Without Fail - Lee Child [148]
“You think about some kind of revenge.”
Reacher nodded. “Which would explain Swain’s thing about wanting him to suffer. But maybe Swain’s been looking in the wrong place. Maybe we all have. Because maybe this isn’t personal to Armstrong the politician. Maybe it’s personal to Armstrong the man. Maybe it’s really personal.”
Neagley stopped pacing and sat down in the chair.
“It’s very tenuous,” she said. “People get over things, don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Mostly.”
Reacher glanced down at her. “You haven’t gotten over whatever makes it that you don’t like people to touch you.”
The room went quiet.
“OK,” she said. “Normal people get over things.”
“Normal people don’t kidnap women and cut thumbs off and kill innocent bystanders.”
She nodded.
“OK,” she said again. “It’s a theory. But where can we go with it?”
“Armstrong himself, maybe,” Reacher said. “But that would be a difficult conversation to have with a Vice Presi dent-elect. And would he even remember? If he inherited the kind of temper that gets a guy thrown out of the Army he could have had dozens of fights long ago. He’s a big guy. Could have spread mayhem far and wide before he got a handle on it.”
“His wife? They’ve been together a long time.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Time to get going,” Neagley said. “We meet with Bannon at seven. Are we going to tell him?”
“No,” Reacher said. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“Go shower,” Neagley said.
Reacher nodded. “Something else first. It kept me awake last night for an hour. It nagged at me. Something that’s not here, or something that hasn’t been done.”
Neagley shrugged.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll think about it. Now get your ass in gear.”
He dressed in the last of Joe’s suits. It was charcoal gray and as fine as silk. He used the last of the clean shirts. It was stiff with starch and as white as new snow. The last tie was dark blue with a tiny repeated pattern. When you looked very closely you saw that each element of the pattern was a diagram of a pitcher’s hand, gripping a baseball, preparing to throw a knuckleball.
He met Neagley out in the lobby and ate a muffin from the buffet and took a cup of coffee with him in the Secret Service Town Car. They were late into the conference room. Bannon and Stuyvesant were already there. Bannon was still dressed like a city cop. Stuyvesant was back in a Brooks Brothers suit. Reacher and Neagley left one seat unoccupied between themselves and Stuyvesant. Bannon stared at the empty place, like maybe it was supposed to symbolize Froelich’s absence.
“The FBI is not going to have agents in Grace, Wyoming,” he said. “Special request from Armstrong, via the director. He doesn’t want a circus out there.”
“Suits me,” Reacher said.
“You’re wasting your time,” Bannon said. “We’re complying only because we’re happy to. The bad guys know how this stuff works. They were in the business. They’ll have understood his statement was a trap. So they won’t show up.”
Reacher nodded. “Won’t be the first trip I ever wasted.”
“I’m warning you against independent action.”
“There won’t be any action, according to you.”
Bannon nodded.
“Ballistics tests are in,” he said. “The rifle we found in the warehouse is definitely the same gun that fired the Minnesota bullet.”
“So how did it get here?” Stuyvesant asked.
“We burned more than a hundred man-hours last night,” Bannon said. “All I can tell you for sure is how it didn’t get here. It didn’t fly in. We checked all commercial arrivals into eight airports and there were no firearms manifests at all. Then we traced all private planes into the same eight airports. Nothing even remotely suspicious.”
“So they drove it in?” Reacher said.
Bannon nodded. “But Bismarck to D.C. is more than thirteen hundred miles. That’s more than twenty hours absolute minimum, even driving like a lunatic. Impossible, in the time frame. So the rifle was never in Bismarck. It came in direct from Minnesota, which was a little more than eleven hundred miles in forty-eight hours. Your grandmother