it would be seen that they had died protecting democracy itself,
not just himself in person. He hoped their families might
take some small measure of comfort from that, as well as a
great deal of justified pride. He promised swift and certain
retribution against the perpetrators of the outrage. He assured
America that no amount of violence or intimidation could deter
the workings of government, and that the transition would
continue unaffected. But he finished by saying that as a mark of
his absolute respect, he was remaining in Washington and
cancelling all engagements until he had attended a memorial
service for his personal friend and protection team leader. He
said the service would be held on Sunday morning, in a small
country church in a small Wyoming town called Grace, where
no finer metaphor for America’s enduring greatness could be
found.
‘Guy’s full of shit,’ the duty officer said.
‘No, he’s OK,’ Reacher said.
The bulletin cut to first-quarter football highlights. The duty
officer muted the sound and turned away. Reacher closed his
eyes. Thought of Joe, and then of Froelich. Thought of them
together. Then he rehearsed his upward glance once again. The
curved spray of Froelich’s blood, the curve of the shooter’s
shoulder, retreating, swinging away, swooping away. The coat
flowing with him. The coat. He ran it all again, like the TV
station had rerun its tape. He froze on the coat. He knew. He
opened his eyes wide.
‘Figured how yet?’ he asked.
‘Can’t get past Bannon’s take,’ Neagley answered.
‘Say it.’
‘Crosetti saw somebody he knew and trusted.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man, according to you.’
‘OK, say it again.’
Neagley shrugged. ‘Crosetti saw some man he knew and
trusted.’
290
Reacher shook his head. Fwo words short. Crosetti saw
some type of man he knew and trusted.’
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Who can get in and out of anywhere without suspicion?’
Neagley looked at him. ‘Law enforcement?’
Reacher nodded. Fhe coat was long, kind of reddish-brown,
faint pattern to it. Too thin for an overcoat, too thick for a
raincoat, flapping open. It swung as he ran.’
‘As who ran?’
I’hat Bismarck cop. The lieutenant or Whatever he was. He
ran over to me after I came out of the church. It was him on the
warehouse roof.’
‘It was a cop?’
ffnat’s a very serious allegation,’ Bannon said. ‘Based on
a quarter-second of observation from ninety yards during
extreme mayhem.’
They were back in the FBI’s conference room. Stuyvesant
had never left it. He was still in his pink sweater. The room was still impressive.
‘It was him,’ Reacher said. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘Cops are all fingerprinted,’ Bannon said. ‘Condition of
employment.’
‘So his partner isn’t a cop,’ Reacher said. ie guy on the
garage video.’
Nobody spoke.
‘It was him,’ Reacher said again.
‘How long did you see him for in Bismarck?’ Bannon asked.
‘en seconds, maybe,’ Reacher said. ‘He was heading for the
church. Maybe he’d seen me inside, ducked out, saw me leave,
turned round, got ready to go back in.’
ff’en and a quarter seconds total,’ Bannon said. ‘Both times in
panic situations. Defence counsel would eat you up.’
‘It makes sense,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘Bismarck is Armstrong’s
home town. Home towns are the places to look for
feuds.’
Bannon made a face. ‘Description?’
‘all,’ Reacher said. ‘Sandy hair going grey. Lean face, lean
body. Long coat, some kind of a heavy twill, reddish-brown,
291
open. Tweed jacket, white shirt, tie, grey flannel pants. Big
old shoes.’
‘Age?’
‘Middle or late forties.’
‘Rank?’
‘He showed me a gold badge, but he stayed twenty feet away.
I couldn’t read it. He struck me as a senior guy. Maybe a
detective lieutenant, maybe even a captain.’
‘Did he speak?’
‘He shouted from twenty feet away. Couple of dozen words,
maybe.’
‘Was he the guy on the phone?’
‘No.’
‘So now we know both of them,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘A shorter
squat guy in a herringbone overcoat from the garage video and
a tall lean cop from Bismarck. The squat guy spoke on the
phone, and it’s his thumbprint. And he was in Colorado with
the machine gun because the cop is the marksman with the