Without Fail - Lee Child [124]
“I didn’t even know her name,” Reacher said.
“It was Mary Ellen,” Stuyvesant told him.
The paramedics fussed around for a moment. Then they went quiet and gave it up and covered her with a sheet. Left her there for the medical examiners and the crime-scene investigators. Reacher stumbled and sat down again, with his back to the wall, his hands on his knees, his head in his hands. His clothes were soaked with blood. Neagley sat down next to him, an inch away. Stuyvesant squatted in front of them both.
“What’s happening?” Reacher asked.
“They’re locking the city down,” Stuyvesant said. “Roads, bridges, the airports. Bannon’s in charge of it. He’s got all his people out, and Metro cops, U.S. marshals, cops from Virginia, state troopers. Plus some of our people. We’ll get them.”
“They’ll use the railroad,” Reacher said. “We’re right next to Union Station.”
Stuyvesant nodded.
“They’re searching every train,” he said. “We’ll get them.”
“Was Armstrong OK?”
“Completely unharmed. Froelich did her duty.”
There was a long silence. Reacher looked up.
“What happened on the roof?” he asked. “Where was Crosetti?”
Stuyvesant looked away.
“Crosetti was decoyed somehow,” he said. “He’s in the stairwell. He’s dead too. Shot in the head. With the same silenced rifle, probably.”
Another long silence.
“Where was Crosetti from?” Reacher asked.
“New York, I think,” Stuyvesant said. “Maybe Jersey. Somewhere up there.”
“That’s no good. Where was Froelich from?”
“She was a Wyoming girl.”
Reacher nodded.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Where’s Armstrong now?”
“Can’t tell you that,” Stuyvesant said. “Procedure.”
Reacher raised his hand and looked at his palm. It was rimed with blood. All the lines and scars were outlined in red.
“Tell me,” he said. “Or I’ll break your neck.”
Stuyvesant said nothing.
“Where is he?” Reacher repeated.
“The White House,” Stuyvesant said. “In a secure room. It’s procedure.”
“I need to go talk to him.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“You can’t.”
Reacher looked away, beyond the fallen tables. “I can.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“So try to stop me.”
Stuyvesant was quiet for a long moment.
“Let me call him first,” he said.
He stood up awkwardly and walked away.
“You OK?” Neagley asked.
“It’s like Joe all over again,” Reacher said. “Like Molly Beth Gordon.”
“Nothing you could have done.”
“Did you see it?”
Neagley nodded.
“She took a bullet for him,” Reacher said. “She told me that was just a figure of speech.”
“Instinct,” Neagley said. “And she was unlucky. Must have missed her vest by half an inch. Subsonic bullet, it would have bounced right off.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
Neagley shook her head. “I was facing front. Did you?”
“A glimpse,” Reacher said. “One man.”
“Hell of a thing,” Neagley said.
Reacher nodded and wiped his palms on his pants, front and back. Then he ran his hands through his hair. “If I wrote insurance I wouldn’t touch any of Joe’s old friends. I’d tell them to commit suicide and save the bad guys the trouble.”
“So what now?”
He shrugged. “You should go home to Chicago.”
“You?”
“I’m going to stick around.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“The FBI will get them.”
“Not if I get them first,” Reacher said.
“You made up your mind?”
“I held her while she bled to death. I’m not going to just walk away.”
“Then I’ll stick around, too.”
“I’ll be OK on my own.”
“I know you will,” Neagley said. “But you’ll be better with me.”
Reacher nodded.
“What did she say to you?” Neagley asked.
“She said nothing to me. She thought I was Joe.”
He saw Stuyvesant picking his way back through the yard. Hauled himself upright with both hands against the wall.
“Armstrong will see us,” Stuyvesant said. “You want to change first?”
Reacher looked down at his clothes. They were soaked with Froelich’s blood in big irregular