my career now, and the truth is I don’t like my career enough to
fight for it.’
q’hese guys were never your agents,’ Reacher said.
‘I know that,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘But I lost two people. Therefore
my career is over. But that’s my decision and my problem.
All I mean to say to you is I’m glad I got the chance to
meet Joe’s brother, and it was a real-pleasure working with you
both.’
Nobody spoke.
‘And I’m glad you were there at the end for M. E.’
Reacher looked away. Stuyvesant took the envelopes out of
his pocket again.
‘I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or wrong,’ he said.
‘About Wyoming, I mean. We’ll have three agents and some
local cops. That’s not a lot of cover, if things turn out bad.’
He passed the envelopes across the desk.
333
if’here’s a car waiting downstairs,’ he said. ‘You get a one-way
ride to Georgetown, and then you’re on your own.’
They went down in the elevator and Reacher detoured into
the main hall. It was vast and dark and grey and deserted, and
the cold marble echoed with his footsteps. He stopped underneath
the carved panel and glanced up at his brother’s name.
Glanced at the empty space where Froelich’s would soon be
added. Then he glanced away and walked back and joined
Neagley. They pushed through the small door with the wired
glass porthole and found their car.
The white tent was still in place across the sidewalk in front of
Armstrong’s house. The driver pulled up with the rear door
tight against the contour and spoke into his wrist microphone.
A second later Armstrong’s front door opened and three agents
stepped out. One walked forward through the canvas tunnel
and opened the car door. Reacher got out and Neagley slid
out beside him. The agent closed the door again and stood
impassive on the kerb and the car drove away. The second
agent held his arms out in a brief mime that they should stand
still and be searched. They waited in the whitened canvas
gloom. Neagley tensed while strange hands patted her down.
But it was superficial. They barely touched her. And they
missed Reacher’s ceramic knife. It was hidden in his sock.
The agents led them inside to Armstrong’s hallway and
closed the door. The house was larger than it appeared from
the outside. It was a big substantial place that looked like it
had been standing for a hundred years and was good for maybe
a hundred more. The hallway had dark antiques and striped
paper on the walls and a clutter of framed pictures everywhere.
There were rugs on the floors laid over thick wall-to-wall
carpeting. There was a battered garment bag resting in a
corner, presumably ready for the emergency trip to Oregon.
if’his way,’ one of the agents said.
He led them deep into the house and through a dog-leg in the
hallway to a huge eat-in kitchen that would have looked at home
in a log cabin. It was all pine, witha big table at one end and all
the cooking equipment at the other. There was a strong smell of
coffee. Armstrong and his wife were sitting at the table with
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heavy china mugs and four different newspapers. Mrs
Armstrong was wearing a jogging suit and a sheen of sweat,
like there might be a home gym in the basement. It looked
like she wasn’t going to Oregon with her husband. She had
no make-up on. She looked a little tired and dispirited, like
the events of Thanksgiving Day had altered her feelings in a
fundamental way. Armstrong himself looked composed. He was
wearing a clean shirt under a jacket with the sleeves pulled up
over his forearms. No tie. He was reading the editorials from
the New York Times and the Washington Post side by side.
‘Coffee?’ Mrs Armstrong asked.
Reacher nodded and she stood up and walked into the
kitchen area and pulled two more mugs off hooks and filled
them. Walked back with one in each hand. Reacher couldn’t
decide if she was short or tall. She was one of those women
who look short in flat shoes and tall in heels. She handed the