Without Fail

“His coat,” he said. “The shape of his coat over his body, and the way it draped when he moved.”

“Seen the coat before?”

“Yes.”

“Color?”

“I don’t know. Not sure it really had a color.”

“Texture?”

“Texture is important. Not thick, not thin.”

“Herringbone?”

Reacher shook his head. “Not the coat we saw on the garage video. Not the guy, either. This guy was taller and leaner. Some length in his upper body. It gave the coat its drape. I think it was a long coat.”

“You only saw his shoulder.”

“It flowed like a long coat.”

“How did it flow?”

“Energetically. Like the guy was moving fast.”

“He would be. Far as he knew he’d just shot Armstrong.”

“No, like he was always energetic. A rangy guy, decisive in his movements.”

“Age?”

“Older than us.”

“Build?”

“Moderate.”

“Hair?”

“Don’t remember.”

He kept his eyes closed and searched his memory for coats. A long coat, not thick, not thin. He let his mind drift, but it always came back to the Atlantic City coat store. Standing there in front of a rainbow of choices, five whole minutes after making a stupid random decision that had led him away from the peace and quiet of a lonely motel room in La Jolla, California.

He gave up on it twenty minutes later and gestured for the duty officer to turn the television sound up for the news. The story led the bulletin, obviously. The coverage opened with a studio portrait of Armstrong in a box behind the anchorman’s shoulder. Then it cut to video of Armstrong handing his wife out of the limo. They stood up together and smiled. Started to walk past the camera. Then the tape cut to Armstrong holding up his ladle and his spoon. A smile on his face. The voice-over paused long enough for the live sound to come up: Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Then there were seven or eight seconds taken from a little later on when the food line was really moving.

Then it happened.

Because of the silencer there was no gunshot, and because there was no gunshot the cameraman didn’t duck or startle in the usual way. The picture held steady. And because there was no gunshot it seemed completely inexplicable why Froelich was suddenly jumping at Armstrong. It looked a little different, seen from the front. She just took off from her left foot and twisted up and sideways. She looked desperate, but graceful. They ran it once at normal speed, and then again in slow motion. She got her right hand on his left shoulder and pushed him down and herself up. Her momentum carried her all the way around and she drew her knees up and simply knocked him over with them. He fell and she followed him down. She was a foot below her maximum height when the second bullet came in and hit her.

“Shit,” Reacher said.

Neagley nodded, slowly. “She was too quick. A quarter second slower she’d still have been high enough in the air to take it in the vest.”

“She was too good.”

They ran it again, normal speed. It was all over in a second. Then they let the tape run on. The cameraman seemed rooted to the spot. Reacher saw himself barging through the tables. Saw the other agents firing. Froelich was out of sight, on the floor. The camera ducked because of the firing, but then came up level again and started moving in. The picture wobbled as the guy stumbled over something. There were long moments of total confusion. Then the cameraman started forward again, hungry for a shot of the downed agent. Neagley’s face appeared, and the picture went black. Coverage switched back to the anchorman. The anchorman looked straight at the camera and a

The picture cut to tape of an outdoors location Reacher recognized as the West Wing’s parking lot. Armstrong was standing there with his wife. They were both still in their casual clothes, but they had taken their Kevlar vests off. Somebody had cleaned Froelich’s blood from Armstrong’s face. His hair was combed. He looked resolute. He spoke in low, controlled tones, like a plain man wrestling with strong emotions. He talked about his extreme sadness that two agents had died. He extolled their qualities as individuals. He offered sincere sympathy to their families. He went on to say he hoped it would be seen that they had died protecting democracy itself, not just himself in person. He hoped their families might take some small measure of comfort from that, as well as a great deal of justified pride. He promised swift and certain retribution against the perpetrators of the outrage. He assured America that no amount of violence or intimidation could deter the workings of government, and that the transition would continue unaffected. But he finished by saying that as a mark of his absolute respect, he was remaining in Washington and canceling all engagements until he had attended a memorial service for his personal friend and protection team leader. He said the service would be held on Sunday morning, in a small country church in a small Wyoming town called Grace, where no finer metaphor for America’s enduring greatness could be found.

“Guy’s full of shit,” the duty officer said.

“No, he’s OK,” Reacher said.

The bulletin cut to first-quarter football highlights. The duty officer muted the sound and turned away. Reacher closed his eyes. Thought of Joe, and then of Froelich. Thought of them together. Then he rehearsed his upward glance once again. The curved spray of Froelich’s blood, the curve of the shooter’s shoulder, retreating, swinging away, swooping away. The coat flowing with him. The coat. He ran it all again, like the TV station had rerun its tape. He froze on the coat. He knew. He opened his eyes wide.

“Figured how yet?” he asked.

“Can’t get past Ba

“Say it.”

“Crosetti saw somebody he knew and trusted.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man, according to you.”

“OK, say it again.”

Neagley shrugged. “Crosetti saw some man he knew and trusted.”

Reacher shook his head. “Two words short. Crosetti saw some type of man he knew and trusted.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Who can get in and out of anywhere without suspicion?”

Neagley looked at him. “Law enforcement?”

Reacher nodded. “The coat was long, kind of reddish-brown, faint pattern to it. Too thin for an overcoat, too thick for a raincoat, flapping open. It swung as he ran.”

“As who ran?”

“That Bismarck cop. The lieutenant or whatever he was. He ran over to me after I came out of the church. It was him on the warehouse roof.”

“It was a cop?”

“That’s a very serious allegation,” Ba

They were back in the FBI’s conference room. Stuyvesant had never left it. He was still in his pink sweater. The room was still impressive.

“It was him,” Reacher said. “No doubt about it.”

“Cops are all fingerprinted,” Ba

“So his partner isn’t a cop,” Reacher said. “The guy on the garage video.”

Nobody spoke.

“It was him,” Reacher said again.

“How long did you see him for in Bismarck?” Ba

“Ten seconds, maybe,” Reacher said. “He was heading for the church. Maybe he’d seen me inside, ducked out, saw me leave, turned around, got ready to go back in.”

“Ten and a quarter seconds total,” Ba

“It makes sense,” Stuyvesant said. “Bismarck is Armstrong’s hometown. Hometowns are the places to look for feuds.”

Ba

“Tall,” Reacher said. “Sandy hair going gray. Lean face, lean body. Long coat, some kind of a heavy twill, reddish-brown, open. Tweed jacket, white shirt, tie, gray fla