Lee Child's Jack Reacher Books 1-6

by Lee Child

  He passed the envelopes across the desk.

  “There’s a car waiting downstairs,” he said. “You get a one-way ride to Georgetown, and then you’re on your own.”

  They went down in the elevator and Reacher detoured into the main hall. It was vast and dark and gray and deserted, and the cold marble echoed with his footsteps. He stopped underneath the carved panel and glanced up at his brother’s name. Glanced at the empty space where Froelich’s would soon be added. Then he glanced away and walked back and joined Neagley. They pushed through the small door with the wired glass porthole and found their car.

  The white tent was still in place across the sidewalk in front of Armstrong’s house. The driver pulled up with the rear door tight against the contour and spoke into his wrist microphone. A second later Armstrong’s front door opened and three agents stepped out. One walked forward through the canvas tunnel and opened the car door. Reacher got out and Neagley slid out beside him. The agent closed the door again and stood impassive on the curb and the car drove away. The second agent held his arms out in a brief mime that they should stand still and be searched. They waited in the whitened canvas gloom. Neagley tensed while strange hands patted her down. But it was superficial. They barely touched her. And they missed Reacher’s ceramic knife. It was hidden in his sock.

  The agents led them inside to Armstrong’s hallway and closed the door. The house was larger than it appeared from the outside. It was a big substantial place that looked like it had been standing for a hundred years and was good for maybe a hundred more. The hallway had dark antiques and striped paper on the walls and a clutter of framed pictures everywhere. There were rugs on the floors laid over thick wall-to-wall carpeting. There was a battered garment bag resting in a corner, presumably ready for the emergency trip to Oregon.

  “This way,” one of the agents said.

  He led them deep into the house and through a dogleg in the hallway to a huge eat-in kitchen that would have looked at home in a log cabin. It was all pine, with a big table at one end and all the cooking equipment at the other. There was a strong smell of coffee. Armstrong and his wife were sitting at the table with heavy china mugs and four different newspapers. Mrs. Armstrong was wearing a jogging suit and a sheen of sweat, like there might be a home gym in the basement. It looked like she wasn’t going to Oregon with her husband. She had no makeup on. She looked a little tired and dispirited, like the events of Thanksgiving Day had altered her feelings in a fundamental way. Armstrong himself looked composed. He was wearing a clean shirt under a jacket with the sleeves pulled up over his forearms. No tie. He was reading the editorials from The New York Times and The Washington Post side by side.

  “Coffee?” Mrs. Armstrong asked.

  Reacher nodded and she stood up and walked into the kitchen area and pulled two more mugs off hooks and filled them. Walked back with one in each hand. Reacher couldn’t decide if she was short or tall. She was one of those women who look short in flat shoes and tall in heels. She handed the mugs over without much expression. Armstrong looked up from his papers.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” Neagley said.

  Armstrong nodded.

  “Mr. Stuyvesant told me you want a private conversation,” he said.

  “Private would be good,” Reacher said.

  “Should my wife join us?”

  “That depends on your definition of privacy.”

  Mrs. Armstrong glanced at her husband.

  “You can tell me afterward,” she said. “Before you leave. If you need to.”

  Armstrong nodded again and made a show of folding his newspapers. Then he stood up and detoured to the coffee machine and refilled his mug.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  He led them back to the doglegged hallway and into a side room. Two agents followed and stood on each side of the door on the outside. Armstrong glanced out at them as if in apology and shut the door on them. Walked around and stood behind a desk. The room was set up like a study, but it was more recreational than for real. There was no computer. The desk was a big old item made from dark wood. There were leather chairs and books chosen for the look of their spines. There was paneling and an old Persian rug. There was an air freshener somewhere putting fragrance into the hush. There was a framed photograph on the wall. It showed a person of indeterminate gender standing on an ice floe. He or she was wearing an enormous padded down coat with a hood and thick mittens that reached the elbow. The hood had a big fur ruff that framed the face tight. The face itself was entirely hidden by a ski mask and smoked yellow snow goggles. One of the elbow-high mittens was raised in greeting.

  “Our daughter,” Armstrong said. “We asked her for a photo, because we miss her. That’s what she sent. She has a sense of humor.”

  He sat down behind the desk. Reacher and Neagley took a chair each.

  “This all feels very confidential,” Armstrong said.

  Reacher nodded. “And in the end I think we’ll all agree it should be kept confidential.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Mr. Stuyvesant gave us some ground rules,” Reacher said. “I’m going to start breaking them right now. The Secret Service intercepted six threatening messages against you. The first came in the mail eighteen days ago. Two more came in the mail subsequently and three were hand-delivered.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Reacher said.

  Armstrong shrugged.

  “Politics is a surprising business,” he said.

  “I guess it is,” Reacher said. “All six messages were signed with a thumbprint. We traced the print to an old guy in California. His thumb had been amputated and stolen and used like a rubber stamp.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “The second message showed up in Stuyvesant’s own office. Eventually it was proved that a surveillance technician named Nendick had placed it there. Nendick’s wife had been kidnapped in order to coerce his actions. He was so frightened of the danger to her posed by his inevitable interrogation that he went into some kind of a coma. But we’re guessing she was already dead by then anyway.”

  Armstrong was silent.

  “There’s a researcher in the office called Swain who made an important mental connection. He felt we were miscounting. He realized that Nendick was supposed to be a message in himself, thereby making seven messages, not six. Then we added the guy in California who’d had his thumb removed and made it eight messages. Plus there were two homicides on Tuesday which made the ninth and tenth messages. One in Minnesota, and one in Colorado. Two unrelated strangers named Armstrong were killed as a kind of demonstration against you.”

  “Oh no,” Armstrong said.

  “So, ten messages,” Reacher said. “All of them designed to torment you, except you hadn’t been told about any of them. But then I started wondering whether we’re still miscounting. And you know what? I’m pretty sure we are. I think there were at least eleven messages.”

  Silence in the small room.

  “What would be the eleventh?” Armstrong asked.

  “Something that slipped through,” Reacher said. “Something that came in the mail, addressed to you, something that the Secret Service didn’t see as a threat. Something that meant nothing at all to them, but something that meant a lot to you.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “I think it came first,” Reacher said. “Right at the very beginning, maybe, before the Secret Service even caught on. I think it was like an announcement, that only you would understand. So I think you’ve known about all this all along. I think you know who’s doing it, and I think you know why.”

  “People have died,” Armstrong said. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  Reacher leaned forward.

  “Some crucial words were never spoken,” he said. “Thing is, if I was standing there serving turkey and
then somebody started shooting and somebody else was suddenly bleeding to death on top of me, sooner or later I’d be asking, who the hell were they? What the hell did they want? Why the hell were they doing that? Those are fairly basic questions. I’d be asking them loud and clear, believe me. But you didn’t ask them. We saw you twice, afterward. In the White House basement, and then later at the office. You said all kinds of things. You asked, had they been captured yet? That was your big concern. You never asked who they might be or what their possible motive was. And why didn’t you ask? Only one possible explanation. You already knew.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “I think your wife knows, too,” Reacher said. “You conveyed her anger at you for putting people at risk. I don’t think she was generalizing. I think she knows you know, and she thinks you should have told somebody.”

  Armstrong was silent.

  “So I think you’re feeling a little guilty now,” Reacher said. “I think that’s why you agreed to make the television statement for me and that’s why you suddenly want to go to the service itself. Some kind of a conscience thing. Because you knew, and you didn’t tell anybody.”

  “I’m a politician,” Armstrong said. “We have hundreds of enemies. There was no point in speculating.”

  “Bullshit,” Reacher said. “This isn’t political. This is personal. Your kind of political enemy is some North Dakota soybean grower you made ten cents a week poorer by altering a subsidy. Or some pompous old senator you declined to vote with. The soybean grower might make a halfhearted effort against you at election time and the senator might bide his time and screw you on some big floor issue but neither one of them is going to do what these guys are doing.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “I’m not a fool,” Reacher said. “I’m an angry man who watched a woman I was fond of bleed to death.”

  “I’m not a fool either,” Armstrong said.

  “I think you are. Something’s coming back at you from the past and you think you can just ignore it and hope for the best? Didn’t you realize it would happen? You people have no perspective. You thought you were world famous already just because you were in the House and the Senate? Well, you weren’t. Real people never heard of you until the campaign this summer. You thought all your little secrets were already out? Well, they weren’t, either.”

  Armstrong said nothing.

  “Who are they?” Reacher asked.

  Armstrong shrugged. “Your guess?”

  Reacher paused a beat.

  “I think you’ve got a temper problem,” he said. “Same as your dad. I think way back before you learned to control it you made people suffer, and some of them forgot about it, but some of them didn’t. I think it’s a part of some particular person’s life that somebody once did something bad to them. Maybe hurt them, or hurt their self-esteem, or screwed them up in some other kind of a big way. I think that particular person repressed it deep down inside until they turned on the TV one day and saw your face for the first time in thirty years.”

  Armstrong sat still for a long moment.

  “How far along is the FBI with this?” he asked.

  “They’re nowhere. They’re out beating the bushes for people that don’t exist. We’re way ahead of them.”

  “And what are your intentions?”

  “I’m going to help you,” Reacher said. “Not that you deserve it in any way at all. It’ll be a purely accidental byproduct of me standing up for Nendick and his wife, and an old guy called Andretti, and two people called Armstrong, and Crosetti, and especially for Froelich, who was my brother’s friend.”

  There was silence.

  “Will this stay confidential?” Armstrong asked.

  Reacher nodded. “It’ll have to. Purely for my sake.”

  “Sounds like you’re contemplating a very serious course of action.”

  “People play with fire, they get burned.”

  “That’s the law of the jungle.”

  “Where the hell else do you think you live?”

  Armstrong was quiet, another long moment.

  “So then you’ll know my secret and I’ll know yours,” he said.

  Reacher nodded. “And we’ll all live happily ever after.”

  There was another long silence. It lasted a whole minute. Reacher saw Armstrong the politician fade away, and Armstrong the man replace him.

  “You’re wrong in most ways,” he said. “But not all of them.”

  He leaned down and opened a drawer. Took out a padded mailer and tossed it on the desk. It skidded on the shiny wood and came to rest an inch from the edge.

  “I guess this counts as the first message,” he said. “It arrived on Election Day. I suppose the Secret Service must have been a little puzzled, but they didn’t see anything really wrong with it. So they passed it right along.”

  The mailer was a standard commercial stationery product. It was addressed to Brook Armstrong, United States Senate, Washington D.C. The address was printed on a familiar self-adhesive label in the familiar computer font, Times New Roman, fourteen point, bold. It had been mailed somewhere in the state of Utah on October 28. The flap had been opened a couple of times and resealed. Reacher eased it back and looked inside. Held it so Neagley could see.

  There was nothing in the envelope except a miniature baseball bat. It was the kind of thing sold as a souvenir or given away as a token. It was plain lacquered softwood the color of honey. It was about an inch wide around the barrel and would have been about fifteen inches long except that it was broken near the end of the handle. It had been broken deliberately. It had been partially sawn through and then snapped where it was weak. The raw end had been scratched and scraped to make it look accidental.

  “I don’t have a temper problem,” Armstrong said. “But you’re right, my father did. We lived in a small town in Oregon, kind of lonely and isolated. It was a lumber town, basically. It was a mixed sort of place. The mill owners had big houses, the crew chiefs had smaller houses, the crews lived in shanties or rooming houses. There was a school. My mother owned the pharmacy. Down the road was the rest of the state, up the road was virgin forest. It felt like the frontier. It was a little lawless, but it wasn’t too bad. There were occasional whores and a lot of drinking, but overall it was just trying to be an American town.”

  He went quiet for a moment. Placed his hands palms down on the desk and stared at them.

  “I was eighteen,” he said. “Finished with high school, ready for college, spending my last few weeks at home. My sister was away traveling somewhere. We had a mailbox at the gate. My father had made it himself, in the shape of a miniature lumber mill. It was a nice thing, made out of tiny strips of cedar. At Halloween in the previous year it had been smashed up, you know, the traditional Halloween thing where the tough kids go out cruising with a baseball bat, bashing mailboxes. My father heard it happening and he chased them, but he didn’t really see them. We were a little upset, because it was a nice mailbox and destroying it seemed kind of senseless. But he rebuilt it stronger and became kind of obsessed about protecting it. Some nights he hid out and guarded it.”

  “And the kids came back,” Neagley said.

  Armstrong nodded.

  “Late that summer,” he said. “Two kids, in a truck, with a bat. They were big guys. I didn’t really know them, but I’d seen them around before, here and there. They were brothers, I think. Real hard kids, you know, delinquents, bullies from out of town, the sort of kids you always stayed well away from. They took a swing at the box and my dad jumped out at them and there was an argument. They were sneering at him, threatening him, saying bad things about my mother. They said, bring her on out and we’ll show her a good time with this bat, better than you can show her. You can imagine the gestures that went with it. So then there was a fight, and my dad got lucky. It was just one of those things, two lucky punches and he won. Or maybe it was his military training. The bat had bust in half, maybe against the box. I thought
that would be the end of it, but he dragged the kids into the yard and got some logging chain and some padlocks and got them chained up to a tree. They were kneeling down, facing each other around the trunk. My dad’s mind was gone. His temper had kicked in. He was hitting them with the broken bat. I was trying to stop him, but it was impossible. Then he said he was going to show them a good time with the bat, with the broken end, unless they begged him not to. So they begged. They begged long and loud.”

  He went quiet again.

  “I was there all the time,” he said. “I was trying to calm my father down, that’s all. But these guys were looking at me like I was participating. There was this thing in their eyes, like I was a witness to their worst moment. Like I was seeing them being totally humiliated, which I guess is the worst thing you can do to a bully. There was absolute hatred in their eyes. Against me. Like they were saying, you’ve seen this, so now you have to die. It was literally as bad as that.”

  “What happened?” Neagley asked.

  “My father kept them there. He said he was going to leave them there all night and start up again in the morning. We went inside and he went to bed and I snuck out again an hour later. I was going to let them go. But they were already gone. They’d gotten out of the chains somehow. Escaped. They never came back. I never saw them again. I went off to college, never really came home again except for visits.”

  “And your father died.”

  Armstrong nodded. “He had blood pressure problems, which was understandable, I guess, given his personality. I kind of forgot about the two kids. It was just an episode that had happened in the past. But I didn’t really forget about them. I always remembered the look in their eyes. I can see it right now. It was stone-cold hatred. It was like two cocky thugs who couldn’t stand to be seen any other way than how they chose to be seen. Like I was committing a mortal sin just for happening to see them losing. Like I was doing something to them. Like I was their enemy. They stared at me. I gave up trying to understand it. I’m no kind of a psychologist. But I never forgot that look. When that package came I wasn’t puzzled for a second who had sent it, even though it’s been nearly thirty years.”