mistake.’
‘Stuyvesant needs to bring a surveillance helicopter too.
This angle is hopeless, but you could see everything from the
air.’
‘Armstrong won’t let him,’ Reacher said. ‘But we’ve got the
air. We’ve got the church tower.’
He turned and walked back towards it.
‘Forget the rooming house,’ he said. ‘his is where we’re
going to stay. We’ll see them coming, north or south, night or
day. It’ll all be over before Stuyvesant or Armstrong even get
here.’
They were ten feet from the church door when it opened and
a clergyman stepped out, closely followed by an old couple. The
clergyman was middle-aged and looked very earnest. The old
couple were both maybe sixty years old. The man was tall
and stooped, and a little underweight. The woman was still
good-looking, a little above average height, trim and nicely
dressed. She had short fair hair turning grey the way fair hair
does. Reacher knew exactly who she was, immediately. And she
knew who he was, or thought she did. She stopped talking and
stopped walking and just stared at him the same way her
daughter had. She looked at his face, confused, like she was
comparing similarities and differences against a mental image.
‘You?’ she said. ‘Or is it?’
Her face was strained and tired. She was wearing no makeup.
Her eyes were dry, but they hadn’t been for the last two
361
days. That was clear. They were rimmed with red and lined and
swollen.
‘I’m his brother,’ Reacher said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘You should be,’ she said. ‘Because this is entirely Joe’s fault.’
‘Is it?’
‘He made her change jobs, didn’t he? He wouldn’t date a
co-worker, so she had to change. He wouldn’t change. She went over to the dangerous side, while he stayed exactly where he
was, safe and sound. And now look what’s come of it.’
Reacher paused.
‘I think she was happy where she was,’ he said. ‘She could
have changed back, you know, afterwards, if she wasn’t. But
she didn’t. So I think that means she wanted to stay there. She
was a fine agent, doing important work.’
‘How could she change back? Was she supposed to see him
every day like nothing had happened?’
‘I meant she could have waited the year, and then changed
back.’
‘What difference does a year make? He broke her heart. How
could she ever work for him again?’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Is he coming here?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘He’s not.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because he wouldn’t be welcome.’
‘No, I guess he wouldn’t,’ Reacher said.
‘I suppose he’s too busy,’ she said.
She walked off, towards the dirt road. The clergyman
followed her, and so did Froelich’s father. But then he hesitated
and turned back.
‘She knows it’s not really Joe’s fault,’ he said. ‘We both know
Mary Ellen was doing what she wanted.’
Reacher nodded. ‘She was terrific at it.’
‘Was she?’
‘Best they ever had.’
The old man nodded, like he was satisfied.
‘How is Joe?’ he asked. ‘I met him a couple of times.’
‘He died,’ Reacher said. ‘Five years ago. In the line of duty.’
There was quiet for a moment.
‘I’m very sorry,’ the old man said.
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‘But don’t tell Mrs Froelich,’ Reacher said. ‘If it helps her not
to know.’
The old man nodded again and turned away and set off after
his wife with a strange loping stride.
‘See?’ Neagley said quietly. ‘Not everything is your fault.’
There was a notice board planted in the ground near the
church door. It was like a very slim cabinet mounted on sturdy
wooden legs. It had glass doors. Behind the doors was a square
yard of green felt with slim cotton tapes thumbtacked diagonally
all over it. Notices typed on a manual typewriter were
slipped behind the tapes. At the top was a permanent list of
regular Sunday services. The first was held every week at eight
o’clock in the morning. This was clearly a denomination that
demanded a high degree of commitment from its parishioners.
Next to the permanent list was a hastily typed announcement
that this Sunday’s eight o’clock service would be dedicated to