Lee Child - Without Fail

“Nothing to judge,” he said. “Nothing to feel guilty about, either. Whatever you wished was understandable, and it had no influence on what happened. How could it?”

She was silent.

“He got in over his head,” Reacher said. “That’s all. He took a chance and got unlucky. You didn’t cause it. I didn’t cause it. It just happened.”

“Things happen for a reason.”

He shook his head.

“No, they don’t,” he said. “They really don’t. They just happen. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible.”

“You think?”

“You’re not responsible,” he said again. “Nobody’s responsible. Except the guy who pulled the trigger.”

“I wished him harm,” she said. “I need you to forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive.”

“I need you to say the words.”

“I can’t,” Reacher said. “And I won’t. You don’t need forgiving. It wasn’t your fault. Or mine. Or Joe’s, even. It just happened. Like things do.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, just slightly, and moved a little closer to him.

“OK,” she said.

“Are you wearing anything under that suit?” he asked.

“You knew I had a gun in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why did you search my house?”

“Because I’ve got the gene that Joe didn’t have. Things don’t happen to me. I don’t get unlucky. You carrying a gun now?”

“No, I’m not,” she said.

There was silence for a beat.

“And there’s nothing under the suit,” she said.

“I need to confirm those things for myself,” he said. “It’s a caution thing. Purely genetic, you understand.”

He undid the first button on her jacket. Then the second. Slipped his hand inside. Her skin was warm and smooth.

They got a wake-up call from the motel desk at six o’clock in the morning. Stuyvesant must have arranged it last night , Reacher thought. I wish he’d forgotten . Froelich stirred at his side. Then her eyes snapped open and she sat up, wide awake.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I hope it will be,” she said. “I’ve got a feeling about today. I think it’s the day we win or lose.”

“I like that kind of a day.”

“You do?”

“Sure,” he said. “Losing is not an option, which means it’s the day we win.”

She pushed back the covers. The room had gone from too cold to too hot.

“Dress casual,” she said. “Suits don’t look right on a holiday at a soup kitchen. Will you tell Neagley?”

“You tell her. You’ll be passing her door. She won’t bite.”

“She won’t?”

“No,” he said.

She put her suit back on and left. He padded over to the closet and pulled out the bag full of his Atlantic City clothes. He spilled them on the bed and did his best to flatten out the wrinkles. Then he showered without shaving. She wanted me to look casual , he thought. He found Neagley in the lobby. She was wearing her jeans and her sweatshirt with a battered leather jacket over it. There was a buffet table with coffee and muffins. The U.S. marshals had already eaten most of them.

“You two kiss and make up?” Neagley asked.

“A little of each, I guess,” he said.

He took a cup and filled it with coffee. Selected a raisin bran muffin. Then Froelich showed up, newly showered and wearing black denim jeans with a black polo shirt and a black nylon jacket. They ate and drank whatever the marshals had left and then they walked out together to Stuyvesant’s Suburban. It was before seven in the morning on Thanksgiving Day and the city looked like it had been evacuated the night before. There was silence everywhere. It was cold, but the air was still and soft. The sun was up and the sky was pale blue. The stone buildings looked golden. The roads were completely empty. It took no time at all to reach the office. Stuyvesant was waiting for them in the conference room. His interpretation of casual was a pair of pressed gray pants and a pink sweater under a bright blue golf jacket. Reacher guessed all the labels said Brooks Brothers, and he guessed Mrs. Stuyvesant had gone to the Baltimore hospital as was usual on a Thursday, Thanksgiving Day or not. Bannon was sitting opposite Stuyvesant. He was in the same tweed and flannel. He would look like a cop whatever day it was. He looked like a guy without too many options in his closet.

“Let’s get to it,” Stuyvesant said. “We’ve got a big agenda.”

“First item,” Bannon said. “The FBI formally advises cancellation today. We know the bad guys are in the city and therefore it’s reasonable to assume there may be some kind of imminent hostile attempt.”

“Cancellation is out of the question,” Stuyvesant said. “Free turkey at a homeless shelter might sound trivial, but this is a town that runs on symbols. If Armstrong pulled out the political damage would be catastrophic.”

“OK, then we’re going to be there on the ground with you,” Bannon said. “Not to duplicate your role. We’ll stay strictly out of your way on all matters that concern Armstrong’s personal security. But if something does go down, the closer we are the luckier we’ll get.”

“Any specific information?” Froelich asked.

Bannon shook his head.

“None,” he said. “Just a feeling. But I would urge you to take it very seriously.”

“I’m taking everything very seriously,” Froelich said. “In fact, I’m changing the whole plan. I’m moving the event outdoors.”

“ Out doors?” Bannon said. “Isn’t that worse?”

“No,” Froelich said. “On balance, it’s better. It’s a long low room, basically. Kitchen at the back. It’s going to get very crowded. We’ve got no realistic chance of using metal detectors on the doors. It’s the end of November, and most of these people are going to be wearing five layers and carrying God knows what kind of metal stuff. We can’t search them. It would take forever and God knows how many diseases my people would catch. We can’t wear gloves to do it because that would be seen as insulting. So we have to concede there’s a fair chance that the bad guys could mingle in and get close, and we have to concede we’ve got no real way of stopping them.”

“So how does it help to be outdoors?”

“There’s a side yard. We’ll put the serving tables in a long line at right angles to the wall of the building. Pass stuff out through the kitchen window. Behind the serving table is the wall of the yard. We’ll put Armstrong and his wife and four agents in a line behind the serving table, backs to the wall. We’ll have the guests approach from the left, single file through a screen of more agents. They’ll get their food and walk on inside to sit down and eat it. The television people will like it better, too. Outside is always better for them. And there’ll be orderly movement. Left to right along the table. Turkey from Armstrong, stuffing from Mrs. Armstrong. Move along, sit down to eat. Easier to portray, visually.”

“Upside?” Stuyvesant asked.

“Extensive,” Froelich said. “Much better crowd security. Nobody can pull a weapon before they get near Armstrong, because they’re filtering through an agent screen the whole time until they’re right across the table from him. Whereupon if they wait to do it at that point, he’s got four agents right alongside him.”

“Downside?”

“Limited. We’ll be screened on three sides by walls. But the yard is open at the front. There’s a block of five-story buildings directly across the street. Old warehousing. The windows are boarded, which is a huge bonus. But we’ll need to put an agent on every roof. So we’ll have to forget the budget.”

Stuyvesant nodded. “We can do that. Good plan.”