‘Herringbone?’
Reacher shook his head. ‘Not the coat we saw on the garage
video. Not the guy, either. This guy was taller and leaner. Some
length in his upper body. It gave the coat its drape. I think it
was a long coat.’
‘You only saw his shoulder.’ ‘Itflowed like a long coat.’
‘How did it flow?’
‘Energetically. Like the guy was moving fast.’
‘He would be. Far as he knew he’d just shot Armstrong.’
‘No, like he was always energetic. A rangy guy, decisive in his
movements.’
‘Age?’
‘Older than us.’
‘Build?’
‘Moderate.’
‘Hair?’
‘Don’t remember.’
He kept his eyes closed and searched his memory for coats. A long coat, not thick, not thin. He let his mind drift, but it
always came back to the Atlantic City coat store. Standing there
in front of a rainbow of choice, five whole minutes after taking a
stupid random decision that had led him away from the peace
and quiet of a lonely motel room in La Jolla, California.
He gave up on it twenty minutes later and gestured for the
duty officer to turn the television sound up for the news. The
story led the bulletin, obviously. The coverage opened with a
studio portrait of Armstrong in a box behind the anchorman’s
shoulder. Then it cut to video of Armstrong handing his wife
out of the limo. They stood up together and smiled. Started to
walk past the camera. Then the tape cut to Armstrong holding
up his ladle and his spoon. A smile on his face. The voice-over
paused long enough for the live sound to come up: Happy
Thanksgiving, everybody.t Then there were seven or eight
seconds taken from a little later on when the food line was
really moving.
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Then it happened.
Because of the silencer there was no gunshot, and because
there was no gunshot the cameraman didn’t duck or startle in
the usual way. The picture held steady. And because there was
no gunshot it seemed completely inexplicable why Froelich
was suddenly jumping at Armstrong. It looked a little different,
seen from the front. She just took off from her left foot and
twisted up and sideways. She looked desperate, but graceful.
They ran it once at normal speed, and then again in slow
motion. She got her right hand on his left Shoulder and pushed
him down and herself up. Her momentum carried her all the
way round and she drew her knees up and simply knocked him
over with them. He fell and she followed him down. She was a
foot below her maximum height when the second bullet came
in and hit her.
‘Shit,’ Reacher said.
Neagley nodded, slowly. ‘She was too quick. A quarter
second slower she’d still have been high enough in the air to
take it in the vest.’
‘She was too good.’
They ran it again, normal speed. It was all over in a second.
Then they let the tape run on. The cameraman seemed rooted
to the spot. Reacher saw himself barging through the tables.
Saw the other agents firing. Froelich was out of sight, on the
floor. The camera ducked because of the firing, but then came
up level again and started moving in. The picture wobbled as
the guy stumbled over something. There were long moments
of total confusion. Then the cameraman started forward
again, hungry for a shot of the downed agent. Neagley’s face
appeared, and the picture went black. Coverage switched
back to the anchorman. The anchorman looked straight at the
camera and announced that Armstrong’s reaction had been
immediate and emphatic.
The picture cut to tape of an outdoors location Reacher
recognized as the West Wing’s parking lot. Armstrong was
standing there with his wife. They were both still in their
casual clothes, but they had taken their Kevlar vests off. Somebody
had cleaned Froelich’s blood from Armstrong’s face.
His hair was combed. He looked resolute. He spoke in low,
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controlled tones, like a plain man wrestling with strong
emotions. He talked about his extreme sadness that two agents
had died. He extolled their qualities as individuals. He offered
sincere sympathy to their families. He went on to say he hoped