by Lee Child
Reacher knew from television commercials that computers operated at all kinds of gigahertz, which he assumed was pretty fast. But even so, Franklin’s screen stayed blank for a long, long time. There was a little graphic in the corner. It was rotating slowly. It implied a thorough and patient search through an infinite amount of data. It spun for minutes. Then it stopped. There was an electrostatic crackle from the monitor and the screen wiped down and redrew into a densely-printed document. Plain computer font. Reacher couldn’t read it from where he was.
The office went quiet.
Franklin looked up.
“OK,” he said. “There you go. At last. Finally something that isn’t ordinary. Finally we catch a break.”
“What?” Yanni said.
“Oline Archer reported her husband missing two months ago.”
CHAPTER 15
Franklin pushed his chair back to make space and the others all crowded around the screen together. Reacher and Helen Rodin ended up shoulder to shoulder. No more animosity. Just the thrill of pursuit.
Most of the document was taken up with coded headers and source information. Letters, numbers, times, origins. The substantive message was short. Two months previously, Mrs. Oline Anne Archer had made a missing persons report concerning her husband. His name was Edward Stratton Archer. He had left the marital home for work early on a routine Monday and had not returned by end-of-business on Wednesday, which was when the report was made.
“Is he still missing?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Franklin said. He pointed to a letter A buried in the code at the top of the screen. “It’s still active.”
“So let’s go talk to Oline’s friends,” Reacher said. “We need some background here.”
“Now?” Franklin said.
“We’ve only got twelve hours,” Reacher said. “No time to waste.”
Franklin wrote down names and addresses for Oline Archer’s co-worker and neighbor. He handed the paper to Ann Yanni, because she was paying his bill.
“I’ll stay here,” he said. “I’ll see if the husband shows up in the databases. This could be a coincidence. Maybe he’s got a wife in every state. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Reacher said. “So don’t waste your time. Find a phone number for me instead. A guy called Cash. Former Marine. He owns the range where James Barr went to shoot. Down in Kentucky. Call him for me.”
“Message?”
“Give him my name. Tell him to get his ass in his Humvee. Tell him to drive up here tonight. Tell him there’s a whole new Invitational going on.”
“Invitational?”
“He’ll understand. Tell him to bring his M24. With a night scope. And whatever else he’s got lying around.”
Reacher followed Ann Yanni and Helen Rodin down the stairs. They got into Helen’s Saturn, the women in the front and Reacher in the back. Reacher figured they would all have preferred the Mustang, but it only had two seats.
“Where first?” Helen asked.
“Which is closer?” Reacher asked back.
“The co-worker.”
“OK, her first.”
Traffic was slow. Roads were torn up and construction traffic was lumbering in and out of work zones. Reacher glanced between his watch and the windows. Daylight was fading. Evening was coming. Time ticking away.
The co-worker lived in a plain heartland suburb east of town. It was filled with a grid of straight residential streets. The streets were lined on both sides by modest ranch houses. The houses had small lots, flags on poles, hoops over the garage doors, satellite dishes on brick chimneys. Some of the sidewalk trees had faded yellow ribbons tied around them. Reacher guessed they symbolized solidarity with troops serving overseas. Which conflict, he wasn’t sure. What the point was, he had no idea. He had served overseas for most of thirteen years and had never met anyone who cared what was tied to trees back home. As long as someone sent paychecks and food and water and bullets, and wives stayed faithful, most guys were happy enough.
The sun was going down behind them and Helen was driving slowly with her head ducked forward so she could see the house numbers early. She spotted the one she wanted and pulled into a driveway and parked behind a small sedan. It was new. Reacher recognized the brand name from his walk up the four-lane: America’s Best Warranty!
The co-worker herself was a tired and harassed woman of about thirty-five. She opened her door and stepped out to the stoop and pulled the door shut behind her to block out the noise from what sounded like a dozen kids running riot inside. She recognized Ann Yanni immediately. Even glanced beyond her, looking for a camera crew.
“Yes?” she said.
“We need to talk about Oline Archer,” Helen Rodin said.
The woman said nothing. She looked conflicted, like she knew she was supposed to think it was tasteless to talk about victims of tragedy to journalists. But apparently Ann Yanni’s celebrity status overcame her reluctance.
“OK,” she said. “What do you want to know? Oline was a lovely person and all of us at the office miss her terribly.”
The nature of randomness, Reacher thought. Random slayings always involved people described as lovely afterward. Nobody ever said She was a rat-faced fink and I’m glad she’s dead. Whoever it was did us all a favor. That never happened.
“We need to know something about her husband,” Helen said.
“I never met her husband,” the woman said.
“Did Oline talk about him?”
“A little, I guess. Now and then. His name is Ted, I think.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s in business. I’m not sure what kind of business.”
“Did Oline say anything about him being missing?”
“Missing?”
“Oline reported him missing two months ago.”
“I know she seemed terribly worried. I think he was having problems with his business. In fact I think he’d been having problems for a year or two. That’s why Oline went back to work.”
“She didn’t always work?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I think she did way back, and then she gave it up. But she had to come back. Because of circumstances. Whatever the opposite of rags to riches is.”
“Riches to rags,” Reacher said.
“Yes, like that,” the woman said. “She needed her job, financially. I think she was embarrassed about it.”
“But she didn’t give you details?” Ann Yanni asked.
“She was a very private person,” the woman said.
“It’s important.”
“She would get kind of distracted. That wasn’t like her. About a week before she was killed she was gone most of one afternoon. That wasn’t like her, either.”
“Do you know what she was doing?”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Anything you remember about her husband would help us.”
The woman shook her head. “His name is Ted. That’s all I can say for sure.”
“OK, thanks,” Helen said.
She turned and headed back to her car. Yanni and Reacher followed her. The woman on the stoop stared after them, disappointed, like she had failed an audition.
Ann Yanni said, “Strike one. But don’t worry. It always happens that way. Sometimes I think we should just skip the first person on the list. They never know anything.”
Reacher was uncomfortable in the back of the car. His pants pocket had gotten underneath him and a coin was digging edge-on into his thigh. He squirmed around and pulled it out. It was a quarter, new and shiny. He looked at it for a minute and then he put it in the other pocket.
“I agree,” he said. “We should have skipped her. My fault. Stands to reason a co-worker wouldn’t know much. People are cagy around co-workers. Especially rich people fallen on hard times.”
“The neighbor will know more,” Yanni said.
“We hope,” Helen said.
They were caught in crosstown
traffic. They were headed from the eastern suburbs to the western, and it was a slow, slow ride. Reacher was glancing between his watch and the windows again. The sun was low on the horizon ahead of them. Behind them it was already twilight.
Time ticking away.
Rosemary Barr moved in her chair and struggled against the tape binding her wrists.
“We know it was Charlie who did it,” she said.
“Charlie?” the Zec repeated.
“My brother’s so-called friend.”
“Chenko,” the Zec said. “His name is Chenko. And yes, he did it. Tactically it was his plan. He did well. Of course, his physique helped. He was able to wear his own shoes inside your brother’s. He had to roll the pants and the raincoat sleeves.”
“But we know,” Rosemary said.
“But who knows? And what exactly do they bring to the party?”
“Helen Rodin knows.”
“You’ll dismiss her as your lawyer. You’ll terminate the representation. Ms. Rodin will be unable to repeat anything she learned while your relationship was privileged. Linsky, am I right?”
Linsky nodded. He was six feet away, on the sofa, propped at an odd angle to rest his back.
“That’s the law,” he said. “Here in America.”
“Franklin knows,” Rosemary said. “And Ann Yanni.”
“Hearsay,” the Zec said. “Theories, speculation, and innuendo. Those two have no persuasive evidence. And no credibility, either. Private detectives and television journalists are exactly the kind of people who peddle ridiculous and alternative explanations for events like these. It’s to be expected. Its absence would be unusual. Apparently a president was killed in this country more than forty years ago and people like them still claim that the real truth has not yet been uncovered.”
Rosemary said nothing.
“Your deposition will be definitive,” the Zec said. “You’ll go to Rodin and you’ll give sworn testimony about how your brother plotted and planned. About how he told you what he was intending. In detail. The time, the place, everything. You’ll say that to your sincere and everlasting regret you didn’t take him seriously. Then some poor excuse for a public defender will take one look at your evidence and plead your brother guilty and the whole thing will be over.”
“I won’t do it,” Rosemary said.
The Zec looked straight at her.
“You will do it,” he said. “I promise you that. Twenty-four hours from now you’ll be begging to do it. You’ll be insane with fear that we might change our minds and not let you do it.”
The room went quiet. Rosemary glanced at the Zec as if she had something to say. Then she glanced away. But the Zec answered her anyway. He had heard her message loud and clear.
“No, we won’t be there with you at the deposition,” he said. “But we will know what you tell them. Within minutes. And don’t think about a little detour to the bus depot. For one thing, we’ll have your brother killed. For another, there’s no country in the world we can’t find you in.”
Rosemary said nothing.
“Anyway,” the Zec said. “Let’s not argue. It’s unproductive. And pointless. You’ll tell them what we tell you to tell them. You will, you know. You’ll see. You’ll be desperate to. You’ll be wishing we had arranged an earlier appointment for you. At the courthouse. You’ll spend the waiting time on your knees pleading for a chance to show us how word-perfect you are. That’s how it usually happens. We’re very good at what we do. We learned at the feet of masters.”
“My brother has Parkinson’s disease,” Rosemary said.
“Diagnosed when?” the Zec asked, because he knew the answer.
“It’s been developing.”
The Zec shook his head. “Too subjective to be helpful. Who’s to say it’s not a similar condition brought on suddenly by his recent injury? If not, then who’s to say such a condition is a true handicap anyway? When shooting from such a close range? If the public defender brings in an expert, then Rodin will bring in three. He’ll find doctors who will swear that Little Annie Oakley was racked with Parkinson’s disease from the very day she was born.”
“Reacher knows,” Rosemary said.
“The soldier? The soldier will be dead by morning. Dead, or a runaway.”
“He won’t run away.”
“Therefore he’ll be dead. He’ll come for you tonight. We’ll be ready for him.”
Rosemary said nothing.
“Men have come for us before in the night,” the Zec said. “Many times, in many places. And yet we’re still here. Da, Linsky?”
Linsky nodded again.
“We’re still here,” he said.
“When will he come?” the Zec asked.
“I don’t know,” Rosemary said.
“Four o’clock in the morning,” Linsky said. “He’s an American. They’re trained that four o’clock in the morning is the best time for a surprise attack.”
“Direction?”
“From the north would make the most sense. The stone-crushing plant would conceal his staging area and leave him only two hundred yards of open ground to cover. But I think he’ll double-bluff us there. He’ll avoid the north, because he knows it’s best.”
“Not from the west,” the Zec said.
Linsky shook his head. “I agree. Not down the driveway. Too straight and open. He’ll come from the south or the east.”
“Put Vladimir in with Sokolov,” the Zec said to him. “Tell them to watch the south and the east very carefully. But tell them to keep an eye out north and west, too. All four directions must be monitored continuously, just in case. Then put Chenko in the upstairs hallway with his rifle. He can be ready to deploy to whichever window is appropriate. With Chenko, one shot will be enough.”
Then he turned to Rosemary Barr.
“Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.”
The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure.
“Tight-ass middle class,” Reacher said.
“What we all aspire to,” Yanni said.
“They won’t want to talk,” Reacher said. “Not their style.”
“They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks to me.”
They drove past the Archer place slowly. There was a cast-metal sign on thin chains under the mailbox: Ted and Oline Archer. Beyond it, across a broad open lawn, the house looked closed-up and dark and silent. It was a big Tudor place. Dull brown beams, cream stucco. Three-car garage. Nobody home, Reacher thought.
The neighbor they were looking for lived across the street and one lot to the north. Hers was a place about the same size as the Archers’ but done in an Italianate style. Stone accents, little crenellated towers, dark green sun awnings on the south-facing ground-floor windows. The evening light was fading away to darkness and lamps were coming on behind draped windows. The whole street looked warm and rested and quiet and very satisfied with itself. Reacher said, “They sleep safely in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do them harm.”
“You know George Orwell?” Yanni asked.
“I went to college,” Reacher said. “West Point is technically a college.”
Yanni said, “The existing social order is a swindle and its cherished beliefs mostly delusions.”
“It is not possible for any thinking person to live in such a society as our own without wanting to change it,” Reacher said.
“I’m sure these are perfectly nice people,” Helen said.
“But will they talk to us?”
“They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks.”
Helen pulled into a long limestone driveway and parked about twenty feet behind an imported SUV that had big chrome wheels. The front door of the house was made of ancient gray weathered oak with iron banding that had nail heads as big as golf balls. It felt like you could step through it straight into the Renaissance.
“Property is theft,” Reacher said.
“Proudhon,” Yanni said. “Property is desirable, is a positive good in the world.”
“Abraham Lincoln,” Reacher said. “In his first State of the Union.”
There was an iron knocker shaped like a quoit in a lion’s mouth. Helen lifted it and used it to thump on the door. Then she found a discreet electric bell push and pressed that, too. They heard no answering sound inside the house. Heavy door, thick walls. Helen tried again with the bell, and before she got her finger off the button, the door sucked back off copper weatherproofing strips and opened like a vault. A guy was standing there with his hand on the inside handle.
“Yes?” he said. He was somewhere in his forties, solid, prosperous, probably a golf club member, maybe an Elk, maybe a Rotarian. He was wearing corduroy pants and a patterned sweater. He was the kind of guy who gets home and immediately changes clothes as a matter of routine.
“Is your wife at home?” Helen asked. “We’d like to speak with her about Oline Archer.”
“About Oline?” the guy said. He was looking at Ann Yanni.
“I’m a lawyer,” Helen said.
“What is there to be said about Oline?”
“Maybe more than you think,” Yanni said.
“You’re not a lawyer.”
“I’m here as a journalist,” Yanni said. “But not on a human interest story. Nothing tacky. There might have been a miscarriage of justice. That’s the issue here.”
“A miscarriage in what way?”
“They might have arrested the wrong man for the shootings. That’s why I’m here. That’s why we’re all here.”
Reacher watched the guy. He was standing there, holding the door, trying to decide. In the end he just sighed and stepped back.
“You better come in,” he said.
Everyone talks.
He led the way through a muted yellow hallway to a living room. It was spacious and immaculate. Velvet furniture, little mahogany tables, a stone fireplace. No television. There was probably a separate room for that. A den, or a home theater. Or perhaps they didn’t watch television. Reacher saw Ann Yanni calculating the odds.