The Essential Jack Reacher 10-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “I never told anyone he was ugly. Or black. Not on the phone. You must have gotten that from your Tennessee buddies.”

  “Whatever, you’re obsessed. I ordered you to leave but you attacked me.”

  I leaned back in his visitor chair. I stretched my legs out in front of me. I let my arms hang down. I got good and relaxed. I could have fallen asleep. I said, “This doesn’t look like a very threatening posture, does it? And I weigh about 250. You’ll have a problem moving me before 3C314 and 3C316 get in here. Which will take them about a second and a half. And then you’ll have to deal with the MPs. You kill one of their own in dubious circumstances, they’ll tear you apart.”

  “My neighbors won’t hear. No one will hear a thing.”

  “Why? You got suppressors on those guns?”

  “I don’t need suppressors. Or guns.”

  Then he did a very strange thing. He stepped over and took a picture off his wall. A black and white photograph. Himself and Senator Carlton Riley. It was signed. By the senator, I assumed. Not by him. He stepped away from the wall and laid the picture on his desk. Then he stepped back again and pincered his fingertips and worried the nail out of the plaster.

  “Is that it?” I said. “You’re going to prick me to death with a pin?”

  He put the nail next to the photograph.

  He opened a drawer and took out a hammer.

  He said, “I was in the middle of rehanging the picture when you attacked me. Fortunately I was able to grab the hammer, which was still close at hand.”

  I said nothing.

  “It will be very quiet,” he said. “One solid blow should do it. I’ll have plenty of time to arrange your body whatever way I need to.”

  “You’re insane,” I said.

  “No, I’m committed,” he said. “To the future of the army.”

  Chapter

  66

  Hammers are very evolved items. They haven’t changed for years. Why would they change? Nails haven’t changed. Nails have been the same forever. Therefore a hammer’s necessary features were worked out long ago. A heavy metal head, and a handle. All you need, and nothing you don’t. Frazer’s was a claw design, a framing hammer, maybe twenty-eight ounces. A big ugly thing. Total overkill for picture hanging, but such mismatches of tool and purpose are common in the real world.

  It made for a decent weapon, though.

  He came at me with it cocked in his right hand like a nightstick. I scrambled up out of my chair pretty fast, any idea of embarrassing him with an inappropriate postmortem position abandoned long ago. Sheer instinct. I don’t scare easy, but humans are very evolved too. A lot of what we do is hard-wired right back to the mists of time. Right back to where my pal Stan Lowrey liked to start a story.

  Frazer’s office was small. Its free floor space was smaller still. Like fighting in a phone booth. How it was going to go would depend on how smart Frazer was. And I figured he was plenty smart. He had survived Vietnam, and the Gulf, and years of Pentagon bullshit. You don’t do any of that without brains. I figured he was an easy seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. In no imminent danger of winning the Nobel Prize, but definitely smarter than the average bear.

  Which helped me. Fighting morons is harder. You can’t guess what they’re going to do. But smart people are predictable.

  He swung the hammer right to left, waist height, a standard opening gambit. I arched back and it missed me. I figured next he would slash back the other way, left to right, same height, and he did, and I arched back again, and he missed again. An exploratory exchange. Like moving pawns on a chess board. He was breathing strangely. Ferocity, not a throat problem. Nothing for Saint Audrey to worry about. It was ferocity, and excitement. He was a warrior at heart, and warriors love nothing more than the fight itself. It consumes them. They live for it. He was smiling, too, in a feral way, and his eyes were seeing nothing except the hammer head and my midsection beyond it. There was a sharp tang of sweat in the air, something primitive, like a nighttime rodent’s lair.

  I dodged forward half a step, and he matched it with a backward move of his own that left us in the middle of the floor, which was important. To me. He wanted me back against the wall, and I didn’t want to be there.

  Not yet, anyway.

  He swung the hammer a third time, scything it hard, making it look like he meant it, which he didn’t. Not yet. I could read the pattern. It was in his eyes. I arched back and the hammer head buzzed by an inch from my coat. Twenty-eight ounces, on a long handle. The momentum of the miss carried it way around. His shoulders turned ninety degrees and he twisted at the waist. He used the torque to come right back at me. With some arm extension this time. He forced me back. I ended up close to the wall.

  I watched his eyes.

  Not yet.

  He was a warrior. I wasn’t. I was a brawler. He lived for the tactical victory. I lived to piss on the other guy’s grave. Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all. A different focus. He swung for the fourth time, same angle, same height. He was like a fastball pitcher, getting me used to one thing before unleashing another thing entirely. Inside, inside, inside, and then the splitter away. But Frazer wouldn’t go low. He would go high. Low would be better, but he was only a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. But not a nine.

  He swung a fifth time, same height, same angle, so hard that the tines of the claw made a raw thrumming sound as they moved through the air, stopping dead as the hammer stopped dead. He swung a sixth time, same height, same sound, more extension. I was very close to the wall. No real place to go. Then came the seventh swing, same height, same angle, same sound.

  Then came his eyes.

  They flicked upward, and the eighth swing aimed high, right at the side of my head. Right at my temple. I saw a glint off the hammer’s inch-wide striking face. Twenty-eight ounces. Nearly two pounds in weight. It would have punched a very neat hole through the bone.

  But it didn’t, because my head wasn’t there when it arrived.

  I dropped vertically, eight inches onto bent and pre-set knees, four inches so the swing would miss me, and another four as a margin of safety, and I heard the rush of air above me, and I felt the miss drag him around in a wild part-circle, and I started back up, and then we were into a whole new set of calculations. We had done the three dimensions. We had done in and out, back and forth, and up and down. Now we were ready for the fourth dimension. Time. The only remaining questions were how fast could I hit him, and how fast was he spinning?

  And they were crucial questions. For him especially. I was twisting as I rose and my elbow was already moving fast and it was a certainty I was going to hit him with it in the neck. A mathematical certainty. But which part of the neck? The answer was, whichever part was there when the blow landed. Front, side, back, it was all the same to me. But not to him. For him, some parts would be worse than others.

  The twenty-eight ounces had first pulled his arms away from his shoulders, in a kind of Olympic hammer-throwing way, and then they had pulled his trailing shoulder hard, in a kind of whip-cracking way, so he was well into a serious but uncontrolled spin by then. And my elbow was doing pretty well by that point. A muscle memory thing. It happens automatically. If in doubt, throw the elbow. Maybe a childhood thing. My weight was behind it, my foot was braced, and it was going to land, and it was going to land hard. In fact it was going to land very hard. It was already scything and clubbing downward. And it was accelerating. It was going to be a vicious blow. It was going to be the kind of vicious blow he might survive if he took it on the side of the neck, but not on the back. A blow like that on the back of the neck would be fatal. No question. Something to do with how the skull joins the vertebrae.

  So it was all about time, and speed, and rotation, and eccentric orbits. It was impossible to predict. Too many moving parts. At first I thought he was going to take it mostly on the side. On the angle, really, but with the ratio tilted toward maybe surviving it. Then I saw it was going to be closer to fifty
-fifty, but the twenty-eight ounces suddenly pulled him off in some new direction, and from that point onward there was no doubt he was going to take it on the back of the neck and nowhere else. No doubt at all. The guy was going to die.

  Which I didn’t regret.

  Except in a practical sense.

  Chapter

  67

  Frazer went down by his desk, not hitting it, making a sound no louder than a fat guy sitting down on a sofa. Which was safe enough. No one calls the cops when a fat guy sits down on a sofa. There was carpet on the floor, some kind of a Persian thing most likely left behind by a previous occupant long dead of a heart attack. Under the carpet would be pad, and under that was solid Pentagon concrete. So sound transmission was strictly contained. No one will hear a thing, Frazer had said. You got that right, I thought. Asshole.

  I pulled the illicit Beretta from my Class A coat pocket and held it on him for a long moment. Just in case. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. But he didn’t move. No way could he. Maybe his eyelids. His neck was loose right at the top. He had taken no vertebrae with him. His skull was attached to the rest of him by nothing but skin.

  I left him where he was for the time being and was about to step into the center of the room to start scoping things out when the door opened.

  And in walked Frances Neagley.

  She was in woodland-pattern BDUs and she was wearing latex gloves. She glanced around the room once, twice, and she said, “We need to move him near where the picture was.”

  I just stood there.

  “Quickly,” she said.

  So I got myself going and I hauled him over to where he might plausibly have fallen while he was hanging the picture. He could have gone over backward and hit his head on the edge of the desk. The distances were about right.

  “But why would he?” I said.

  “He was banging in the nail,” Neagley said. “He flinched when he saw the claw coming at him on the backswing. Some knee-jerk reaction. A reflex. He couldn’t help it. He got his feet tangled up in the rug and over he went.”

  “So where’s the nail now?”

  She took it off the desk and dropped it at the base of the wall. It tinkled faintly against the gutter of tile beyond the edge of the rug.

  “And where’s the hammer?”

  “It’s near enough,” she said. “Time to go.”

  “I have to erase my appointment.”

  She showed me diary pages from her pocket.

  “Already in the bag,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Neagley led me down two flights of stairs and through the corridors at a pace somewhere between moderate and brisk. We used the southeast entrance to get outside and then we headed straight for the parking lot, where we stopped among the reserved spaces, and where Neagley unlocked a large Buick sedan. It was a Park Avenue. Dark blue. Very clean. Maybe new.

  Neagley said, “Get in.”

  So I got in, onto soft beige leather. Neagley backed up and swung the wheel and headed for the exit, and then we were through the barrier, and pretty soon after that we were on a bunch of highway ramps, and then we were through the last of them and on a six-lane road heading south, just one car among a rolling thousand.

  I said, “The inquiry desk has a record of me coming in.”

  “Wrong tense,” Neagley said. “It had a record. It doesn’t anymore.”

  “When did you do all that?”

  “I figured you were OK as soon as you were one-on-one with the guy. Although I wish you hadn’t talked so much. You should have moved to the physical much sooner. You have talents, honey, but talking ain’t top of the list.”

  “Why are you even here?”

  “I got word.”

  “What word?”

  “The story of this crazy trap. Walking into the Pentagon like that.”

  “Word from where?”

  “From way down in Mississippi. From Sheriff Deveraux herself. She asked for my help.”

  “She called you?”

  “No, we had a séance.”

  “Why would she call you?”

  “Because she was worried, you idiot. As was I, as soon as I heard.”

  “There was nothing to worry about.”

  “There could have been.”

  I asked, “What did she want you to do?”

  “She wanted me to watch your back. To make sure you were OK.”

  “I don’t think I told her what time the appointment was.”

  “She knew what bus you were on. Her deputy told her what time he’d gotten you to Memphis, and so it was easy enough to figure out what line you would take.”

  “How did that help you this morning?”

  “It didn’t help me this morning. It helped me yesterday evening. I’ve been on you since you left the bus depot. Every minute. Nice hotel, by the way. If they ever catch up with me for the room service, you owe me big money.”

  I said, “Whose car is this?”

  “It belongs to the motor pool. As per procedure.”

  “What procedure?”

  “When a senior staff officer passes away, his Department-owned car is returned to the motor pool. Where it is immediately road tested to determine what remedial work needs to be done before it can be reissued. This is the road test.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “About two years, probably.”

  “Who was the officer?”

  “It’s a fairly new car, isn’t it? Must have been a fairly recent death.”

  “Frazer?”

  “It’s easier for the motor pool to do the paperwork first thing in the morning. We were all counting on you. If anything had gone wrong we’d all have had red faces.”

  “I might have arrested him instead.”

  “Same thing. Dead or busted, it makes no difference to the motor pool.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re due on post. Garber wants to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s three hours away.”

  “So sit back and relax. This might be the last rest you get for a spell.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Deveraux.”

  “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t help her if she was worried. I think there’s something wrong with her, that’s all. How long have you known her?”

  “Four days,” I said.

  “And I bet you could already tell me four weird things about her.”

  I said, “I should try to call her, if she’s worried.”

  “I already tried,” Neagley said. “From the scheduler’s phone. While you were giving Frazer all that theoretical shit. I was going to tell her you were nearly home and dry. But she didn’t answer. A whole Sheriff’s Department, and no one picked up.”

  “Perhaps they’re busy.”

  “Perhaps they are. Because there’s something else you need to know. I checked a rumor from the sergeants’ network. The ground crew at Benning says the Blackhawk that came in from Kelham on Sunday was empty. Apart from the pilots, of course. No passenger, is what they meant. Reed Riley didn’t go anywhere. He’s still on the post.”

  Chapter

  68

  I took Neagley’s advice and relaxed through the rest of the ride. It took a lot less than three hours. The Buick was much faster than a bus. And Neagley pushed it much harder than a bus driver would. I was back on post by three-thirty. I had been gone exactly twenty-four hours.

  I went straight to my quarters and took off the fancy Class As and cleaned my teeth and took a shower. Then I put on BDUs with a T-shirt and went to see what Garber wanted.

  Garber wanted to show me a confidential file from the Marine Corps. That was the purpose of his summons. But first came a short question-and-answer session. It didn’t go well. It was very unsatisfactory. I asked the questions, and he refused to answer them.

  And he refused to make eye contact.

  I asked, “Who did they arrest in Mississippi?”

/>   He said, “Read the file.”

  “I would like to know.”

  “Read the file first.”

  “Do they have a good case or is it bullshit?”

  “Read the file.”

  “Was it the same guy for all three women?”

  “Read the file first.”

  “Civilian, right?”

  “Read the damn file, Reacher.”

  He wouldn’t let me take the file away. It had to remain under his personal control at all times. Under his eye throughout, technically, but he didn’t follow the letter of the law on that point. He stepped out of his office and closed the door quietly and left me alone with it.

  It was about a quarter of an inch thick, cased in a jacket that was a different shade of khaki than the army uses. Better quality, too. It was smooth and crisp, only a little scraped and scuffed by the passage of time. It had red chevrons on all four edges, presumably denoting some elevated level of secrecy. It had a white stick-on label with a USMC file number printed on it, and a date five years in the past.

  It had a second label with a name printed on it.

  DEVERAUX, E.

  Her name was followed by her rank, which was CWO5, and her service number, and her date of birth, which was fairly close to mine. Near the bottom edge of the jacket was a third stick-on, slightly misaligned, taken from a long roll of preprinted tape. I guessed it was supposed to say Do Not Open Unless Authorized but it had been cut at the wrong interval so that in reality it said Open Unless Authorized Do Not. Bureaucracy can be full of accidental humor.

  But the contents of the file were not funny.

  The contents started with her photograph. It was in color, and maybe a little more than five years old. Her hair was buzzed very short, like she had told me. Probably a number two clipper, grown out a week or so, like a soft dark halo. Like moss. She looked very beautiful. Very small and delicate. The short hair made her eyes enormous. She looked full of life, full of vigor, in control, in command. Some kind of a mental and physical plateau. Late twenties, early thirties. I remembered them well.