REACHER WAS FIRST out through the door, for a number of reasons. Normally he might have let Jodie go out ahead of him, because his generation still carried with it the last vestiges of American good manners, but he had learned to be wary about displaying chivalry until he knew exactly how the woman he was with was going to react. And it was her house, not his, which altered the dynamic anyway, and she would need to use the key to lock the door behind them. So for all those reasons he was the first person to step out to the porch, and so he was the first person the two guys saw.
Waste the big guy and bring me Mrs. Jacob, Hobie had told them. The guy on the left went for a snapshot from a sitting position. He was tensed up and ready, so it took his brain a lot less than a second to process what his optic nerve was feeding it. He felt the front door open, he saw the screen swing out, he saw somebody stepping onto the porch, he saw it was the big guy coming first, and he fired.
The guy on the right was in a dumb position. The screen creaked open right in his face. In itself it was no kind of an obstacle, because tight nylon gauze designed to stop insects is not going to do a lot about stopping bullets, but he was a right-handed guy and the frame of the screen was moving on a direct collision course with his gun hand as it swung around into position. That made him hesitate fractionally and then scramble up and forward around the arc of the frame. He grabbed it backhanded with his left and pulled it into his body and folded himself around it with his right hand swinging up and into position.
By then Reacher was operating unconsciously and instinctively. He was nearly thirty-nine years old, and his memory stretched back through maybe thirty-five of those years to the dimmest early fragments of his childhood, and that memory was filled with absolutely nothing except military service, his father's, his friends' fathers', his own, his friends'. He had never known stability, he had never completed a year in the same school, he had never worked nine to five, Monday to Friday, he had never counted on anything at all except surprise and unpredictability. There was a portion of his brain developed way out of all proportion, like a grotesquely over-trained muscle, which made it seem to him entirely reasonable that he should step out of a door in a quiet New York suburban town and glance down at two men he had last seen two thousand miles away in the Keys crouching and swinging nine-millimeter pistols up in his direction. No shock, no surprise, no gasping freezing fear or panic. No pausing, no hesitation, no inhibitions. Just instant reaction to a purely mechanical problem laid out in front of him like a geometric diagram involving time and space and angles and hard bullets and soft flesh.
The heavy suitcase was in his left hand, swinging forward as he labored with it over the threshold. He did two things at once. First he kept the swing going, using all the new strength in his left shoulder to kick the case onward and outward. Second he windmilled his right arm backward and shoved Jodie in the chest, smashing her back inside the hallway. She staggered back a step and the moving suitcase caught the first bullet. Reacher felt it kick in his hand. He jerked it right to the end of its swing, leaning out into the porch like a hesitant diver over a cold pool, and it hit the left-hand guy a glancing blow in the face. He was half up and half down, crouching, unstable, and the blow from the case rolled him over and backward and out of the picture.
But Reacher didn't see him go down, because his eyes were already on the other guy looping around the screen with his gun about fifteen degrees away from ready. Reacher used the momentum of the swinging suitcase to hurl himself forward. He let the handle pull out through his hooked fingertips and flip him into a dive with his right arm accelerating back past him straight out across the porch. The gun swung around and smacked him flat on his chest. He heard it fire and felt the muzzle blast sear his skin. The bullet launched sideways under his raised left arm and hit the distant garage about the same time his right elbow hit the guy in the face.
An elbow moving fast ahead of 250 pounds of diving body weight does a lot of damage. It glanced off the frame of the screen and caught the guy in the chin. The shock wave went back and up through the hinge of the jaw, which is a sturdy enough joint that the force was carried undiminished up into the guy's brain. Reacher could tell from the rubbery way he fell across his back that he was out for a spell. Then the screen door was creaking shut against its spring and the left-hand guy was scrabbling sideways across the porch floorboards for his gun, which was skittering away from him. Jodie was framed in the doorway, bent double, hands clasped to her chest, gasping for breath. The old suitcase was toppling end over end out onto the front lawn.
Jodie was the problem. He was separated from her by about eight feet, and the left-hand guy was between the two of them. If he grabbed the skittering gun and lined it up to his right, he would be lined up on her. Reacher heaved the unconscious guy out of the way and threw himself at the door. Batted the screen back and fell inside. Dragged Jodie a yard into the hallway and slammed the door shut. It kicked and banged three times as the guy fired after him and dust and wood splinters blasted out into the air. He clicked the lock and pulled Jodie across the floor to the kitchen.
"Can we get to the garage?"
"Through the breezeway," she gasped.
It was June, so the storm windows were down and the breezeway was nothing but a wide passage with floor-to-ceiling screens on both sides. The left-hand guy was using an M9 Beretta, which would have started the day with fifteen rounds in the box. He'd fired four, one into the suitcase and three into the door. Eleven left, which was not a comforting thought when all that stood between you and them was a few square yards of nylon mesh.
"Car keys?"
She fumbled them out of her bag. He took them and closed them into his fist. The kitchen door had a glass panel with a view straight through the breezeway to an identical door exactly opposite, which led into the garage.
"Is that door locked?"
She nodded breathlessly. "The green one. Green for garage."
He looked at the bunch of keys. There was an old Yale, dotted with a smear of green paint. He eased the kitchen door open and knelt and eased his head out, lower than would be expected. He craned around, both ways. No sign of the guy waiting outside. Then he selected the green key and held it pointed out in front of him like a tiny lance. Pushed to his feet and sprinted. Checked and slammed the key into the hole and turned it and yanked it back out. Pushed the door open and waved Jodie across after him. She fell into the garage and he slammed the door behind her. Locked it and listened. No sound.
The garage was a large, dark space, open rafters, open framing, smelling of old motor oil and creosote. It was full of garage things, mowers and hoses and lawn chairs, but they were all old things, the belongings of a man who stopped buying new gizmos twenty years ago. So the main doors were just manual rollers that ran upward in curving metal tracks. No mechanism. No electric opener. The floor was smooth poured concrete, aged and swept to a shine. Jodie's car was a new Oldsmobile Bravada, dark green, gold accents. It was crouched there in the dark, nose-in to the back wall. Badges on the tailgate, boasting about four-wheel drive and a V-6 engine. The four-wheel drive would be useful, but how fast that V-6 started would be crucial.
"Get in the back," he whispered. "Down on the floor, OK?"
She crawled in headfirst, and lay down across the transmission hump. He crossed the garage and found the key to the door out to the yard. Opened it up and peered out and listened. No movement, no sound. Then he came back to the car and slid the key in and switched on the ignition so he could rack the electric seat all the way back to the end of its runners.
"I'll be there in a minute," he whispered.
Garber's tool area was as tidy as his desk had been. There was an eight-by-four pegboard with a full set of household tools neatly arranged on it. Reacher selected a heavy carpenter's hammer and lifted it down. Stepped out of the door to the yard and threw the hammer overarm, diagonally right over the house, to send it crashing into the undergrowth he had seen at the front. He counted to five to give the guy time to hear it and react to it and run toward it from wherever he was currently hiding. Then he ducked back inside to the car. Stood alongside the open door and turned the key, arm's length. Fired it up. The engine started instantly. He dodged backward and flung the roller door up. It crashed along its metal track. He threw himself into the driver's seat and smashed the selector into reverse and stamped on the pedal. All four tires howled and then bit on the smooth concrete and the vehicle shot backward out of the garage. Reacher glimpsed the guy with the Beretta, way off to his left on the front lawn, spinning to look at them. He accelerated all the way up the driveway and lurched backward into the road. Braked fiercely and spun the wheel and found drive and took off in a haze of blue tire smoke.
He accelerated hard for fifty yards and then lifted off the gas. Coasted to a gentle stop just beyond the neighbor's driveway. Selected reverse again and idled backward into it and down into the plantings. Straightened up and killed the motor. Behind him, Jodie struggled up off the floor and stared.
"Hell are we doing here?" she said.
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"For them to get out of there."
She gasped, halfway between outrage and astonishment.
"We're not waiting, Reacher, we're going straight to the police with this."
He turned the key again to give him power to operate the window. Buzzed it all the way down, so he could listen to the sounds outside.
"I can't go to the police with this," he said, not looking at her.
"Why the hell can't you?"
"Because they'll start looking at me for Costello."
"You didn't kill Costello."
"You think they'll be ready and willing to believe that?"
"They'll have to believe it, because it wasn't you, simple as that."
"Could take them time to find somebody looks better for it."
She paused. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying it's all-around advantageous I stay away from the police."
She shook her head. He saw it in the mirror.
"No, Reacher, we need the police for this."
He kept his eyes on hers, in the mirror.
"Remember what Leon used to say? He used to say hell, I am the police."
"Well, he was, and you were. But that was a long time ago."
"Not so long ago, for either of us."
She went quiet. Sat forward. Leaned toward him. "You don't want to go to the police, right? That's it, isn't it? Not that you can't, you just damn well don't want to."
He half turned in the driver's seat so he could look straight at her. He saw her eyes drop to the burn on his shirt. There was a long teardrop shape there, a black sooty stain, gunpowder particles tattooed into the cotton. He undid the buttons and pulled the shirt open. Squinted down. The same teardrop shape was burned into his skin, the hairs frizzed and curled, a blister already puffing up, getting red and angry. He licked his thumb and pressed it on the blister and grimaced.
"They mess with me, they answer to me."
She stared at him. "You're totally unbelievable, you know that? You're just as bad as my father was. We should go to the police, Reacher."
"Can't do it," he said. "They'll throw me in jail."
"We should," she said again.
But she said it weakly. He shook his head and said nothing back. Watched her closely. She was a lawyer, but she was also Leon's daughter, and she knew how things worked outside in the real world. She was quiet for a long spell, and then she shrugged helplessly and put her hand on her breastbone, like it was tender.
"You OK?" he asked her.
"You hit me kind of hard," she said.
I could rub it better, he thought.
"Who were those guys?" she asked.
"The two who killed Costello," he said.
She nodded. Then she sighed. Her blue eyes glanced left and right.
"So where are we going?"
He relaxed. Then he smiled. "Where's the last place they'll look for us?"
She shrugged. Took her hand off her chest and used it to smooth her hair.
"Manhattan?" she said.
"The house," he said. "They saw us run, they won't expect us to double back."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
"We need the suitcase. Leon might have made notes."
She shook her head, dazed.
"And we need to close the place up again. We can't leave the garage open. It'll end up full of raccoons. Whole families of the bastards."
Then he held up his hand. Put his finger to his lips. There was the sound of a motor starting up. Maybe a big V-8, maybe two hundred yards away. There was the rattle of big tires on a distant stony driveway. The burble of acceleration. Then a black shape flashed across their view. A big black jeep, aluminum wheels. A Yukon or a Tahoe, depending on whether it said GMC on the back, or Chevrolet. Two guys in it, dark suits, one of them driving and the other slumped back in his seat. Reacher stuck his head all the way out of the window and listened to the sound as it died to silence in the direction of town.
CHESTER STONE WAITED in his own office suite more than an hour, and then he called downstairs and had the finance director contact the bank and check on the operating account. It showed a one-point-one-million-dollar credit, wired in fifty minutes ago from the Cayman office of a Bahamas-owned trust company.
"It's there," the finance guy said. "You did the trick, chief."
Stone gripped the phone and wondered exactly what trick he had done.
"I'm coming down," he said. "I want to go over the figures."
"The figures are good," the finance guy said. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm coming down anyway," Stone said.
He rode the elevator two floors down and joined the finance guy in his plush inner office. Entered the password and called up the secret spreadsheet. Then the finance guy took over and typed in the new balance available in the operating account. The software ran the calculation and came up exactly level, six weeks into the future.
"See?" the guy said. "Bingo."
"What about the interest payment?" Stone asked.
"Eleven grand a week, six weeks? Kind of steep, isn't it?"
"Can we pay it?"
The guy nodded confidently. "Sure we can. We owe two suppliers seventy-three grand. We got it, ready to go. If we lose the invoices, get them to re-submit, we free that cash up for a spell."
He tapped the screen and indicated a provision against received invoices.
"Seventy-three grand, minus eleven a week for six weeks, gives us seven grand to spare. We should go out to dinner a couple of times."
"Run it again, OK?" Stone said. "Double-check."
The guy gave him a look, but he ran it again. He took out the one-point-one, ended up in the red, put it back in again, and ended up balanced. He canceled the provision against the invoices, subtracted eleven thousand every seven days, and ended the six-week period with an operating surplus of seven thousand dollars.
"Close," he said. "But the right side of close."
"How do we repay the principal?" Stone asked. "We need one-point-one million available at the end of the six weeks."
"No problem," the guy said. "I've got it all figured. We'll have it in time."
"Show me, OK?"
"OK, see here?" He was tapping the screen on a different line, where payments due in from customers were listed. "These two wholesalers owe us exactly one-point-one-seven-three, which exactly matches the principal plus the lost invoices, and it's due exactly six weeks from now."
"Will they pay on time?"
The guy shrugged. "Well, they always have."
Stone stared at the screen. His eyes moved up and down, left and right.
"Run it all again. Triple-check."
"Don't sweat it, chief. It adds up."
"Just do it, OK?"
The guy nodded. It was Stone's company, after all. He ran it again, the whole calculation, beginning to end, and it came out just the same. Hobie's one-point-one disappeared as the blizzard of paychecks cleared, the two suppliers went hungry, the interest got paid, the payments came in from the wholesalers, Hobie got his one-point-one back, the suppliers got paid late, and the sheet ended up showing the same trivial seven-thousand-dollar surplus in their favor.
"Don't sweat it," the guy said again. "It works out."
Stone was staring at the screen, wondering if that spare seven grand would buy Marilyn a trip to Europe. Probably not. Not a six-week trip, anyway. And it would alert her. It would worry her. She'd ask him why he was making her go. And he'd have to tell her. She was very smart. Smart enough to get it out of him, one way or another. And then she would refuse to go to Europe, and she would end up lying awake every night for six weeks, too.
THE SUITCASE WAS still there, lying on the front lawn. There was a bullet hole punched in one end. No exit hole. The bullet must have gone through the leather, through the sturdy plywood carcass, and burned to a stop against the packed paper inside. Reacher smiled and carried it back to join Jodie over at the garage.
They left the jeep on the blacktop apron and went in the same way they had come out. Closed up the roller door and walked through to the breezeway. Locked the inside door behind them with the green key and walked through to the kitchen. Locked that door behind them and stepped past Jodie's abandoned garment bag in the hallway. Reacher carried the suitcase into the living room. More space and more light there than in the den.
He opened the case and lifted the concertina files out onto the floor. The bullet fell out with them and bounced on the rug. It was a standard nine-millimeter Parabellum, full copper jacket. Slightly flattened on the nose from the impact with the old plywood, but otherwise unmarked. The paper had slowed it to a complete stop in the space of about eighteen inches. He could see the hole punched all the way through half the files. He weighed the bullet in his palm, and then he saw Jodie at the door, watching him. He tossed the bullet to her. She caught it, one-handed.
"Souvenir," he said.
She juggled it like it was hot and dropped it in the fireplace. Joined him on the rug, kneeling hip to hip beside him in front of the mass of paper. He caught her perfume, something he did not recognize, but something subtle and intensely feminine. The sweatshirt was too big on her, large and shapeless, but somehow it emphasized her figure. The sleeves finished halfway down the backs of her hands, almost at her fingers. Her Levi's were cinched in tight around her tiny waist with a belt, and her legs left them slightly empty. She looked fragile, but he could remember the strength in her arms. Thin, but wiry. She bent to look at the files, and her hair fell forward, and he caught the same soft smell he recalled from fifteen years previously.
"What are we looking for?" she asked.
He shrugged. "We'll know when we find it, I guess."
They looked hard, but they found nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing current, nothing significant. Just a mass of household paper, looking suddenly old and pathetic as it charted its way through a domestic life that was now over. The most recent item was the will, on its own in a separate slot, sealed into an envelope with neat writing on it. Neat, but slightly slow and shaky, the writing of a man just back from the hospital after his first heart attack. Jodie took it out to the hallway and slipped it into the pocket of her garment bag.
"Any unpaid bills?" she called.
There was a slot marked PENDING. It was empty.
"Can't see any," he called back. "There'll be a few coming in, I guess, right? Do they come in monthly?"
She gave him a look from the doorway and smiled.
"Yes, they do," she said. "Monthly, every month."
There was a slot marked MEDICAL. It was overstuffed with receipted bills from the hospital and the clinic and sheaves of efficient correspondence from the insurance provider. Reacher leafed through it all.
"Christ, is that what this stuff costs?"
Jodie came back and bent to look.
"Sure it is," she said. "Have you got insurance?"
He looked at her, blankly.
"I think maybe the VA gives it to me, at least for a period."
"You should check it out," she said. "Make sure."
He shrugged. "I feel OK."
"So did Dad," she said. "For sixty-three and a half straight years."
She knelt beside him again, and he saw her eyes cloud over. He laid his hand on her arm, gently.
"Hell of a day, right?" he said.
She nodded and blinked. Then she came up with a small, wry smile.
"Unbelievable," she said. "I bury the old man, I get shot at by a couple of murderers, I break the law by failing to report so many felonies I can't even count them, and then I get talked into hooking up with some wild man aiming to run some kind of a vigilante deal. You know what Dad would have said to me?"
"What?"
She pursed her lips and lowered her voice into a close imitation of Garber's good-natured growl. "All in a day's work, girl, all in a day's work. That's what he would have said to me."
Reacher grinned back at her and squeezed her arm again. Then he leafed through the medical junk and picked out a letterhead.
"Let's go find this clinic," he said.
THERE WAS A lot of debate going on inside the Tahoe about whether they should go back at all. Failure was not a popular word in Hobie's vocabulary. It might be better just to take off and disappear. Just get the hell out. It was an attractive prospect. But they were pretty sure Hobie would find them. Maybe not soon, but he would find them. And that was not an attractive prospect.
So they turned their attention to damage limitation. It was clear what they had to do. They made the necessary stops and wasted a plausible amount of time in a diner just off the southbound side of Route 9. By the time they had battled the traffic back down to the southern tip of Manhattan, they had their whole story straight.
"It was a no-brainer," the first guy said. "We waited for hours, which is why we're so late back. Problem was there was a whole bunch of soldiers there, kind of ceremonial, but they had rifles all over the place."
"How many?" Hobie asked.
"Soldiers?" the second guy said. "At least a dozen. Maybe fifteen. They were all milling around, so it was hard to count them exactly. Some kind of honor guard."
"She left with them," the first guy said. "They must have escorted her down from the cemetery, and then she went back somewhere with them afterward."
"You didn't think to follow?"
"No way we could," the second guy said. '"They were driving slow, a long line of cars. Like a funeral procession? They'd have made us in a second. We couldn't just tag on the end of a funeral procession, right?"
"What about the big guy from the Keys?"
"He left real early. We just let him go. We were watching for Mrs. Jacob. It was pretty clear by then which one she was. She stayed around, then she left, all surrounded by this bunch of military."
"So what did you do then?"
"We checked the house," the first guy said. "Locked up tight. So we went into the town and checked the property title. Everything's listed in the public library. The place was registered to a guy called Leon Garber. We asked the librarian what she knew, and she just handed us the local newspaper. Page three, there was a story about the guy. Just died, heart trouble. Widower, only surviving relative is his daughter, Jodie, the former Mrs. Jacob, who is a young but very eminent financial attorney with Spencer Gutman Ricker and Talbot of Wall Street, and who lives on lower Broadway right here in New York City."
Hobie nodded slowly, and tapped the sharp end of his hook on the desk, with a jittery little rhythm.
"And who was this Leon Garber, exactly? Why all the soldiers at his wake?"
"Military policeman," the first guy said.
The second guy nodded. "Mustered out with three stars and more medals than you can count, served forty years, Korea, Vietnam, everywhere."
Hobie stopped tapping. He sat still and the color drained out of his face, leaving his skin dead white, all except for the shiny pink burn scars that glowed vivid in the gloom.
"Military policeman," he repeated quietly.
He sat for a long time with those words on his lips. He just sat and stared into space, and then he lifted his hook off the desk and rotated it in front of his eyes, slowly, examining it, allowing the thin beams of light from the blinds to catch its curves and contours. It was trembling, so he took it in his left hand and held it still.
"Military policeman," he said again, staring at the hook. Then he transferred his gaze to the two men on the sofas.
"Leave the room," he said to the second guy.
The guy glanced once at his partner and went out and closed the door softly behind him. Hobie pushed back in his chair and stood up. Came out from behind the desk and stepped over and stopped still, directly behind the first guy, who just sat there on his sofa, not moving, not daring to turn around and look.
He wore a size sixteen collar, which made his neck a fraction over five inches in diameter, assuming a human neck is more or less a uniform cylinder, which was an approximation Hobie had always been happy to make. Hobie's hook was a simple steel curve, like a capital letter J, generously sized. The inside diameter of the curve was four and three-quarter inches. He moved fast, darting the hook out and forcing it over the guy's throat from behind. He stepped back and pulled with all his strength. The guy threw himself upward and backward, his fingers scrabbling under the cold metal to relieve the gagging pressure. Hobie smiled and pulled harder. The hook was riveted to a heavy leather cup and a matching shaped corset, the cup over the remains of his forearm, the corset buckled tight over his bicep above his elbow. The forearm assembly was just a stabilizer. It was the upper corset, smaller than the bulge of his elbow joint, that took all the strain and made it impossible for the hook to be separated from the stump. He pulled until the gagging turned to fractured wheezing and the redness in the guy's face began to turn blue. Then he eased off an inch and bent close to the guy's ear.
"He had a big bruise on his face. What the hell was that about?"
The guy was wheezing and gesturing wildly. Hobie twisted the hook, which relieved the pressure on the guy's voice box, but brought the tip up into the soft area under his ear.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked again.
The guy knew that with the hook at that angle any extra rearward pressure was going to put the tip right through his skin into that vulnerable triangle behind the jaw. He didn't know much about anatomy, but he knew he was a half inch away from dying.
"I'll tell you," he wheezed. "I'll tell you."
Hobie kept the hook in position, twisting it every time the guy hesitated, so the whole true story took no longer than three minutes, beginning to end.
"You failed me," Hobie said.
"Yes, we did," the guy gasped. "But it was his fault. He got all tangled up behind the screen door. He was useless."
Hobie jerked the hook.
"As opposed to what? Like he's useless and you're useful?"
"It was his fault," the guy gasped again. "I'm still useful."
"You're going to have to prove that to me."
"How?" the guy wheezed. "Please, how? Just tell me."
"Easy. You can do something for me."
"Yes," the guy gasped. "Yes, anything, please."
"Bring me Mrs. Jacob," Hobie screamed at him.
"Yes," the guy screamed back.
"And don't screw up again," Hobie screamed.
"No," the guy gasped. "No, we won't, I promise."
Hobie jerked the hook again, twice, in time with his words.
"Not we. Just you. Because you can do something else for me."
"What?" the guy wheezed. "Yes, what? Anything."
"Get rid of your useless partner," Hobie whispered. "Tonight, on the boat."
The guy nodded as vigorously as the hook would allow his head to move. Hobie leaned forward and slipped the hook away. The guy collapsed sideways, gasping and retching into the fabric on the sofa.
"And bring me his right hand," Hobie whispered. "To prove it."
THEY FOUND THAT the clinic Leon had been attending was not really a place in its own right, but just an administrative unit within a giant private hospital facility serving the whole of lower Putnam County. There was a ten-story white building set in parkland, with medical practices of every description clustered around its base. Small roads snaked through tasteful landscaping and led to little cul-de-sacs ringed with low offices for the doctors and the dentists. Anything the professions couldn't handle in the offices got transferred to rented beds inside the main building. Thus the cardiology clinic was a notional entity, made up of a changing population of doctors and patients depending on who was sick and how bad they were. Leon's own correspondence showed he had been seen in several different physical locations, ranging from the ICU at the outset to the recovery ward, then to one of the outpatient offices, then back to the ICU for his final visit.
The name of the supervising cardiologist was the only constant feature throughout the paperwork, a Dr. McBannerman, who Reacher pictured in his mind as a kindly old guy, white hair, erudite, wise and sympathetic, maybe of ancient Scottish extraction, until Jodie told him she had met with her several times and she was a woman from Baltimore aged about thirty-five. He was driving Jodie's jeep around the small, curving roads, while she was scanning left and right for the correct office. She recognized it at the end of a cul-de-sac, a low brick structure, white trim, somehow glowing with an antiseptic halo like medical buildings do. There were a half dozen cars parked outside, with one spare slot which Reacher backed into.
The receptionist was a heavy old busybody who welcomed Jodie with a measure of sympathy. She invited them to wait in McBannerman's inner office, which earned them glares from the other patients in the waiting room. The inner office was an inoffensive place, pale and sterile and silent, with a token examination table and a large colored cutaway diagram of the human heart on the wall behind the desk. Jodie was staring up at it like she was asking so which part finally failed? Reacher could feel his own heart, huge and muscular and thumping gently in his chest. He could feel the blood pumping and the pulses ticking in his wrists and his neck.
They waited like that for ten minutes, and then the inner door opened and Dr. McBannerman stepped in, a plain dark-haired woman in a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck like a badge of office, and concern in her face.
"Jodie," she said, "I'm terribly sorry about Leon."
It was 99 percent genuine, but there was a stray edge of worry there, too. She's worried about a malpractice suit, Reacher thought. The patient's daughter was a lawyer, and she was right there in her office straight from the funeral ceremony. Jodie caught it, too, and she nodded, a reassuring little gesture.
"I just came to say thank you. You were absolutely wonderful, every step of the way. He couldn't have had better care."
McBannerman relaxed. The one percent of worry washed away. She smiled and Jodie glanced up at the big diagram again.
"So which part finally failed?" she asked.
McBannerman followed her gaze and shrugged gently.
"Well, all of it, really, I'm afraid. It's a big complex muscle, it beats and it beats, thirty million times a year. If it lasts twenty-seven hundred million beats, which is ninety years, we call it old age. If it lasts only eighteen hundred million beats, sixty years, we call it premature heart disease. We call it America's biggest health problem, but really all we're saying is sooner or later, it just stops going."
She paused and looked directly at Reacher. For a second he thought she had spotted some symptom he was displaying. Then he realized she was waiting for an introduction.
"Jack Reacher," he said. "I was an old friend of Leon's."
She nodded slowly, like a puzzle had just been solved.
"The famous Major Reacher. He spoke about you, often."
She sat and looked at him, openly interested. She scanned his face, and then her eyes settled on his chest. He wasn't sure if that was because of her professional specialty, or if she was looking at the scorch mark from the muzzle blast.
"Did he speak about anything else?" Jodie asked. "I got the impression he was concerned about something."
McBannerman turned to her, puzzled, like she was thinking well, all of my patients are concerned about something, like life and death.
"What sort of thing?"
"I don't really know," Jodie said. "Maybe something one of the other patients might have involved him with?"
McBannerman shrugged and looked blank, like she was about to dismiss it, but then they saw her remember.
"Well, he did mention something. He told me he had a new task."
"Did he say what it was?"
McBannerman shook her head.
"He mentioned no details. Initially, it seemed to bore him. He was reluctant about it, at first. Like somebody had landed him with something tedious. But then he got a lot more interested, later. It got to where it was overstimulating him. His EKGs were way up, and I wasn't at all happy about it."
"Was it connected to another patient?" Reacher asked her.
She shook her head again.
"I really don't know. It's possible, I guess. They spend a lot of time together, out there in reception. They talk to each other. They're old people, often bored and lonely, I'm afraid."
It sounded like a rebuke. Jodie blushed.
"When did he first mention it?" Reacher asked, quickly.
"March?" McBannerman said. "April? Soon after he became an outpatient, anyway. Not long before he went to Hawaii."
Jodie stared at her, surprised. "He went to Hawaii? I didn't know that."
McBannerman nodded. "He missed an appointment and I asked him what had happened, and he said he'd been to Hawaii, just a couple of days."
"Hawaii? Why would he go to Hawaii without telling me?"
"I don't know why he went," McBannerman said.
"Was he well enough to travel?" Reacher asked her.
She shook her head.
"No, and I think he knew it was silly. Maybe that's why he didn't mention it."
"When did he become an outpatient?" Reacher asked.
"Beginning of March," she said.
"And when did he go to Hawaii?"
"Middle of April, I think."
"OK," he said. "Can you give us a list of your other patients during that period? March and April? People he might have talked to?"
McBannerman was already shaking her head.
"No, I'm sorry, I really can't do that. It's a confidentiality issue."
She appealed to Jodie with her eyes, doctor to lawyer, woman to woman, a you-know-how-it-is sort of a look. Jodie nodded, sympathetically.
"Maybe you could just ask your receptionist? You know, see if she saw Dad talking with one of the others out there? That would just be conversational, third-party, no confidentiality issues involved. In my opinion, certainly."
McBannerman recognized an impasse when she saw one. She buzzed the intercom and asked the receptionist to step inside. The woman was asked the question, and she started nodding busily and answering before it was even finished.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Garber was always talking to that nice elderly couple, you know, the man with the dodgy valve? Upper right ventricle? Can't drive anymore so his wife brings him in every time? In that awful old car? Mr. Garber was doing something for them, I'm absolutely sure of it. They were always showing him old photographs and pieces of paper."
"The Hobies?" McBannerman asked her.
"That's right, they all got to be thick as thieves together, the three of them, Mr. Garber and old Mr. and Mrs. Hobie."
Waste the big guy and bring me Mrs. Jacob, Hobie had told them. The guy on the left went for a snapshot from a sitting position. He was tensed up and ready, so it took his brain a lot less than a second to process what his optic nerve was feeding it. He felt the front door open, he saw the screen swing out, he saw somebody stepping onto the porch, he saw it was the big guy coming first, and he fired.
The guy on the right was in a dumb position. The screen creaked open right in his face. In itself it was no kind of an obstacle, because tight nylon gauze designed to stop insects is not going to do a lot about stopping bullets, but he was a right-handed guy and the frame of the screen was moving on a direct collision course with his gun hand as it swung around into position. That made him hesitate fractionally and then scramble up and forward around the arc of the frame. He grabbed it backhanded with his left and pulled it into his body and folded himself around it with his right hand swinging up and into position.
By then Reacher was operating unconsciously and instinctively. He was nearly thirty-nine years old, and his memory stretched back through maybe thirty-five of those years to the dimmest early fragments of his childhood, and that memory was filled with absolutely nothing except military service, his father's, his friends' fathers', his own, his friends'. He had never known stability, he had never completed a year in the same school, he had never worked nine to five, Monday to Friday, he had never counted on anything at all except surprise and unpredictability. There was a portion of his brain developed way out of all proportion, like a grotesquely over-trained muscle, which made it seem to him entirely reasonable that he should step out of a door in a quiet New York suburban town and glance down at two men he had last seen two thousand miles away in the Keys crouching and swinging nine-millimeter pistols up in his direction. No shock, no surprise, no gasping freezing fear or panic. No pausing, no hesitation, no inhibitions. Just instant reaction to a purely mechanical problem laid out in front of him like a geometric diagram involving time and space and angles and hard bullets and soft flesh.
The heavy suitcase was in his left hand, swinging forward as he labored with it over the threshold. He did two things at once. First he kept the swing going, using all the new strength in his left shoulder to kick the case onward and outward. Second he windmilled his right arm backward and shoved Jodie in the chest, smashing her back inside the hallway. She staggered back a step and the moving suitcase caught the first bullet. Reacher felt it kick in his hand. He jerked it right to the end of its swing, leaning out into the porch like a hesitant diver over a cold pool, and it hit the left-hand guy a glancing blow in the face. He was half up and half down, crouching, unstable, and the blow from the case rolled him over and backward and out of the picture.
But Reacher didn't see him go down, because his eyes were already on the other guy looping around the screen with his gun about fifteen degrees away from ready. Reacher used the momentum of the swinging suitcase to hurl himself forward. He let the handle pull out through his hooked fingertips and flip him into a dive with his right arm accelerating back past him straight out across the porch. The gun swung around and smacked him flat on his chest. He heard it fire and felt the muzzle blast sear his skin. The bullet launched sideways under his raised left arm and hit the distant garage about the same time his right elbow hit the guy in the face.
An elbow moving fast ahead of 250 pounds of diving body weight does a lot of damage. It glanced off the frame of the screen and caught the guy in the chin. The shock wave went back and up through the hinge of the jaw, which is a sturdy enough joint that the force was carried undiminished up into the guy's brain. Reacher could tell from the rubbery way he fell across his back that he was out for a spell. Then the screen door was creaking shut against its spring and the left-hand guy was scrabbling sideways across the porch floorboards for his gun, which was skittering away from him. Jodie was framed in the doorway, bent double, hands clasped to her chest, gasping for breath. The old suitcase was toppling end over end out onto the front lawn.
Jodie was the problem. He was separated from her by about eight feet, and the left-hand guy was between the two of them. If he grabbed the skittering gun and lined it up to his right, he would be lined up on her. Reacher heaved the unconscious guy out of the way and threw himself at the door. Batted the screen back and fell inside. Dragged Jodie a yard into the hallway and slammed the door shut. It kicked and banged three times as the guy fired after him and dust and wood splinters blasted out into the air. He clicked the lock and pulled Jodie across the floor to the kitchen.
"Can we get to the garage?"
"Through the breezeway," she gasped.
It was June, so the storm windows were down and the breezeway was nothing but a wide passage with floor-to-ceiling screens on both sides. The left-hand guy was using an M9 Beretta, which would have started the day with fifteen rounds in the box. He'd fired four, one into the suitcase and three into the door. Eleven left, which was not a comforting thought when all that stood between you and them was a few square yards of nylon mesh.
"Car keys?"
She fumbled them out of her bag. He took them and closed them into his fist. The kitchen door had a glass panel with a view straight through the breezeway to an identical door exactly opposite, which led into the garage.
"Is that door locked?"
She nodded breathlessly. "The green one. Green for garage."
He looked at the bunch of keys. There was an old Yale, dotted with a smear of green paint. He eased the kitchen door open and knelt and eased his head out, lower than would be expected. He craned around, both ways. No sign of the guy waiting outside. Then he selected the green key and held it pointed out in front of him like a tiny lance. Pushed to his feet and sprinted. Checked and slammed the key into the hole and turned it and yanked it back out. Pushed the door open and waved Jodie across after him. She fell into the garage and he slammed the door behind her. Locked it and listened. No sound.
The garage was a large, dark space, open rafters, open framing, smelling of old motor oil and creosote. It was full of garage things, mowers and hoses and lawn chairs, but they were all old things, the belongings of a man who stopped buying new gizmos twenty years ago. So the main doors were just manual rollers that ran upward in curving metal tracks. No mechanism. No electric opener. The floor was smooth poured concrete, aged and swept to a shine. Jodie's car was a new Oldsmobile Bravada, dark green, gold accents. It was crouched there in the dark, nose-in to the back wall. Badges on the tailgate, boasting about four-wheel drive and a V-6 engine. The four-wheel drive would be useful, but how fast that V-6 started would be crucial.
"Get in the back," he whispered. "Down on the floor, OK?"
She crawled in headfirst, and lay down across the transmission hump. He crossed the garage and found the key to the door out to the yard. Opened it up and peered out and listened. No movement, no sound. Then he came back to the car and slid the key in and switched on the ignition so he could rack the electric seat all the way back to the end of its runners.
"I'll be there in a minute," he whispered.
Garber's tool area was as tidy as his desk had been. There was an eight-by-four pegboard with a full set of household tools neatly arranged on it. Reacher selected a heavy carpenter's hammer and lifted it down. Stepped out of the door to the yard and threw the hammer overarm, diagonally right over the house, to send it crashing into the undergrowth he had seen at the front. He counted to five to give the guy time to hear it and react to it and run toward it from wherever he was currently hiding. Then he ducked back inside to the car. Stood alongside the open door and turned the key, arm's length. Fired it up. The engine started instantly. He dodged backward and flung the roller door up. It crashed along its metal track. He threw himself into the driver's seat and smashed the selector into reverse and stamped on the pedal. All four tires howled and then bit on the smooth concrete and the vehicle shot backward out of the garage. Reacher glimpsed the guy with the Beretta, way off to his left on the front lawn, spinning to look at them. He accelerated all the way up the driveway and lurched backward into the road. Braked fiercely and spun the wheel and found drive and took off in a haze of blue tire smoke.
He accelerated hard for fifty yards and then lifted off the gas. Coasted to a gentle stop just beyond the neighbor's driveway. Selected reverse again and idled backward into it and down into the plantings. Straightened up and killed the motor. Behind him, Jodie struggled up off the floor and stared.
"Hell are we doing here?" she said.
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"For them to get out of there."
She gasped, halfway between outrage and astonishment.
"We're not waiting, Reacher, we're going straight to the police with this."
He turned the key again to give him power to operate the window. Buzzed it all the way down, so he could listen to the sounds outside.
"I can't go to the police with this," he said, not looking at her.
"Why the hell can't you?"
"Because they'll start looking at me for Costello."
"You didn't kill Costello."
"You think they'll be ready and willing to believe that?"
"They'll have to believe it, because it wasn't you, simple as that."
"Could take them time to find somebody looks better for it."
She paused. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying it's all-around advantageous I stay away from the police."
She shook her head. He saw it in the mirror.
"No, Reacher, we need the police for this."
He kept his eyes on hers, in the mirror.
"Remember what Leon used to say? He used to say hell, I am the police."
"Well, he was, and you were. But that was a long time ago."
"Not so long ago, for either of us."
She went quiet. Sat forward. Leaned toward him. "You don't want to go to the police, right? That's it, isn't it? Not that you can't, you just damn well don't want to."
He half turned in the driver's seat so he could look straight at her. He saw her eyes drop to the burn on his shirt. There was a long teardrop shape there, a black sooty stain, gunpowder particles tattooed into the cotton. He undid the buttons and pulled the shirt open. Squinted down. The same teardrop shape was burned into his skin, the hairs frizzed and curled, a blister already puffing up, getting red and angry. He licked his thumb and pressed it on the blister and grimaced.
"They mess with me, they answer to me."
She stared at him. "You're totally unbelievable, you know that? You're just as bad as my father was. We should go to the police, Reacher."
"Can't do it," he said. "They'll throw me in jail."
"We should," she said again.
But she said it weakly. He shook his head and said nothing back. Watched her closely. She was a lawyer, but she was also Leon's daughter, and she knew how things worked outside in the real world. She was quiet for a long spell, and then she shrugged helplessly and put her hand on her breastbone, like it was tender.
"You OK?" he asked her.
"You hit me kind of hard," she said.
I could rub it better, he thought.
"Who were those guys?" she asked.
"The two who killed Costello," he said.
She nodded. Then she sighed. Her blue eyes glanced left and right.
"So where are we going?"
He relaxed. Then he smiled. "Where's the last place they'll look for us?"
She shrugged. Took her hand off her chest and used it to smooth her hair.
"Manhattan?" she said.
"The house," he said. "They saw us run, they won't expect us to double back."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
"We need the suitcase. Leon might have made notes."
She shook her head, dazed.
"And we need to close the place up again. We can't leave the garage open. It'll end up full of raccoons. Whole families of the bastards."
Then he held up his hand. Put his finger to his lips. There was the sound of a motor starting up. Maybe a big V-8, maybe two hundred yards away. There was the rattle of big tires on a distant stony driveway. The burble of acceleration. Then a black shape flashed across their view. A big black jeep, aluminum wheels. A Yukon or a Tahoe, depending on whether it said GMC on the back, or Chevrolet. Two guys in it, dark suits, one of them driving and the other slumped back in his seat. Reacher stuck his head all the way out of the window and listened to the sound as it died to silence in the direction of town.
CHESTER STONE WAITED in his own office suite more than an hour, and then he called downstairs and had the finance director contact the bank and check on the operating account. It showed a one-point-one-million-dollar credit, wired in fifty minutes ago from the Cayman office of a Bahamas-owned trust company.
"It's there," the finance guy said. "You did the trick, chief."
Stone gripped the phone and wondered exactly what trick he had done.
"I'm coming down," he said. "I want to go over the figures."
"The figures are good," the finance guy said. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm coming down anyway," Stone said.
He rode the elevator two floors down and joined the finance guy in his plush inner office. Entered the password and called up the secret spreadsheet. Then the finance guy took over and typed in the new balance available in the operating account. The software ran the calculation and came up exactly level, six weeks into the future.
"See?" the guy said. "Bingo."
"What about the interest payment?" Stone asked.
"Eleven grand a week, six weeks? Kind of steep, isn't it?"
"Can we pay it?"
The guy nodded confidently. "Sure we can. We owe two suppliers seventy-three grand. We got it, ready to go. If we lose the invoices, get them to re-submit, we free that cash up for a spell."
He tapped the screen and indicated a provision against received invoices.
"Seventy-three grand, minus eleven a week for six weeks, gives us seven grand to spare. We should go out to dinner a couple of times."
"Run it again, OK?" Stone said. "Double-check."
The guy gave him a look, but he ran it again. He took out the one-point-one, ended up in the red, put it back in again, and ended up balanced. He canceled the provision against the invoices, subtracted eleven thousand every seven days, and ended the six-week period with an operating surplus of seven thousand dollars.
"Close," he said. "But the right side of close."
"How do we repay the principal?" Stone asked. "We need one-point-one million available at the end of the six weeks."
"No problem," the guy said. "I've got it all figured. We'll have it in time."
"Show me, OK?"
"OK, see here?" He was tapping the screen on a different line, where payments due in from customers were listed. "These two wholesalers owe us exactly one-point-one-seven-three, which exactly matches the principal plus the lost invoices, and it's due exactly six weeks from now."
"Will they pay on time?"
The guy shrugged. "Well, they always have."
Stone stared at the screen. His eyes moved up and down, left and right.
"Run it all again. Triple-check."
"Don't sweat it, chief. It adds up."
"Just do it, OK?"
The guy nodded. It was Stone's company, after all. He ran it again, the whole calculation, beginning to end, and it came out just the same. Hobie's one-point-one disappeared as the blizzard of paychecks cleared, the two suppliers went hungry, the interest got paid, the payments came in from the wholesalers, Hobie got his one-point-one back, the suppliers got paid late, and the sheet ended up showing the same trivial seven-thousand-dollar surplus in their favor.
"Don't sweat it," the guy said again. "It works out."
Stone was staring at the screen, wondering if that spare seven grand would buy Marilyn a trip to Europe. Probably not. Not a six-week trip, anyway. And it would alert her. It would worry her. She'd ask him why he was making her go. And he'd have to tell her. She was very smart. Smart enough to get it out of him, one way or another. And then she would refuse to go to Europe, and she would end up lying awake every night for six weeks, too.
THE SUITCASE WAS still there, lying on the front lawn. There was a bullet hole punched in one end. No exit hole. The bullet must have gone through the leather, through the sturdy plywood carcass, and burned to a stop against the packed paper inside. Reacher smiled and carried it back to join Jodie over at the garage.
They left the jeep on the blacktop apron and went in the same way they had come out. Closed up the roller door and walked through to the breezeway. Locked the inside door behind them with the green key and walked through to the kitchen. Locked that door behind them and stepped past Jodie's abandoned garment bag in the hallway. Reacher carried the suitcase into the living room. More space and more light there than in the den.
He opened the case and lifted the concertina files out onto the floor. The bullet fell out with them and bounced on the rug. It was a standard nine-millimeter Parabellum, full copper jacket. Slightly flattened on the nose from the impact with the old plywood, but otherwise unmarked. The paper had slowed it to a complete stop in the space of about eighteen inches. He could see the hole punched all the way through half the files. He weighed the bullet in his palm, and then he saw Jodie at the door, watching him. He tossed the bullet to her. She caught it, one-handed.
"Souvenir," he said.
She juggled it like it was hot and dropped it in the fireplace. Joined him on the rug, kneeling hip to hip beside him in front of the mass of paper. He caught her perfume, something he did not recognize, but something subtle and intensely feminine. The sweatshirt was too big on her, large and shapeless, but somehow it emphasized her figure. The sleeves finished halfway down the backs of her hands, almost at her fingers. Her Levi's were cinched in tight around her tiny waist with a belt, and her legs left them slightly empty. She looked fragile, but he could remember the strength in her arms. Thin, but wiry. She bent to look at the files, and her hair fell forward, and he caught the same soft smell he recalled from fifteen years previously.
"What are we looking for?" she asked.
He shrugged. "We'll know when we find it, I guess."
They looked hard, but they found nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing current, nothing significant. Just a mass of household paper, looking suddenly old and pathetic as it charted its way through a domestic life that was now over. The most recent item was the will, on its own in a separate slot, sealed into an envelope with neat writing on it. Neat, but slightly slow and shaky, the writing of a man just back from the hospital after his first heart attack. Jodie took it out to the hallway and slipped it into the pocket of her garment bag.
"Any unpaid bills?" she called.
There was a slot marked PENDING. It was empty.
"Can't see any," he called back. "There'll be a few coming in, I guess, right? Do they come in monthly?"
She gave him a look from the doorway and smiled.
"Yes, they do," she said. "Monthly, every month."
There was a slot marked MEDICAL. It was overstuffed with receipted bills from the hospital and the clinic and sheaves of efficient correspondence from the insurance provider. Reacher leafed through it all.
"Christ, is that what this stuff costs?"
Jodie came back and bent to look.
"Sure it is," she said. "Have you got insurance?"
He looked at her, blankly.
"I think maybe the VA gives it to me, at least for a period."
"You should check it out," she said. "Make sure."
He shrugged. "I feel OK."
"So did Dad," she said. "For sixty-three and a half straight years."
She knelt beside him again, and he saw her eyes cloud over. He laid his hand on her arm, gently.
"Hell of a day, right?" he said.
She nodded and blinked. Then she came up with a small, wry smile.
"Unbelievable," she said. "I bury the old man, I get shot at by a couple of murderers, I break the law by failing to report so many felonies I can't even count them, and then I get talked into hooking up with some wild man aiming to run some kind of a vigilante deal. You know what Dad would have said to me?"
"What?"
She pursed her lips and lowered her voice into a close imitation of Garber's good-natured growl. "All in a day's work, girl, all in a day's work. That's what he would have said to me."
Reacher grinned back at her and squeezed her arm again. Then he leafed through the medical junk and picked out a letterhead.
"Let's go find this clinic," he said.
THERE WAS A lot of debate going on inside the Tahoe about whether they should go back at all. Failure was not a popular word in Hobie's vocabulary. It might be better just to take off and disappear. Just get the hell out. It was an attractive prospect. But they were pretty sure Hobie would find them. Maybe not soon, but he would find them. And that was not an attractive prospect.
So they turned their attention to damage limitation. It was clear what they had to do. They made the necessary stops and wasted a plausible amount of time in a diner just off the southbound side of Route 9. By the time they had battled the traffic back down to the southern tip of Manhattan, they had their whole story straight.
"It was a no-brainer," the first guy said. "We waited for hours, which is why we're so late back. Problem was there was a whole bunch of soldiers there, kind of ceremonial, but they had rifles all over the place."
"How many?" Hobie asked.
"Soldiers?" the second guy said. "At least a dozen. Maybe fifteen. They were all milling around, so it was hard to count them exactly. Some kind of honor guard."
"She left with them," the first guy said. "They must have escorted her down from the cemetery, and then she went back somewhere with them afterward."
"You didn't think to follow?"
"No way we could," the second guy said. '"They were driving slow, a long line of cars. Like a funeral procession? They'd have made us in a second. We couldn't just tag on the end of a funeral procession, right?"
"What about the big guy from the Keys?"
"He left real early. We just let him go. We were watching for Mrs. Jacob. It was pretty clear by then which one she was. She stayed around, then she left, all surrounded by this bunch of military."
"So what did you do then?"
"We checked the house," the first guy said. "Locked up tight. So we went into the town and checked the property title. Everything's listed in the public library. The place was registered to a guy called Leon Garber. We asked the librarian what she knew, and she just handed us the local newspaper. Page three, there was a story about the guy. Just died, heart trouble. Widower, only surviving relative is his daughter, Jodie, the former Mrs. Jacob, who is a young but very eminent financial attorney with Spencer Gutman Ricker and Talbot of Wall Street, and who lives on lower Broadway right here in New York City."
Hobie nodded slowly, and tapped the sharp end of his hook on the desk, with a jittery little rhythm.
"And who was this Leon Garber, exactly? Why all the soldiers at his wake?"
"Military policeman," the first guy said.
The second guy nodded. "Mustered out with three stars and more medals than you can count, served forty years, Korea, Vietnam, everywhere."
Hobie stopped tapping. He sat still and the color drained out of his face, leaving his skin dead white, all except for the shiny pink burn scars that glowed vivid in the gloom.
"Military policeman," he repeated quietly.
He sat for a long time with those words on his lips. He just sat and stared into space, and then he lifted his hook off the desk and rotated it in front of his eyes, slowly, examining it, allowing the thin beams of light from the blinds to catch its curves and contours. It was trembling, so he took it in his left hand and held it still.
"Military policeman," he said again, staring at the hook. Then he transferred his gaze to the two men on the sofas.
"Leave the room," he said to the second guy.
The guy glanced once at his partner and went out and closed the door softly behind him. Hobie pushed back in his chair and stood up. Came out from behind the desk and stepped over and stopped still, directly behind the first guy, who just sat there on his sofa, not moving, not daring to turn around and look.
He wore a size sixteen collar, which made his neck a fraction over five inches in diameter, assuming a human neck is more or less a uniform cylinder, which was an approximation Hobie had always been happy to make. Hobie's hook was a simple steel curve, like a capital letter J, generously sized. The inside diameter of the curve was four and three-quarter inches. He moved fast, darting the hook out and forcing it over the guy's throat from behind. He stepped back and pulled with all his strength. The guy threw himself upward and backward, his fingers scrabbling under the cold metal to relieve the gagging pressure. Hobie smiled and pulled harder. The hook was riveted to a heavy leather cup and a matching shaped corset, the cup over the remains of his forearm, the corset buckled tight over his bicep above his elbow. The forearm assembly was just a stabilizer. It was the upper corset, smaller than the bulge of his elbow joint, that took all the strain and made it impossible for the hook to be separated from the stump. He pulled until the gagging turned to fractured wheezing and the redness in the guy's face began to turn blue. Then he eased off an inch and bent close to the guy's ear.
"He had a big bruise on his face. What the hell was that about?"
The guy was wheezing and gesturing wildly. Hobie twisted the hook, which relieved the pressure on the guy's voice box, but brought the tip up into the soft area under his ear.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked again.
The guy knew that with the hook at that angle any extra rearward pressure was going to put the tip right through his skin into that vulnerable triangle behind the jaw. He didn't know much about anatomy, but he knew he was a half inch away from dying.
"I'll tell you," he wheezed. "I'll tell you."
Hobie kept the hook in position, twisting it every time the guy hesitated, so the whole true story took no longer than three minutes, beginning to end.
"You failed me," Hobie said.
"Yes, we did," the guy gasped. "But it was his fault. He got all tangled up behind the screen door. He was useless."
Hobie jerked the hook.
"As opposed to what? Like he's useless and you're useful?"
"It was his fault," the guy gasped again. "I'm still useful."
"You're going to have to prove that to me."
"How?" the guy wheezed. "Please, how? Just tell me."
"Easy. You can do something for me."
"Yes," the guy gasped. "Yes, anything, please."
"Bring me Mrs. Jacob," Hobie screamed at him.
"Yes," the guy screamed back.
"And don't screw up again," Hobie screamed.
"No," the guy gasped. "No, we won't, I promise."
Hobie jerked the hook again, twice, in time with his words.
"Not we. Just you. Because you can do something else for me."
"What?" the guy wheezed. "Yes, what? Anything."
"Get rid of your useless partner," Hobie whispered. "Tonight, on the boat."
The guy nodded as vigorously as the hook would allow his head to move. Hobie leaned forward and slipped the hook away. The guy collapsed sideways, gasping and retching into the fabric on the sofa.
"And bring me his right hand," Hobie whispered. "To prove it."
THEY FOUND THAT the clinic Leon had been attending was not really a place in its own right, but just an administrative unit within a giant private hospital facility serving the whole of lower Putnam County. There was a ten-story white building set in parkland, with medical practices of every description clustered around its base. Small roads snaked through tasteful landscaping and led to little cul-de-sacs ringed with low offices for the doctors and the dentists. Anything the professions couldn't handle in the offices got transferred to rented beds inside the main building. Thus the cardiology clinic was a notional entity, made up of a changing population of doctors and patients depending on who was sick and how bad they were. Leon's own correspondence showed he had been seen in several different physical locations, ranging from the ICU at the outset to the recovery ward, then to one of the outpatient offices, then back to the ICU for his final visit.
The name of the supervising cardiologist was the only constant feature throughout the paperwork, a Dr. McBannerman, who Reacher pictured in his mind as a kindly old guy, white hair, erudite, wise and sympathetic, maybe of ancient Scottish extraction, until Jodie told him she had met with her several times and she was a woman from Baltimore aged about thirty-five. He was driving Jodie's jeep around the small, curving roads, while she was scanning left and right for the correct office. She recognized it at the end of a cul-de-sac, a low brick structure, white trim, somehow glowing with an antiseptic halo like medical buildings do. There were a half dozen cars parked outside, with one spare slot which Reacher backed into.
The receptionist was a heavy old busybody who welcomed Jodie with a measure of sympathy. She invited them to wait in McBannerman's inner office, which earned them glares from the other patients in the waiting room. The inner office was an inoffensive place, pale and sterile and silent, with a token examination table and a large colored cutaway diagram of the human heart on the wall behind the desk. Jodie was staring up at it like she was asking so which part finally failed? Reacher could feel his own heart, huge and muscular and thumping gently in his chest. He could feel the blood pumping and the pulses ticking in his wrists and his neck.
They waited like that for ten minutes, and then the inner door opened and Dr. McBannerman stepped in, a plain dark-haired woman in a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck like a badge of office, and concern in her face.
"Jodie," she said, "I'm terribly sorry about Leon."
It was 99 percent genuine, but there was a stray edge of worry there, too. She's worried about a malpractice suit, Reacher thought. The patient's daughter was a lawyer, and she was right there in her office straight from the funeral ceremony. Jodie caught it, too, and she nodded, a reassuring little gesture.
"I just came to say thank you. You were absolutely wonderful, every step of the way. He couldn't have had better care."
McBannerman relaxed. The one percent of worry washed away. She smiled and Jodie glanced up at the big diagram again.
"So which part finally failed?" she asked.
McBannerman followed her gaze and shrugged gently.
"Well, all of it, really, I'm afraid. It's a big complex muscle, it beats and it beats, thirty million times a year. If it lasts twenty-seven hundred million beats, which is ninety years, we call it old age. If it lasts only eighteen hundred million beats, sixty years, we call it premature heart disease. We call it America's biggest health problem, but really all we're saying is sooner or later, it just stops going."
She paused and looked directly at Reacher. For a second he thought she had spotted some symptom he was displaying. Then he realized she was waiting for an introduction.
"Jack Reacher," he said. "I was an old friend of Leon's."
She nodded slowly, like a puzzle had just been solved.
"The famous Major Reacher. He spoke about you, often."
She sat and looked at him, openly interested. She scanned his face, and then her eyes settled on his chest. He wasn't sure if that was because of her professional specialty, or if she was looking at the scorch mark from the muzzle blast.
"Did he speak about anything else?" Jodie asked. "I got the impression he was concerned about something."
McBannerman turned to her, puzzled, like she was thinking well, all of my patients are concerned about something, like life and death.
"What sort of thing?"
"I don't really know," Jodie said. "Maybe something one of the other patients might have involved him with?"
McBannerman shrugged and looked blank, like she was about to dismiss it, but then they saw her remember.
"Well, he did mention something. He told me he had a new task."
"Did he say what it was?"
McBannerman shook her head.
"He mentioned no details. Initially, it seemed to bore him. He was reluctant about it, at first. Like somebody had landed him with something tedious. But then he got a lot more interested, later. It got to where it was overstimulating him. His EKGs were way up, and I wasn't at all happy about it."
"Was it connected to another patient?" Reacher asked her.
She shook her head again.
"I really don't know. It's possible, I guess. They spend a lot of time together, out there in reception. They talk to each other. They're old people, often bored and lonely, I'm afraid."
It sounded like a rebuke. Jodie blushed.
"When did he first mention it?" Reacher asked, quickly.
"March?" McBannerman said. "April? Soon after he became an outpatient, anyway. Not long before he went to Hawaii."
Jodie stared at her, surprised. "He went to Hawaii? I didn't know that."
McBannerman nodded. "He missed an appointment and I asked him what had happened, and he said he'd been to Hawaii, just a couple of days."
"Hawaii? Why would he go to Hawaii without telling me?"
"I don't know why he went," McBannerman said.
"Was he well enough to travel?" Reacher asked her.
She shook her head.
"No, and I think he knew it was silly. Maybe that's why he didn't mention it."
"When did he become an outpatient?" Reacher asked.
"Beginning of March," she said.
"And when did he go to Hawaii?"
"Middle of April, I think."
"OK," he said. "Can you give us a list of your other patients during that period? March and April? People he might have talked to?"
McBannerman was already shaking her head.
"No, I'm sorry, I really can't do that. It's a confidentiality issue."
She appealed to Jodie with her eyes, doctor to lawyer, woman to woman, a you-know-how-it-is sort of a look. Jodie nodded, sympathetically.
"Maybe you could just ask your receptionist? You know, see if she saw Dad talking with one of the others out there? That would just be conversational, third-party, no confidentiality issues involved. In my opinion, certainly."
McBannerman recognized an impasse when she saw one. She buzzed the intercom and asked the receptionist to step inside. The woman was asked the question, and she started nodding busily and answering before it was even finished.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Garber was always talking to that nice elderly couple, you know, the man with the dodgy valve? Upper right ventricle? Can't drive anymore so his wife brings him in every time? In that awful old car? Mr. Garber was doing something for them, I'm absolutely sure of it. They were always showing him old photographs and pieces of paper."
"The Hobies?" McBannerman asked her.
"That's right, they all got to be thick as thieves together, the three of them, Mr. Garber and old Mr. and Mrs. Hobie."
