by Lee Child
"This is nonsense."
Reacher shrugged. "So let's prove it. Let's call the FBI and ask them how the hunt for Ellie is going."
"Phones are out," Bobby said. "Electrical storm."
Reacher nodded. "O.K., no problem."
He kept the gun pointed at Walker's chest and turned to face Rusty.
"Tell me what the FBI agents asked you," he said.
Rusty looked blank. "What FBI agents?"
"No FBI agents came here tonight?"
She just shook her head. Reacher nodded.
"You were playacting, Hack," he said. "You told us you'd called the FBI and the state police, and there were roadblocks in place, and helicopters up, and more than a hundred fifty people on the ground. But you didn't call anybody. Because if you had, the very first thing they would have done is come down here. They'd have talked to Rusty for hours. They'd have brought sketch artists and crime scene technicians. This is the scene of the crime, after all. And Rusty is the only witness."
"You're wrong, Reacher," Walker said.
"There were FBI people here," Bobby said. "I saw them in the yard."
Reacher shook his head.
"There were people wearing FBI hats," he said. "Two of them. But they aren't wearing those hats anymore."
Walker said nothing.
"Big mistake, Hack," Reacher said. "Giving us those stupid badges and sending us down here. You're in law enforcement. You knew Rusty was the vital witness. You also knew she wouldn't cooperate fully with me. So it was an inexplicable decision for a DA to take, to send us down here. I couldn't believe it. Then I saw why. You wanted us out of the way. And you wanted to know where we were, at all times. So you could send your people after us."
"What people?"
"The hired guns, Hack. The people in the FBI hats. The people you sent to kill Al Eugene. The people you sent to kill Sloop. They were pretty good. Very professional. But the thing with professionals is, they need to be able to work again in the future. Al Eugene was no problem. Could have been anybody, out there in the middle of nowhere. But Sloop was harder. He was just home from prison, wasn't going anyplace for a spell. So it had to be done right here, which was risky. They made you agree to cover their asses by framing Carmen. Then you made them agree to help you do it by moonlighting as the kidnap team."
"This is ridiculous," Walker said.
"You knew Carmen had bought a gun," Reacher said. "You told me, the paperwork comes through your office. And you knew why she bought it. You knew all about Sloop and what he did to her. You knew their bedroom was a torture chamber. So she wants to hide a gun in there, where does she put it? Three choices, really. Top shelf of her closet, in her bedside table, or in her underwear drawer. Common sense. Same for any woman in any bedroom. I know it, and your people knew it. They probably watched through the window until she went to shower, they slipped some gloves on, a minute later they're in the room, they cover Sloop with their own guns until they find Carmen's, and they shoot him with it. They're outside again thirty seconds later. A quick sprint back to where they left their car on the road, and they're gone. This house is a warren. But you know it well. You're a friend of the family. You assured them they could be in and out without being seen. You probably drew them a floor plan."
Walker closed his eyes. Said nothing. He looked old and pale. The candlelight wasn't helping him.
"But you made mistakes, Hack," Reacher said. "People like you always make mistakes. The financial reports were clumsy. Lots of money, but hardly any expenditure? How likely is that? What is she, a miser, too? And the messenger thing was a bad slip. If they had been messengered, you'd have left them in the courier packet, like you did with the medical reports, to make them look even more official."
Walker opened his eyes, defiant.
"The medical reports," he repeated. "You saw them. They prove she was lying. You heard Cowan Black say it."
Reacher nodded. "Leaving them in the FedEx packet was neat. They looked real urgent, like they were hot off the truck. But you should have torn the label off the front. Because the thing is, FedEx charges by weight. And I weighed the packet on Alice's kitchen scales. One pound, one ounce. But the label said two pounds and nine ounces. So one of two things must have happened. Either FedEx ripped off the hospital by padding the charge, or you took out about sixty percent of the contents and trashed them. And you know what? I vote for you checking the contents before you sent them over to us. You've been a DA for a spell, you've tried a lot of cases, you know what convincing evidence looks like. So anything about the beatings went straight in the trash. All you left were the genuine accidents. But the road rash thing passed you by, so you left the collarbone in by mistake. Or maybe you felt you had to leave it in, because you know she's got a healed knot clearly visible and you figured I'd have noticed it."
Walker said nothing. The lantern hissed.
"The broken arm, the jaw, the teeth," Reacher said. "My guess is there are five or six more folders in a dumpster somewhere. Probably not behind the courthouse. Probably not in your backyard, either. I guess you're smarter than that. Maybe they're in a trashcan at the bus station. Some big public place."
Walker said nothing. The candle flames danced. Reacher smiled.
"But you were mostly pretty good," he said. "When I figured Carmen wasn't the shooter, you steered it straight back to a conspiracy involving Carmen. You didn't miss a beat. Even when I made the link to Eugene, you kept on track. You were very shocked. You went all gray and sweaty. Not because you were upset about Al. But because he'd been found so soon. You hadn't planned on that. But still, you thought for ten seconds and came up with the IRS motive. But you know what? You were so busy thinking, you forgot to be scared enough. About the two-for-three possibility. It was a plausible threat. You should have been much more worried. Anybody else would have been."
Walker said nothing.
"And you got Sloop out on a Sunday," Reacher said. "Not easy to do. But you didn't do it for him. You did it so he could be killed on a Sunday, so Carmen could be framed on a Sunday and spend the maximum time in jail before visitors could get near her the next Saturday. To give yourself five clear days to work on her."
Walker said nothing.
"Lots of mistakes, Hack," Reacher said. "Including sending people after me. Like old Copernicus says, what were the chances they'd be good enough?"
Walker said nothing. Bobby was leaning forward, staring sideways across his mother, looking straight at him. Catching on, slowly.
"You sent people to kill my brother?" he breathed.
"No," Walker said. "Reacher's wrong."
Bobby stared at him like he'd answered yes instead.
"But why would you!" he asked. "You were friends."
Then Walker looked up, straight at Reacher.
"Yes, why would I?" he said. "What possible motive could I have?"
"Something Benjamin Franklin once wrote," Reacher said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You wanted to be a judge. Not because you wanted to do good. That was all sanctimonious bullshit. It was because you wanted the trappings. You were born a poor boy and you were greedy for money and power. And it was right there in front of you. But first you had to get elected. And what sort of a thing stops a person getting elected?"
Walker just shrugged.
"Old scandals," Reacher said. "Among other things. Old secrets, coming back at you from the past. Sloop and Al and you were a threesome, way back when. Did all kinds of stuff together. You three against the world. You told me that. So there's Sloop, in prison for cheating on his taxes. He can't stand it in there. So he thinks, how do I get out of here? Not by repaying my debts. By figuring, my old pal Hack is running for judge this year. Big prize, all that money and power. What's he prepared to do to get it? So he calls you up and says he could start some serious rumors about some old activities if you don't broker his way out of there. You think it over carefully. You figure Sloop wouldn't incrimina
te himself by talking about something you all did together, so at first you relax. Then you realize there's a large gap between the sort of facts that would convict you and the sort of rumors that would wreck your chances in the election. So you cave in. You take some of your campaign donations and arrange to pay off the IRS with it. Now Sloop's happy. But you're not. In your mind, the cat is out of the bag. Sloops threatened you once. What about the next time he wants something? And Al's involved, because he's Sloop's lawyer. So now it's all fresh in Al's mind too. Your chances of making judge are suddenly vulnerable."
Walker said nothing.
"You know what Ben Franklin once wrote?" Reacher asked.
"What?"
"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
Silence in the room. No movement, no breathing. Just the soft hiss of the lantern and the flickering of the tiny candle flames.
"What was the secret?" Alice whispered.
"Three boys in rural Texas," Reacher said. "Growing up together, playing ball, having fun. They get a little older, they turn their attention to what their dads are doing. The guns, the rifles, the hunting. Maybe they start with the armadillos. They shouldn't, really, because they're protected. By the tree-huggers. But the attitude is, they're on my land, they're mine to hunt. Bobby said that to me. An arrogant attitude. A superior attitude. I mean, hey, what's an armadillo worth? But armadillos are slow and boring prey. Too easy. The three boys are growing up. They're three young men now. High school seniors. They want a little more excitement. So they go looking for coyotes, maybe. Worthier opponents. They hunt at night. They use a truck. They range far and wide. And soon they find bigger game. Soon they find a real thrill."
"What?"
"Mexicans," Reacher said. "Poor anonymous no-account brown families stumbling north through the desert at night. And I mean, hey, what are they worth? Are they even human? But they make great prey. They run, and they squeal. Almost like hunting actual people, right, Hack?"
Silence in the room.
"Maybe they started with a girl," Reacher said. "Maybe they didn't mean to kill her. But they did anyway. Maybe they had to. Couple of days, they're nervous. They hold their breath. But there's no comeback. Nobody reacts. Nobody even cares. So hey, this is suddenly fun. Then they're out often. It becomes a sport. The ultimate kill. Better than armadillos. They take that old pick-up, one of them driving, two of them riding in the load bed, they hunt for hours. Bobby said Sloop invented that technique. Said he was real good at it. I expect he was. I expect they all were. They got plenty of practice. They did it twenty-five times in a year."
"That was the border patrol," Bobby said.
"No, it wasn't. The report wasn't a whitewash. It didn't read like one, and the inside word is it was kosher. Sergeant Rodriguez told me that. And people like Sergeant Rodriguez know things like that, believe me. The investigation got nowhere because it was looking in the wrong place. It wasn't a bunch of rogue officers. It was three local boys called Sloop Greer and Al Eugene and Hack Walker. Having fun in that old pick-up truck that's still parked in your barn. Boys will be boys, right?"
Silence in the room.
"The attacks were mostly in Echo County," Reacher said. "That struck me as odd. Why would the border patrol come so far north? Truth is, they didn't. Three Echo boys went a little ways south instead."
Silence.
"The attacks stopped in late August," Reacher said. "Why was that? Not because the investigation scared them off. They didn't know about the investigation. It was because college opens early September. They went off to be freshmen. The next summer it was too dangerous or they'd grown out of it, and they didn't ever do it again. The whole thing faded into history, until twelve years later Sloop was sitting in a cell somewhere and dragged it all up because he was so desperate to get out."
Everybody was staring straight at Walker. His eyes were closed tight and he was deathly pale.
"It seemed so unfair, right?" Reacher said to him. "All that was way in the past. Maybe you weren't even a willing participant in the first place. Maybe the others dragged you into it. And now it was all coming back at you. It was a nightmare. It was going to ruin your life. It was going to take away the big prize. So you made some calls. Made some decisions. Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
Another candle died. The wick hissed and smoke plumed.
"No," Walker said. "It wasn't like that."
The lantern flickered behind him. Shadows danced on the ceiling.
"So what was it like?" Reacher asked.
"I was just going to take Ellie. Just temporarily. I hired some local people to do it. I had plenty of campaign money. They watched her for a week. I went up to the jail and told Sloop, don't mess with me. But he didn't care. He said, go ahead and take Ellie. He didn't want her. He was all conflicted. He married Carmen to punish himself for what we did, I think. That's why he hit her all the time. She was a permanent reminder. He thought she could read it in him. See it in his eyes. Like voodoo. Ellie, too. He thought she could see it in him. So taking her wasn't a threat to Sloop."
"So then you hired some more people."
Walker nodded. "They took over and got rid of the watchers for me."
"And then they got rid of Al and Sloop."
"It was a long time ago, Reacher. He shouldn't have brought it up. We were kids at the time. We all agreed we would never even mention it again. We promised each other. Never, ever. It was the unmentionable thing. Like it had never happened. Like it was just a bad dream, a year long."
There was silence.
"You were driving the truck tonight," Reacher said.
Walker nodded again, slowly. "You two, then it would have been over. I knew you knew, you see. I mean, why else would you steal the files and lead us out into the desert? So I drove the truck. Why not? I'd driven out there at night before, many times."
Then he went quiet. Swallowed hard, twice. Closed his eyes.
"But I got scared," he said. "I got sick. I couldn't go through with it. Not again. I'm not that person anymore. I changed."
Silence in the room.
"Where's Ellie?" Reacher asked.
Walker shrugged and shook his head. Reacher fished in his pocket and came out with the chromium star.
"Is this thing legal?" he asked.
Walker opened his eyes. Nodded.
"Technically, I guess," he said.
"So I'm going to arrest you."
Walker shook his head, vaguely.
"No," he said. "Please."
"Are you armed?" Reacher asked him.
Walker nodded. "Pistol, in my pocket."
"Get it for me, Mrs. Greer," Reacher said.
Rusty turned in her chair and went for Walker's pocket. He offered no resistance. Even leaned sideways to make it easier for her. She came out with a small blued-steel revolver. A Colt Detective Special, .38 caliber, six shots, two-inch barrel. A small weapon. Rusty cradled it in her palm, and it looked right at home in a woman's hand.
"Where's Ellie, Hack?" Reacher asked again.
"I don't know," Walker said. "I really don't. They use motels. I don't know which one. They wouldn't tell me. They said it's safer that way."
"How do you contact them?"
"A Dallas number. It must be rerouted."
"Phones are out," Bobby said.
"Where is she, Hack?" Reacher asked again.
"I don't know. I'd tell you if I did."
Reacher raised Alice's gun. Held it straight out across the table. His arms were long, and the muzzle came to rest two feet from Walker's face.
"Watch the trigger finger, Hack," he said.
He tightened his finger until the skin shone white in the candlelight. The trigger moved backward, a sixteenth of an inch, then an eighth.
"You want to die, Hack?"
Walker nodded.
"Yes, please," he whispered.
"Tell me first," Reacher said. "Make it right. Where is she?"
"I
don't know," Walker said.
He stared at the muzzle. It was so close, his eyes were crossing. The candle flames were reflected in the polished nickel. Reacher sighed and slackened his finger and lowered the gun all the way back to the tabletop. It hit the wood with a quiet sound. Nobody spoke. And nobody moved, until Rusty's hand came up with the tiny revolver in it. She raised it in a wavering circle and it finished up pointing at nobody in particular.
"Sloop wouldn't hit a woman," she whispered. "Those were all riding accidents."
Reacher shook his head. "He beat Carmen for five years, Rusty, almost every day they were married, until he went to jail. Broke her bones and split her lips and bruised her flesh. And that was after raping and torturing and murdering twenty-five human beings, at night, in the desert, twelve years ago."
She trembled wildly.
"No," she said. "That isn't true."
The gun wavered unsteadily.
"Point that thing at me and I'll shoot you," Reacher said. "Believe me, it would be an absolute pleasure."
She stared at him for a second and then crooked her arm and touched the gun to the side of her own head, just above her ear. The metal penetrated her lacquered hair like a stick thrust through a bird's nest. She kept it there for a long moment and then pulled it away and turned and twisted in her chair and moved it again and brought it level with Hack Walker's forehead, with the muzzle no more than two inches from his skin.
"You killed my boy," she whispered.
Walker made no attempt to move. He just nodded, very slightly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered back.
No revolver has a safety mechanism. And a Colt Detective Special is a double-action pistol. Which means the first half of the trigger's travel clicks the hammer back and revolves the cylinder under it, and then, if you keep on pulling, the hammer drops and the gun fires.
"No, Rusty," Reacher said.
"Mom," Bobby called.
The hammer clicked back.
"No, "Alice shouted.
