by Lee Child
“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.
12
It was the familiar high-white letter-size sheet. It was lying precisely aligned with the oak flooring strips. It was in the geometric center of the hallway, near the bottom of the stairs, exactly where Reacher had dumped his garbage bag of clothes two nights previously. It had a simple statement printed neatly on it, in the familiar Times New Roman computer script, fourteen point, bold. The statement was five words long, split between two lines in the center of the page: It’s going to happen soon. The three words It’s going to made up the first line on their own. The happen soon part was alone on the second line. It looked like a poem or a song lyric. Like it was divided up that way for a dramatic purpose, like there should be a pause between the lines, or a breath, or a drum roll, or a rim shot. It’s going to . . . bam! . . . happen soon. Reacher stared at it. The effect was hypnotic. Happen soon. Happen soon.
“Don’t touch it,” Froelich said.
“Wasn’t going to,” Reacher replied.
He ducked his head back out the door and checked the street. All the nearby cars were empty. All the nearby windows were closed and draped. No pedestrians. No loiterers in the dark. All was quiet. He came back inside and closed the door slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb the paper with a draft.
“How did they get it in here?” Froelich said.
“Through the door,” Reacher said. “Probably at the back.”
Froelich pulled the SIG Sauer from her holster and they walked through the living room together and into the kitchen. The door to the backyard was closed, but it was unlocked. Reacher opened it a foot. Scanned the outside surroundings and saw nothing at all. Eased the door back wide so the inside light fell onto the exterior surface. Leaned close and looked at the scratch plate around the keyhole.
“Marks,” he said. “Very small. They were pretty good.”
“They’re here in D.C.,” she said. “Right now. They’re not in some Midwest bar.”
She stared through the kitchen into the living room.
“The phone,” she said.
It was pulled out of position on the table next to the fireside chair.
“They used my phone,” she said.
“To call me, probably,” Reacher said.
“Prints?”
He shook his head. “Gloves.”
“They’ve been in my house,” she said.
She moved away from the rear door and stopped at the kitchen counter. Glanced down at something and snatched open a drawer.
“They took my gun,” she said. “I had a backup gun in here.”
“I know,” Reacher said. “An old Beretta.”
She opened the drawer next to it.
“The magazines are gone too,” she said. “I had ammo in here.”
“I know,” Reacher said again. “Under an oven glove.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked, Monday night.”
“Why would you?”
“Habit,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”
She stared at him and then opened the wall cupboard with the money stash in it. He saw her check the earthenware pot. She said nothing, so he assumed the cash was still there. He filed the observation away in the professional corner of his mind, as confirmation of a long-held belief: people don’t like searching above head height.
Then she stiffened. A new thought.
“They might still be in the house,” she said, quietly.
But she didn’t move. It was the first sign of fear he had ever seen from her.
“I’ll check,” he said. “Unless that’s an unheal
thy response to a challenge.”
She just handed him her pistol. He turned out the kitchen light so he wouldn’t be silhouetted on the basement stairs and walked slowly down. Listened hard past the creaks and sighs of the house, and the hum and trickle of the heating system. Stood still in the dark and let his eyes adjust. There was nobody there. Nobody upstairs, either. Nobody hiding and waiting. People hiding and waiting give off human vibrations. Tiny hums and quivers. And he wasn’t feeling anything. The house was empty and undisturbed, apart from the displaced telephone and the missing Beretta and the message on the hallway floor. He came back to the kitchen and held out the SIG, butt-first.
“Secure,” he said.
“I better make some calls,” she said.
Special Agent Bannon showed up forty minutes later in a Bureau sedan with three members of his task force. Stuyvesant arrived five minutes after them in a department Suburban. They left both vehicles double-parked in the street with their strobes going. The neighboring houses were spattered with random bursts of light, blue and red and white. Stuyvesant stood still in the open doorway.
“We weren’t supposed to get any more messages,” he said.
Bannon was on his knees, looking at the sheet of paper.
“This is generic,” he said. “We predicted we wouldn’t get specificity. And we haven’t. The word soon is meaningless as to time and place. It’s just a taunt. We’re supposed to be impressed with how smart they are.”
“I was already impressed with how smart they are,” Stuyvesant said.
Bannon looked up at Froelich. “How long have you been out?”
“All day,” Froelich said. “We left at six-thirty this morning to meet with you.”
“We?”
“Reacher’s staying here,” she said.
“Not anymore, he’s not,” Bannon said. “Neither of you is staying here. It’s too dangerous. We’re putting you in a secure location.”
Froelich said nothing.
“They’re in D.C. right now,” Bannon said. “Probably regrouping somewhere. Probably got in from North Dakota a couple hours after you did. They know where you live. And we need to work here. This is a crime scene.”
“This is my house,” Froelich said.
“It’s a crime scene,” Bannon said again. “They’ve been here. We’ll have to rip it up some. Better that you stay away until we put it back together.”
Froelich said nothing.
“Don’t argue,” Stuyvesant said. “I want you protected. We’ll put you in a motel. Couple of U.S. marshals outside the door, until this is over.”
“Neagley, too,” Reacher said.
Froelich glanced at him. Stuyvesant nodded.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I already sent somebody to pick her up.”
“Neighbors?” Bannon asked.
“Don’t really know them,” Froelich answered.
“They might have seen something,” Bannon said. He checked his watch. “They might still be up. At least I hope so. Dragging witnesses out of bed generally makes them very cranky.”
“So get what you need, people,” Stuyvesant called. “We’re leaving, right now.”
Reacher stood in Froelich’s guest room and had a strong feeling he would never come back to it. So he took his things from the bathroom and his garbage bag of Atlantic City clothes and all of Joe’s suits and shirts that were still clean. He stuffed clean socks and underwear into the pockets. Carried all the clothes in one hand and Joe’s cardboard box under the other arm. He came down the stairs and stepped out into the night air and it hit him that for the first time in more than five years he was leaving a place carrying baggage. He loaded it into the Suburban’s trunk and then walked around and climbed into the backseat. Sat still and waited for Froelich. She came out of her house carrying a small valise. Stuyvesant took it from her and stowed it and they climbed into the front together. Took off down the street. Froelich didn’t look back.
They drove due north and then turned west all the way through the tourist sites and out again on the other side. They stopped at a Georgetown motel about ten blocks shy of Armstrong’s street. There was an old-model Crown Vic parked outside, with a new Town Car next to it. The Town Car had a driver in it. The Crown Vic was empty. The motel itself was a small neat place with dark wood all over it. A discreet sign. It was hemmed in by three embassies with fenced grounds. The embassies belonged to new countries Reacher had never heard of, but their fences were OK. It was a very protected location. Only one way in, and a marshal in the lobby would take care of that. An extra marshal in the corridor would be icing on the cake.
Stuyvesant had booked three rooms. Neagley had already arrived. They found her in the lobby. She was buying soda from a machine and talking to a big guy in a cheap black suit and patrolman’s shoes. A U.S. marshal, without a doubt. The Crown Vic driver. Their vehicle budget must be smaller than the Secret Service’s, Reacher thought. As well as their clothing allowance.
Stuyvesant did the paperwork at the desk and came back with three key cards. Handed them around in an embarrassed little ceremony. Mentioned three room numbers. They were sequential. Then he scrabbled in his pocket and came out with the Suburban’s keys. Gave them to Froelich.
“I’ll ride back with the guy who brought Neagley over,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, seven o’clock in the office, with Bannon, all of you.”
Then he turned and left. Neagley juggled her key card and her soda and a garment bag and went looking for her room. Froelich and Reacher followed behind her, with a key card each. There was another marshal at the head of the bedroom corridor. He was sitting awkwardly on a plain dining chair. He had it tilted back against the wall for comfort. Reacher squeezed his untidy luggage past him and stopped at his door. Froelich was already two rooms down, not looking in his direction.
He went inside and found a compact version of what he had seen a thousand times before. Just one bed, one chair, a table, a normal telephone, a smaller TV screen. But the rest was generic. Floral drapes, already closed. A floral bedspread, Scotchgarded until it was practically rigid. No-color bamboo-weave stuff on the walls. A cheap print over the bed, pretending to be a hand-colored architectural drawing of some part of some ancient Greek temple. He stowed his baggage and arranged his bathroom articles on the shelf above the sink. Checked his watch. Past midnight. Thanksgiving Day, already. He took off Joe’s jacket and dropped it on the table. Loosened his tie and yawned. There was a knock at the door. He opened up and found Froelich standing there.
“Come in,” he said.
“Just for a minute,” she said. He walked back and sat on the end of the bed, to let her take the chair. Her hair was a mess, like she had just run her fingers through it. She looked good like that. Younger, and vulnerable, somehow.
“I am over him,” she said.
“OK,” he said.
“But I can see how you might think I’m not.”
“OK,” he said again.
“So I think we should be apart tonight. I wouldn’t want you to be worried about why I was here. If I was here.”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
“It’s just that you’re so like him. It’s impossible not to be reminded. You can see that, can’t you? But you were never a substitute. I need you to know that.”
“Still think I got him killed?”
She looked away.
“Something got him killed,” she said. “Something on his mind, in his background. Something made him think he could beat somebody he couldn’t beat. Something made him think he was going to be OK when he wasn’t going to be OK. And the same thing could happen to you. You’re stupid if you don’t see that.”
He nodded. Said nothing. She stood up and walked past him. He caught her perfume as she went by.
“Call me if you need me,” he said.
She didn’t reply. He didn’t get up.
A half hour later there was another knock at the door and he opened it up expecting t
o find Froelich again. But it was Neagley. Still fully dressed, a little tired, but calm.
“You on your own?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Where is she?” Neagley asked.
“She left.”
“Business or lack of pleasure?”
“Confusion,” he said. “Half the time she wants me to be Joe, the other half she wants to blame me for getting him killed.”
“She’s still in love with him.”
“Evidently.”
“Six years after their relationship ended.”
“Is that normal?”
She shrugged. “You’re asking me? I guess some people carry a torch for a long time. He must have been quite a guy.”
“I didn’t really know him all that well.”
“Did you get him killed?”
“Of course not. I was a million miles away. Hadn’t spoken to him for seven years. I told you that.”
“So what’s her angle?”
“She says he was driven to be reckless because he was comparing himself to me.”
“And was he?”
“I doubt it.”
“You said you felt guilty afterward. You told me that too, when we were watching those surveillance tapes.”
“I think I said I felt angry, not guilty.”
“Angry, guilty, it’s all the same thing. Why feel guilty if it wasn’t your fault?”
“Now you’re saying it was my fault?”
“I’m just asking, what’s the guilt about?”
“He grew up under a false impression.”
He went quiet and moved deeper into the room. Neagley followed him. He lay down on the bed, arms outstretched, hands hanging off the edges. She sat down in the armchair, where Froelich had been.
“Tell me about the false impression,” she said.
“He was big, but he was studious,” Reacher said. “The schools we went to, being studious was like having ‘Kick my ass’ tattooed across your forehead. And he wasn’t all that tough, really, although he was big. So he got his ass kicked, regular as clockwork.”
“And?”
“I was two years younger, but I was big and tough, and not very studious. So I started to look after him. Loyalty, I guess, and I liked fighting anyway. I was about six. I’d wade in anywhere. I learned a lot of stuff. Learned that style was the big thing. Look like you mean it, and people back off a lot. Sometimes they didn’t. I had eight-year-olds all over me the first year. Then I got better at it. I hurt people bad. I was a mad-man. It got to be a thing. We’d arrive in some new place and pretty quick people would know to lay off Joe, or the psycho would be coming after them.”