-three minutes and come up with no less than 243,791 matches. Anything that ever mentioned any two of a thumbprint or a document or a letter or a signature was neatly listed. The sequence began exactly twenty years ago and averaged more than thirty entries for each of the 7,305 days since. Froelich sampled the first dozen reports and then skipped ahead to random interim dates. There was nothing even remotely useful.



"We need to refine the parameters," Neagley said. She squatted next to Froelich and moved the keyboard closer. Cleared the screen and called up the inquiry box and typed thumbprint-as-signature. Reached for the mouse and clicked on search. The hard drive chattered and the inquiry box disappeared. The phone rang and Froelich picked it up. Listened for a moment and put it down.



"Stuyvesant's back," she said. "He's got the preliminary FBI report on the rifle. He wants us in the conference room."



"We came close to losing today," Stuyvesant said.



He was at the head of the table with sheets of faxed paper spread out in front of him. They were covered in dense type, a little blurred from transmission. Reacher could see the cover sheet's heading, upside down. There was a small seal on the left, and U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation on the right.



"First factor is the unlocked door," Stuyvesant said. "The FBI's guess is the lock was picked early this morning. They say a child could have done it with a bent knitting needle. We should have secured it with a temporary lock of our own."



"Couldn't do it," Froelich said. "It's a landmark building. Can't be touched."



"Then we should have changed the venue."



"I looked for alternatives first time around. Every other place was worse."



"You should have had an agent on the roof," Neagley said.



"No budget," Stuyvesant said. "Until after the inauguration."



"If you get that far," Neagley said.



"What was the rifle?" Reacher asked, in the silence.



Stuyvesant squared the paper in front of him. "Your guess?"



"Something disposable," Reacher said. "Something they weren't actually planning on using. In my experience something that gets found that easily is supposed to get found that easily."



Stuyvesant nodded. "It was barely a rifle at all. It was an ancient.22 varmint gun. Badly maintained, rusty, probably hadn't been used in a generation. It was not loaded and there was no ammunition with it."



"Identifying marks?"



"None."



"Fingerprints?"



"Of course not."



Reacher nodded.



"Decoy," he said.



"The unlocked door is persuasive," Stuyvesant said. "What did you do when you went in, for instance?"



"I locked it again behind me."



"Why?"



"I like it that way, for surveillance."



"But if you were going to be shooting?"



"Then I would have left it open, especially if I didn't have the key."



"Why?"



"So I could get out fast, afterward."



Stuyvesant nodded. "The unlocked door means they were in there to shoot. My take is they were waiting in there with the MP5 or the Vaime Mk2. Maybe both weapons. They imagined the junk gun would be spotted far away at the fence, the bulk of the police presence would move somewhat toward it, we would move Armstrong toward the motorcade, whereupon they would have a clear shot at him."



"Sounds right to me," Reacher said. "But I didn't actually see anybody in there."



"Plenty of places to hide in a country church," Stuyvesant said. "Did you check the crypt?"



"No."



"The loft?"



"No."



"Plenty of places," Stuyvesant said again.



"I sensed somebody."



"Yes," Stuyvesant said. "They were in there. That's for sure."



There was silence for a beat.



"Any unexplained attendees?" Froelich asked.



Stuyvesant shook his head. "It was pure chaos. Cops running everywhere, the crowd scattering. By the time order was restored at least twenty people had left. It's understandable. You're in a crowd on an open field, somebody finds a gun, you run like hell. Why wouldn't you?"



"What about the man on foot in the subdivision?"



"Just a guy in a coat," Stuyvesant said. "State cop couldn't really come up with anything more than that. Probably just a civilian out walking. Probably nobody. My guess is our guys were already in the church by that time."



"Something must have aroused the trooper's suspicions," Neagley said.



Stuyvesant shrugged. "You know how it is. How does a North Dakota State Trooper react around the Secret Service? He's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. Somebody looks suspicious, he's got to call it in even if he can't articulate exactly why afterward. And we can't moan at him for it. I'd rather he erred on the side of caution. Don't want to make him afraid to be vigilant."



"So we've still got nothing," Froelich said.



"We've still got Armstrong," Stuyvesant said. "And Armstrong's still got a pulse. So go eat dinner and be back here at ten for the FBI meeting."



First they went back to Froelich's office to check on Neagley's NCIC search. It was done. In fact it had been done before they even stepped away from the desk. The rubric at the top of the screen said the search had lasted nine-hundredths of a second and come up with zero matches. Froelich called up the inquiry box again and typed thumbprint on letter. Clicked on search and watched the screen. It redrew immediately and came up with no matches in eight-hundredths of a second.



"Getting nowhere even faster now," she said.



She tried thumbprint on message. Same result, no matches in eight-hundredths of a second. She tried thumbprint on threat. Identical result, identical eight-hundredths of a second. She sighed with frustration.



"Let me have a go," Reacher said. She got up and he sat down in her chair and typed a short letter signed with a big thumbprint.



"Idiot," Neagley said.



He clicked the mouse. The screen redrew instantly and reported that within the seven-hundredths of a second it had spent looking the software had detected no matches.



"But it was a new speed record," Reacher said, and smiled.



Neagley laughed, and the mood of frustration eased a little. He typed thumbprint and squalene and hit search again. A tenth of a second later the search came back blank.



"Slowing down," he said.



He tried squalene on its own. No match, eight-hundredths of a second.



He typed squalane with an a. No match, eight-hundredths of a second.



"Forget it," he said. "Let's go eat."



"Wait," Neagley said. "Let me try again. This is like an Olympic event."



She nudged him out of the chair. Typed single unexplained thumbprint. Hit search. No match, six-hundredths of a second. She smiled.



"Six hundredths," she said. "Folks, we have a new world record."



"Way to go," Reacher said.



She typed solo unexplained thumbprint. Hit search.



"This is kind of fun," she said.



No match, six-hundredths of a second.



"Tied for first place," Froelich said. "My turn again."



She took Neagley's place at the keyboard and thought for a long moment.



"OK, here we go," she said. "This one either wins me the gold medal, or it'll keep us here all night long."



She typed a single word: thumb. Hit search. The inquiry box disappeared and the screen paused for a whole second and came back with a single entry. A single short paragraph. It was a police report from Sacramento in California. An emergency room doctor from a city hospital had notified the local police department five weeks ago that he had treated a man who had severed his thumb in a carpentry accident. But the doctor was convinced by the nature of the wound that it had been deliberate albeit amateur surgery. The cops had followed up and the victim had assured them it had indeed been an accident with a power saw. Case closed, report filed.



"Weird stuff in this system," Froelich said.



"Let's go eat," Reacher said again.



"Maybe we should try vegetarian," Neagley said.



They drove out to Dupont Circle and ate at an Armenian restaurant. Reacher had lamb and Froelich and Neagley stuck to various chickpea concoctions. They had baklava for dessert and three small cups each of strong muddy coffee. They talked a lot, but about nothing. Nobody wanted to talk about Armstrong, or Nendick, or his wife, or men capable of frightening a person to the point of death and then shooting down two innocent civilians who happened to share a name. Froelich didn't want to talk about Joe in front of Reacher, Neagley didn't want to talk about Reacher in front of Froelich. So they talked about politics, like everybody else in the restaurant and probably everybody else in the city. But talking about politics in late November was pretty much impossible without mentioning the new administration, which led back toward Armstrong, so they generalized it away again toward personal views and beliefs. That needed background information, and before long Froelich was asking Neagley about her life and career.



Reacher tuned it out. He knew she wouldn't answer questions about her life. She never did. Never had. He had known her many years, and had discovered absolutely nothing about her background. He assumed there was some unhappiness there. It was pretty common among Army people. Some join because they need a job or want to learn a trade, some join because they want to shoot heavy weapons and blow things up. Some like Reacher himself join because it's preordained. But most join because they're looking for cohesion and trust and loyalty and camaraderie. They're looking for the brothers and the sisters and the parents they haven't got anyplace else.



So Neagley skipped her early life and ran through her service career for Froelich and Reacher ignored it and looked around the restaurant. It was busy. Lots of couples and families. He guessed people who were cooking big Thanksgiving meals tomorrow didn't want to cook tonight. There were a couple of faces he almost recognized. Maybe they were politicians or television reporters. He tuned the conversation back in again when Neagley started talking about her new career in Chicago. It sounded pretty good. She was partnered with a bunch of people from law enforcement and the military. It was a big firm. They offered a whole range of services from computer security to kidnap protection for traveling executives overseas. If you had to live in one place and go to work every day, that was probably the way to do it. She sounded satisfied with her life.



They were about to order a fourth cup of coffee when Froelich's cell phone rang. It was just after nine o'clock. The restaurant had gotten noisy and they missed it at first. Then they became aware of the low insistent trilling inside her purse. Froelich got the phone out and answered the call. Reacher watched her face. Saw puzzlement, and then a little concern.



"OK," she said, and closed the phone. Looked across at Reacher. "Stuyvesant wants you back in the office, right now, immediately."



"Me?" Reacher said. "Why?"



"He didn't say."



Stuyvesant was waiting for them behind one end of the reception counter just inside the main door. The duty officer was busy at the other end. Everything looked completely normal except for a telephone directly in front of Stuyvesant. It had been dragged up out of position and was sitting on the front part of the counter, facing outward, trailing its wire behind it. Stuyvesant was staring at it.



"We got a call," he said.



"Who from?" Froelich asked.



"Didn't get a name. Or a number. Caller ID was blocked. Male voice, no particular accent. He called the switchboard and asked to speak with the big guy. Something in the voice made the duty officer take it seriously, so he patched it through, thinking perhaps the big guy was me, you know, the boss. But it wasn't. The caller didn't want to speak with me. He wanted the big guy he's been seeing around recently."



"Me?" Reacher said.



"You're the only big guy new on the scene."



"Why would he want to speak with me?"



"We're about to find out. He's calling back at nine-thirty."



Reacher glanced at his watch. Twenty-two minutes past.



"It's them," Froelich said. "They saw you in the church."



"That's my guess," Stuyvesant said. "This is our first real contact. We've got a recorder set up. We'll get a voice print. And we've got a trace on the line. You need to talk for as long as you can."



Reacher glanced at Neagley. She looked at her watch. Shook her head.



"Not enough time now," she said.



Reacher nodded. "Can we get a weather report for Chicago?"



"I could call Andrews," Froelich said. "But why?"



"Just do it, OK?"



She stepped away to use another line. The Air Force meteorological people took four minutes to tell her Chicago was cold but clear and expected to stay that way. Reacher glanced at his watch again. Nine twenty-seven.



"OK," he said.



"Remember, talk as long as you can," Stuyvesant said. "They can't explain you. They don't know who you are. They're worried about that."



"Is the Thanksgiving thing on the website?" Reacher asked.



"Yes," Froelich said.



"Specific location?"



"Yes," she said again.



Nine twenty-eight.



"What else is upcoming?" Reacher asked.



"Wall Street again in ten days," Froelich said. "That's all."



"What about this weekend?"



"Back to North Dakota with his wife. Late tomorrow afternoon."



"Is that on the website?"



Froelich shook her head.



"No, that's completely private," she said. "We haven't announced it anywhere."



Nine twenty-nine.



"OK," Reacher said again.



Then the phone rang, very loud in the silence.



"A little early," Reacher said. "Somebody's anxious."



"Talk as long as you can," Stuyvesant said. "Use their curiosity against them. Keep it going."



Reacher picked up the phone.



"Hello," he said.



"You won't get that lucky again," a voice said.



Reacher ignored it and listened hard to the background sounds.



"Hey," the voice said. "I want to talk to you."



"But I don't want to talk to you, asshole," Reacher said, and put the phone down.



Stuyvesant and Froelich just stared at him.



"Hell are you doing?" Stuyvesant asked.



"I wasn't feeling very talkative," Reacher said.



"I told you to talk as long as you could."



Reacher shrugged. "You wanted it done different, you should have done it yourself. You could have pretended to be me. Talked to your heart's content."



"That was deliberate sabotage."



"No, it wasn't. It was a move in a game."



"This isn't a damn game."



"That's exactly what it is."



"We needed information."



"Get real," Reacher said. "You were never going to get information."



Stuyvesant was silent.



"I want a cup of coffee," Reacher said. "You dragged us out of the restaurant before we were finished."



"We're staying here," Stuyvesant said. "They might call back."



"They won't," Reacher said.



They waited five minutes at the reception counter and then gave it up and took plastic cups of coffee with them to the conference room. Neagley was keeping herself to herself. Froelich was very quiet. Stuyvesant was very angry.



"Explain," he said.



Reacher sat down alone at one end of the table. Neagley occupied neutral territory halfway down one side. Froelich and Stuyvesant sat together at the far end.



"These guys use faucet water to seal their envelopes," Reacher said.



"So?" Stuyvesant said.



"So there's not one chance in a million they're going to make a traceable call to the main office of the United States Secret Service, for God's sake. They would have cut the call short. I didn't want to let them have the satisfaction. They need to know if they're tangling with me, then I take the upper hand, not them."



"You blew it because you think you're in a pissing contest?"



"I didn't blow anything," Reacher said. "We got all the information we were ever going to get."



"We got absolutely nothing."



"No, you got a voice print. The guy said thirteen words. All the vowel sounds, most of the consonants. You got the sibilant characteristics, and some of the fricatives."



"We needed to know where they were, you idiot."



"They were at a pay phone with caller ID blocked. Somewhere in the Midwest. Think about it, Stuyvesant. They were in Bismarck today with heavy weapons. Therefore they're driving. They're on a four-hundred-mile radius by now. They're somewhere in one of about six huge states, in a bar or a country store, using the pay phone. And anybody smart enough to use faucet water to seal an envelope knows exactly how short to keep a phone call to make it untraceable."



"You don't know they're driving."



"No," Reacher said. "You're quite right. I don't know for sure. There is a slight possibility that they were frustrated about today's outcome. Annoyed, even. And they know from the website that there's another chance tomorrow, right here. And then nothing much for a spell. So it's possible they ditched their weapons and aimed to fly in tonight. In which case they might be at O'Hare right now, waiting for a connection. It might have been worthwhile putting some cops in place to see who's using the pay phones. But I only had eight minutes. If you had thought about it earlier it might have been practical. You had a whole half hour. They gave you notice, for God's sake. You could have arranged something easily. In which case I would have talked their damn ears off, to let the cops get a good look around. But you didn't think about it. You didn't arrange it. You didn't arrange anything. So don't talk to me about sabotage. Don't be telling me I'm the one who blew something here."



Stuyvesant looked down. Said nothing.



"Now ask him why he wanted the weather report," Neagley said.



Stuyvesant said nothing.



"Why did you want the weather report?" Froelich asked.



"Because there might still have been time to get something together. If the weather was bad the night before Thanksgiving in Chicago the airport would be so backed up they'd be sitting around there for hours. In which case I would have provoked some kind of a call-back later, for after we got some cops in place. But the weather was OK. Therefore no delays, therefore no time."



Stuyvesant said nothing.



"Accent?" Froelich asked, quietly. "Did the thirteen words you granted them give you a chance to pick anything out?"



"You made a recording," Reacher said. "But nothing jumped out at me. Not foreign. Not Southern, not East Coast. Probably one of those other places where they don't have much of an accent."



The room was quiet for a long moment.



"I apologize," Stuyvesant said. "You probably did the right thing."



Reacher shook his head. Breathed out.



"Don't worry about it," he said. "We're clutching at straws here. Million to one we were ever going to get a location. It was a snap decision, really. Just a gut thing. If they're puzzled about me, I want to keep them puzzled. Keep them guessing. And I wanted to make them mad at me. I wanted to take some focus off Armstrong. Better that they focus on me for a spell."



"You want these people coming after you personally?"



"Better than have them coming after Armstrong personally."



"Are you nuts? He's got the Secret Service around him. You haven't."



Reacher smiled. "I'm not too worried about them."



Froelich moved in her chair.



"So this is a pissing contest," she said. "God, you're just like Joe, you know that?"



"Except I'm still alive," Reacher said.



There was a knock at the door. The duty officer put his head into the room.



"Special Agent Bannon is here," he said. "Ready for the evening meeting."



Stuyvesant briefed Bannon privately in his office about the telephone communications. They came back into the conference room together at ten past ten. Bannon still looked more like a city cop than a federal agent. Donegal tweed, gray flannel, stout shoes, red face. Like a wise old high-mileage detective from Chicago or Boston or New York. He was carrying a thin file folder, and he was acting somber.



"Nendick is still unresponsive," he said.



Nobody spoke.



"He's no better and no worse," Bannon said. "They're still worried about him."



He sat heavily in the chair opposite Neagley's. Opened his file folder and took out a thin stack of color photographs. Dealt them like cards around the table. Two each.



"Bruce Armstrong and Brian Armstrong," he said. "Late of Minnesota and Colorado, respectively."



The photographs were large inkjet prints done on glossy paper. Not faxes. The originals must have been borrowed from the families and then scanned and e-mailed. They were snapshots, basically, each blown up and then cropped down to a useful head-and-shoulders format in the local FBI lab, presumably. The results looked artificial. Two bluff open faces, two innocent smiles, two fond gazes directed toward something that should have been there in the shot with them. Their names were neatly written in ballpoint pen in the bottom border. By Bannon himself, maybe. Bruce Armstrong, Brian Armstrong.



They weren't really similar to each other. And neither of them looked much like Brook Armstrong. Nobody would have had even a moment's hesitation differentiating between the three of them. Not in the dark, not in a hurry. They were just three American men with fair hair and blue eyes, somewhere in their middle forties, that was all. But therefore, they were alike in another way. If you sliced and diced the human population of the world, you'd use up quite a few distinct divisions before you got around to separating the three of them out. Male or female, black or white, Asian or Caucasian or Mongoloid, tall or short, thin or fat or medium, young or old or middle-aged, dark or fair, blue eyes or brown eyes. You would have to make all those separate distinctions before you could say the three Armstrongs looked different from one another.



"What do you think?" Bannon asked.



"Close enough to make the point," Reacher said.



"We agree," Bannon said. "Two widows and five fatherless children between them. This is fun, isn't it?"



Nobody replied to that.



"You got anything else for us?" Stuyvesant asked.



"We're working hard," Bannon said. "We're running the thumbprint again. We're trying every database in the known world. But we're not optimistic. We canvassed Nendick's neighbors. They didn't get many visitors to the house. Seems like they socialized as a couple, mostly in a bar about ten miles from their place, out toward Dulles. It's a cop bar. Seems like Nendick trades on his employment status. We're trying to trace anybody he was seen talking to more than the average."



"What about two weeks ago?" Stuyvesant said. "When the wife got taken away? Must have been some kind of commotion."



Bannon shook his head. "There's a fairly high daytime population in his street. Soccer moms all around. But it's a dry hole. Nobody remembers anything. It could have happened at night, of course."



"No, I think Nendick delivered her somewhere," Reacher said. "I think they made him do it. Like a refinement of the torture. To underline his responsibility. To put an edge on the fear."



"Possible," Bannon said. "He's afraid, that's for damn sure."



Reacher nodded. "I think these guys are real good at the cruel psychological nuances. I think that's why some of the messages came here direct. Nothing worse for Armstrong than to hear from the people paid to protect him that he's in big trouble."



"Except he's not hearing from them," Neagley said.



Bannon made no comment on that. Stuyvesant paused a beat.



"Anything else?" he said.



"We've concluded you won't get any more messages," Bannon said. "They'll strike at a time and place of their own choosing, and obviously they won't tip you off as to where and when. Conversely if they try and fail, they won't want you to have known about it ahead of time, otherwise they'd look ineffective."



"Any feeling about where and when?"



"We'll talk about that tomorrow morning. We're working on a theory right now. I assume you'll all be here tomorrow morning?"



"Why wouldn't we be?"



"It's Thanksgiving Day."



"Armstrong's working, so we're working."



"What's he doing?"



"Being a nice guy at a homeless shelter."



"Is that wise?"



Stuyvesant just shrugged.



"No choice," Froelich said. "It's in the Constitution that politicians have to serve turkey dinners on Thanksgiving Day in the worst part of town they can find."



"Well, wait until we talk tomorrow morning," Bannon said. "Maybe you'll want to change his mind. Or amend the Constitution."



Then he stood up and walked around the table and collected the photographs again, like they were precious to him.



Froelich dropped Neagley at the hotel and then she and Reacher drove home. She was quiet all the way. Conspicuously and aggressively silent. He stood it until they reached the bridge over the river and then he gave in.



"What?" he asked.



"Nothing," she said.



"Got to be something," he said.



She didn't answer. Just drove on and parked as near her place as she could get, which was two streets away. The neighborhood was quiet. It was late at night before a holiday. People were inside, cozy and relaxed. She shut off the engine, but didn't get out of the car. Just sat there, looking straight ahead through the windshield, saying nothing.



"What?" he asked again.



"I don't think I can stand it," she said.



"Stand what?"



"You're going to get yourself killed," she said. "Just like you got Joe killed."



"Excuse me?" he said.



"You heard."



"I didn't get Joe killed."



"He wasn't cut out for that kind of stuff. But he went ahead and did it anyway. Because he was always comparing himself. He was driven to do it."



"By me?"



"Who else? He was your brother. He followed your career."



Reacher said nothing.



"Why do you people have to be like this?" she said.



"Us people?" he said back. "Like what?"



"You men," she said. "You military people. Always charging headlong into stupidity."



"Is that what I'm doing?"



"You know it is."



"I'm not the one sworn to take a bullet for some worthless politician."



"Neither am I. That's just a figure of speech. And not all politicians are worthless."



"So would you take a bullet for him? Or not?"



She shrugged. "I don't know."



"And I'm not charging headlong into anything."



"Yes, you are. You've been challenged. And God forbid you should stay cool and just walk away."



"You want me to walk away?" he said. "Or do you want to get this thing done?"



"You can't do it by butting heads, like you were all rutting deer or something."



"Why not? Sooner or later it's us or them. That's how it is. That's how it always is. Why pretend any different?"



"Why look for trouble?"



"I'm not looking for trouble. I don't see it as trouble."



"Well, what the hell else is it?"



"I don't know."



"You don't know?"



He paused a beat.



"You know any lawyers?" he asked.



"Any what?"



"You heard," he said.



"Lawyers? Are you kidding? In this town? It's wall-to-wall lawyers."



"OK, so picture a lawyer. Twenty years out of law school, lots of hands-on experience. Somebody asks him, can you write this slightly complex will for me? What does he say? What does he do? Does he start trembling with nerves? Does he think he's been challenged? Is it a testosterone thing? No, he just says, sure, I can do that. And then he goes ahead and does it. Because it's his job. Pure and simple."



"This isn't your job, Reacher."



"Yes, it is, near as makes no difference. Uncle Sam paid me your tax dollars to do exactly this kind of stuff, thirteen straight years. And Uncle Sam sure as hell didn't expect me to run away and get all psychological and conflicted about it."



She stared forward through the windshield. It was misting fast, from their breath.



"There are hundreds of people on the other side of the Secret Service," she said. "In Financial Crimes. Hundreds of them. I don't know how many, exactly. Lots of them. Good people. We're not really investigative, but they are. That's all they are. That's what they're for. Joe could have picked any ten of them and sent them down to Georgia. He could have picked fifty of them. But he didn't. He had to go himself. He had to go alone. Because he was challenged. He couldn't back off. Because he was always comparing himself."



"I agree he shouldn't have done it," Reacher said. "Like a doctor shouldn't write a will. Like a lawyer shouldn't do surgery."



"But you made him."



He shook his head.



"No, I didn't make him," he said.



She was silent.



"Two points, Froelich," he said. "First, people shouldn't have to choose their careers with one eye on what their brother might think. And second, the last time Joe and I had any significant contact I was sixteen years old. He was eighteen. He was leaving for West Point. I was a kid. The last thing on his mind was copying me. Are you nuts? And I never really saw him again after that. Funerals only, basically. Because whatever you think about me as a brother, he was no better. He paid no attention to me. Years would go by, I wouldn't hear from him."



"He followed your career. Your mother sent him stuff. He was comparing himself."



"Our mother died seven years before he did. I barely had a career back then."



"You won the Silver Star in Beirut right at the beginning."



"I was in an explosion," he said. "They gave me a medal because they couldn't think what else to do. That's what the Army is like. Joe knew that."



"He was comparing himself," she said.



Reacher moved in his seat. Watched small swirls of condensation form on the windshield glass.



"Maybe," he said. "But not to me."



"Who then?"



"Our dad, possibly."



She shrugged. "He never talked about him."



"Well, there you go," Reacher said. "Avoidance. Denial."



"You think? What was special about your dad?"



Reacher looked away. Closed his eyes.



"He was a Marine," he said. "Korea and Vietnam. Very compartmentalized guy. Gentle, shy, sweet, loving man, but a stone-cold killer, too. Harder than a nail. Next to him I look like Liberace."



"Do you compare yourself with him?"



Reacher shook his head. Opened his eyes.



"No point," he said. "Next to him I look like Liberace. Always will, no matter what. Which isn't necessarily such a bad thing for the world."



"Didn't you like him?"



"He was OK. But he was a freak. No room for people like him anymore."



"Joe shouldn't have gone to Georgia," she said.



Reacher nodded.



"No argument about that," he said. "No argument at all. But it was nobody's fault except his own. He should have had more sense."



"So should you."



"I've got plenty of sense. Like for instance I joined the Military Police, not the Marine Corps. Like for instance I don't feel compelled to rush around trying to design a new hundred dollar bill. I stick to what I know."



"And you think you know how to take out these guys?"



"Like the garbage man knows how to take out the trash. It ain't rocket science."



"That sounds pretty arrogant."



He shook his head. "Listen, I'm sick of justifying myself. It's ridiculous. You know your neighbors? You know the people who live around here?"



"Not really," she said.



He rubbed mist off the glass and pointed out his window with his thumb. "Maybe one of them is an old lady who knits sweaters. Are you going to walk up to her and say, oh my God, what's with you? I can't believe you actually have the temerity to know how to knit sweaters."



"You're equating armed combat with knitting sweaters?"



"I'm saying we're all good at something. And that's what I'm good at. Maybe it's the only thing I'm good at. I'm not proud of it, and I'm not ashamed of it, either. It's just there. I can't help it. I'm genetically programmed to win, is all. Several consecutive generations."



"Joe had the same genes."



"No, he had the same parents. There's a difference."



"I hope your faith in yourself is justified."



"It is. Especially now, with Neagley here. She makes me look like Liberace."



Froelich looked away. Went quiet.



"What?" he said.



"She's in love with you."



"Bullshit."



Froelich looked straight at him. "How would you know?"



"She's never been interested."



Froelich just shook her head.



"I just talked to her about it," he said. "The other day. She said she's never been interested. She told me that, words of one syllable."



"And you believed her?"



"Wasn't I supposed to?"



Froelich said nothing. Reacher smiled, slowly.



"What, you think she is interested?" he asked.



"You smile just like Joe," she answered. "A little shy, a little lopsided. It's the most incredibly beautiful smile I ever saw."



"You're not exactly over him, are you?" he said. "At the risk of being the last to know. At the risk of stating the bloody obvious."



She didn't answer. Just got out of the car and started walking. He followed after her. It was cold and damp on the street. The night air was heavy. He could smell the river, and jet fuel from somewhere. They reached her house. She unlocked the door. They stepped inside.



There was a sheet of paper lying on the hallway floor.