It drifted in like a fat insect. The Yukon bounced gently over
washboard depressions. The wallets slid off Reacher’s knees
and the paper scraps scattered. The helicopter was hovering.
Then it was swinging in the air, turning its main door towards
the church.
‘Golf clubs,’ Reacher said. ‘Not tool samples.’
‘What?’
He held up a scrap of paper. ‘A UPS receipt. Next-day air.
From Minneapolis. Addressed to Richard Wilson, arriving
guest, at a D.C. motel. A carton, a foot square, forty-eight inches
long. Contents, one bag of golf clubs.’
Then he went quiet. Stared at another scrap of paper.
‘Something else,’ he said. ‘For Stuyvesant, maybe.’
They watched the distant helicopter land and stopped right
there in the middle of the empty grassland. Got out into the
freezing cold sunshine and walked aimless circles and
stretched and yawned. The Yukon ticked loudly as it cooled.
Reacher piled the badges with the police IDs and the driving
licences on the passenger seat and then hurled the empty
wallets far into the landscape.
‘We need to sanitize,’ he said. They wiped their prints off all
four weapons and threw them into the grass, north and south
and east and west. Emptied the spare rounds from their pockets
and hurled them away in looping brassy swirls through the
sunlight. Followed them with the birdwatcher’s scope. Reacher
kept his hat and gloves. ,And the ceramic knife. He had grown
fond of it.
Then they drove the rest of the way to Grace slow and easy
and bumped up out of the grassland and through the wrecked fence and across the graveyard. Parked near the waiting
helicopter and got out. They could hear the groan of the organ
396
and the sound of people singing inside the church. No crowds.
No media. It was a dignified scene. There was a Casper PD
cruiser parked at a discreet distance. There was an air force
crewman in a flight suit standing next to the helicopter. He
was alert and vigilant. Probably not an air force crewman at
all. Probably one of Stuyvesant’s guys in a borrowed outfit.
Probably had a rifle hidden just inside the cabin door. Probably
a Vaime Mk2.
‘You OK?’ Neagley asked.
Tm always OK,’ Reacher said. ‘You?’
‘I’m fine.’
They stood there for fifteen minutes, not really sure if they
were hot or cold. There was a loud mournful piece from the
distant organ, and then quiet, and then the muffled sound of
feet moving on dusty boards. The big oak door opened and a
small crowd filtered out into the sunshine. The vicar stood
outside the door with Froelich’s parents and spoke to everybody
as they left.
Armstrong came out after a couple of minutes with Stuyve
sant at his side. They were both in dark overcoats. They were
surrounded by seven agents. Armstrong spoke to the vicar and
shook hands with the Froelichs and spoke some more. Then
his detail brought him away towards the helicopter. He saw
Reacher and Neagley and detoured near them, a question in his
face.
‘We all live happily ever after,’, Reacher said.
Armstrong nodded once. Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome,’ Reacher said.
Armstrong hesitated a second longer and then turned away
without shaking hands and walked on towards the chopper.
Stuyvesant came next, on his own.
‘Happily?’ he repeated.
Reacher gathered the badges and the IDs and the licences
from his pockets. Stuyvesant cupped his hands to take them all.
‘Maybe more happily than we thought,’ Reacher said. They
weren’t yours, that’s for sure. They were cops,, from Idaho, near
Boise. You’ve got the addresses there. I’m sure you’ll find what
you need. The computer, the paper and the printer, Andretti’s
thumb in the freezer. Something else, maybe.’
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He took a scrap of paper from his pocket.
‘I found this too,’ he said. ‘It was in one of the wallets. It’s a
register receipt. They went to the grocery store late on Friday
and bought six TV dinners and six big bottles of water.’
‘So?’ Stuyvesant said.
Reacher smiled. ‘My guess is they weren’t doing their
regular weekly marketing, not in the middle of everything else
they were doing. I think maybe they were making sure Mrs