Bad Luck and Trouble

Then the fuel ran out.

The engines died and the rotor shuddered to a stop.

The cabin went quiet.

Reacher was first out the door. He batted his way through clouds of warm dust and sent Dixon and O’Donnell ahead to meet with Neagley and then turned back to the Bell. He opened the cockpit door and looked in at the pilot. The guy was still strapped to his seat. He was flicking the face of the fuel gauge with his fingernail.

"Nice landing," Reacher said. "You’re a good pilot."

The guy said, "Thanks."

"That thing with the rotation," Reacher said. "The way it kept the door open up there. Smart move."

"Basic aerodynamics."

"But then, you had plenty of practice."

The pilot said nothing.

"Four times," Reacher said. "That I know about, at least."

The pilot said nothing.

"Those men were my friends," Reacher said.

"Lamaison told me I had to do it."

"Or?"

"I would lose my job."

"That’s all? You let them throw four live human beings out of your helicopter to save your job?"

"I’m paid to follow instructions."

"You ever heard about a trial at Nuremberg? That excuse really doesn’t cut it anymore."

The pilot said, "It was wrong, I know."

"But you did it anyway."

"What choice did I have?"

"Lots of choices," Reacher said. Then he smiled. The pilot relaxed a little. Reacher shook his head like he was bemused by it all and leaned in and patted the guy on the cheek. Left his hand there, far side of the guy’s face, a friendly gesture. He worked his thumb up toward the guy’s eye socket, pressed his index finger on the guy’s temple, worked his other three fingers behind the guy’s ear, into his hair. Then he broke the guy’s neck, one-handed, with a single convulsive twist. Then he bounced the guy’s head around, front to back, side to side, to make sure the spinal cord was properly severed. He didn’t want the guy to wake up a paraplegic. He didn’t want the guy to wake up at all.

He walked away and left him there, still strapped in his seat. Turned back after fifty feet and checked. A helicopter in a ditch, slightly tilted, wheels up, tanks empty. A crash. The pilot still on board, impact injuries, an unfortunate accident. Not perfect, but reasonable.

Neagley had parked a hundred feet from the arroyo, which was about half the distance to Edward Dean’s front door. Her lights were still on bright. When Reacher got to the car he turned and looked back and checked again. The Bell was hidden pretty well. The crown of the rotor was visible, but only just. The blades themselves drooped out of sight under their own weight. The dust was settling. Neagley and Dixon and O’Donnell were standing together in a tight group of three.

"We OK?" Reacher asked.

Dixon and O’Donnell nodded. Neagley didn’t.

"You mad with me?" Reacher asked her.

"Not really," she said. "I would have been if you’d screwed up."

"I needed you to work out where the missiles were headed."

"You already knew."

"I wanted a second opinion. And the address."

"Well, here we are. No missiles."

"They’re still in transit."

"We hope."

"Let’s go see Mr. Dean."

They piled into the tiny Civic and Neagley drove the hundred feet to Dean’s door. Dean opened up on the first knock. Clearly he had been rousted by the helicopter drone and the flashing lights. He didn’t look much like a rocket scientist. More like a coach at a third-rate high school. He was tall and loose-limbed and had a shock of sandy hair. He was maybe forty years old. He was barefoot and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Night attire. It was close to midnight.

"Who are you people?" he asked.

Reacher explained who they were, and why they were there.

Dean had no idea what he was talking about.

84

Reacher had been expecting some kind of a denial. Lamaison had warned Berenson to stay quiet, and clearly he would have done the same or more with Dean. But Dean’s denial seemed genuine. The guy was puzzled, not evasive.

"Let’s start at the beginning," Reacher said. "We know what you did with the electronics packs, and we know why you had to do it."

Suddenly there was something in Dean’s face. Just like with Margaret Berenson.

Reacher said, "We know about the threat against your daughter."

"What threat?"

"Where is she?"

"Away. Her mother, too."

"School’s not out."

"An urgent family matter."

Reacher nodded. "You sent them away. That was smart. "

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Reacher said, "Lamaison is dead."

There was a flash of hope in Dean’s eyes, just for a split second, hard to see in the darkness.

"I threw him out of the helicopter," Reacher said.

Dean said nothing.

"You like bird watching? Wait a day and drive a mile or two south and get up on the roof of your car. Two buzzards circling, it’s probably a snake-bit coyote. More than two, it’s Lamaison. Or Parker, or Lennox. They’re all out there somewhere."

"I don’t believe you."

Reacher said, "Show him, Karla."

Dixon pulled out the wallet she had taken from Lamaison’s pocket. Dean took it from her and turned to the light burning in his hallway. He spilled the contents into his palm and shuffled through them. Lamaison’s driver’s license, his credit cards, a New Age photo ID, his Social Security card.

"Lamaison is dead," Reacher said again.

Dean put the stuff back in the wallet and handed it back to Dixon.

"You got his wallet," he said. "Doesn’t prove you got him."

"I can show you the pilot," Reacher said. "He’s dead, too."

"He just landed."

"I just killed him."

"You’re crazy."

"And you’re off the hook."

Dean said nothing.

"Take your time," Reacher said. "Get used to it. But we need to know who’s coming, and when."

"Nobody’s coming."

"Someone has to be."

"That was never the deal."

"Wasn’t it?"

"Tell me again," Dean said. "Lamaison’s dead?"

"He killed four of my friends," Reacher said. "If he wasn’t dead, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing here wasting time with you."

Dean nodded, slowly. He was getting used to it.

"But I still don’t know what you’re talking about," he said. "OK, I signed off on phony paperwork, I admit that, six hundred and fifty times, which is terrible, but that was all I did. There was never anything about me assembling units or showing anyone else how to do it."

"Who else knows how?"

"It’s not difficult. It’s plug and play. It’s simple. It has to be. Soldiers are going to do it. No offense. I mean, in the field, at night, under stress."

"Simple for you."

"Relatively simple for anyone."

"Soldiers never do anything until they’re shown how."

"Sure, they’ll have training."

"From who?"

"We’ll set up a course at Fort Irwin. I guess I’ll teach the first class."

"Lamaison knew that?"

"It’s standard practice."

"So he pimped you out for a preview."

Dean just shook his head. "He didn’t. He didn’t say anything about a preview. And he could have. It wasn’t like I was in a position to refuse him anything."