Walker just shrugged.
“Old scandals,” Reacher said. “Among other things. Old secrets, coming back at you from the past. Sloop and Al and you were a threesome, way back when. Did all kinds of stuff together. You three against the world. You told me that. So there’s Sloop, in prison for cheating on his taxes. He can’t stand it in there. So he thinks, how do I get out of here? Not by repaying my debts. By figuring, my old pal Hack is running for judge this year. Big prize, all that money and power. What’s he prepared to do to get it? So he calls you up and says he could start some serious rumors about some old activities if you don’t broker his way out of there. You think it over carefully. You figure Sloop wouldn’t incriminate himself by talking about something you all did together, so at first you relax. Then you realize there’s a large gap between the sort of facts that would convict you and the sort of rumors that would wreck your chances in the election. So you cave in. You take some of your campaign donations and arrange to pay off the IRS with it. Now Sloop’s happy. But you’re not. In your mind, the cat is out of the bag. Sloops threatened you once. What about the next time he wants something? And Al’s involved, because he’s Sloop’s lawyer. So now it’s all fresh in Al’s mind too. Your chances of making judge are suddenly vulnerable.”
Walker said nothing.
“You know what Ben Franklin once wrote?” Reacher asked.
“What?”
“Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
Silence in the room. No movement, no breathing. Just the soft hiss of the lantern and the flickering of the tiny candle flames.
“What was the secret?” Alice whispered.
“Three boys in rural Texas,” Reacher said. “Growing up together, playing ball, having fun. They get a little older, they turn their attention to what their dads are doing. The guns, the rifles, the hunting. Maybe they start with the armadillos. They shouldn’t, really, because they’re protected. By the tree-huggers. But the attitude is, they’re on my land, they’re mine to hunt. Bobby said that to me. An arrogant attitude. A superior attitude. I mean, hey, what’s an armadillo worth? But armadillos are slow and boring prey. Too easy. The three boys are growing up. They’re three young men now. High school seniors. They want a little more excitement. So they go looking for coyotes, maybe. Worthier opponents. They hunt at night. They use a truck. They range far and wide. And soon they find bigger game. Soon they find a real thrill.”
“What?”
“Mexicans,” Reacher said. “Poor anonymous no-account brown families stumbling north through the desert at night. And I mean, hey, what are they worth? Are they even human? But they make great prey. They run, and they squeal. Almost like hunting actual people, right, Hack?”
Silence in the room.
“Maybe they started with a girl,” Reacher said. “Maybe they didn’t mean to kill her. But they did anyway. Maybe they had to. Couple of days, they’re nervous. They hold their breath. But there’s no comeback. Nobody reacts. Nobody even cares. So hey, this is suddenly fun. Then they’re out often. It becomes a sport. The ultimate kill. Better than armadillos. They take that old pick-up, one of them driving, two of them riding in the load bed, they hunt for hours. Bobby said Sloop invented that technique. Said he was real good at it. I expect he was. I expect they all were. They got plenty of practice. They did it twenty-five times in a year.”
“That was the border patrol,” Bobby said.
“No, it wasn’t. The report wasn’t a whitewash. It didn’t read like one, and the inside word is it was kosher. Sergeant Rodriguez told me that. And people like Sergeant Rodriguez know things like that, believe me. The investigation got nowhere because it was looking in the wrong place. It wasn’t a bunch of rogue officers. It was three local boys called Sloop Greer and Al Eugene and Hack Walker. Having fun in that old pick-up truck that’s still parked in your barn. Boys will be boys, right?”