“The kid made up a scenario where Joe memorized the answers and then burned the book. Which would be plausible, for a guy who wanted to cheat on a test. And it was trash night, which was convenient. The plan was the kid would burn the book in his own back yard, and then sneak into ours during the night and dump the metal part in our incinerator, among our ashes, so the evidence would be right there. But we had no ashes. We missed trash night. We had to be up at the airport instead. So the kid had to abort the plan. He just snuck away again. And I heard him. Early hours of the morning. I thought it was a cat or a rat.”
“Any trace evidence?”
“You might find footprints out there,” Reacher said. “The yard was swept at some point, but there’s always dust. Especially after trash night.”
The MPs went away and took a look at the yard, and then they came back with quizzical expressions on their faces, as if to say,
The Intelligence major got a look on his own face, like
“No,” Reacher said. “Not for sure. But I could make a pretty good guess.”
“Where?”
“Help my brother out with the school, and then we’ll talk.”
The three Marines came back ninety minutes later. One of the MPs said, “You bust that kid up pretty good, didn’t you?”
“He’ll live,” Reacher said.
The other MP said, “He confessed. It went down like you figured. How did you know?”
“Logic,” Reacher said. “I knew Joe wouldn’t have done it, so clearly someone else did. It was just a question of who. And how, and why.”
The Intelligence major said, “We squared things away with the school. Your brother is in the clear.” Then the guy smiled. He said, “But there’s one unfortunate consequence.”
“Which is what?”
“They don’t have the answers anymore, so the test has been canceled.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Every silver lining has a cloud.”
“Did you see the questions?”
The major nodded. “Reading, writing, adding, subtracting. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No general knowledge?”
“No.”
“No baseball?”
“Not even a hint.”
“No statistics?”
“Percentages, maybe, in the math section. Odds and probabilities, that sort of thing.”
“Which are important,” Reacher said. “As in, what are the odds of a Marine officer losing a code book?”
“Low.”
“What are the odds of a
“Lower still.”
“So the probability is the book isn’t lost at all. The probability is there’s another explanation. Therefore time spent chasing the notion it’s lost is time wasted. Time spent on other avenues would be more fruitful.”
“What other avenues?”
“When did President Ford take over from President Nixon?”
“Ten days ago.”
“Which must have been when the Joint Chiefs started dusting off all the options. And I’m guessing the only real live one is China. Which is why we got the transfer here. But we’re the combat phase. So a little earlier than us the planners must have been brought in. A week or so ago, maybe. They must have been told to nail everything down double quick. Which is a lot of work, right?”
“Always.”
“And what’s the last phase of that work?”
“Revising the code books to match the updated plans.”
“What’s the deadline?”
“Theoretically we have to be ready to go at midnight tonight, should the president order it.”
“So maybe somewhere there’s a guy who worked on the codes all through the night. A rear echelon guy who got here about a week ago.”
“I’m sure there is. But we already checked all over the base. That’s the first thing we did.”
“Maybe he worked off post.”
“That would be unauthorized.”
“But it happens.”
“I know. But even if it did in this case, he would have been back on the base hours ago, and the book would have been back in the safe hours ago.”
“Suppose he wore himself out and fell asleep? Suppose he hasn’t gotten up yet? Suppose the code book is still on his kitchen table?”
“Where?”
“Across the street,” Reacher said. “Knock on the door and ask for Helen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Joe got back from his long walk an hour later and he and his brother and his father headed for the beach and took a swim. The water was warm, the sand was white, and the palms were swaying. They loitered and strolled until the sun dipped low, and then they headed home to the hot little house at the top of the concrete street, where an hour later the new phone rang again and Josie told them that her father had died. Old Laurent Moutier was gone, at the age of ninety, taking with him like everyone does a lifetime of unknown private hopes and dreams and fears and experiences, and leaving behind him like most people do a thin trace of himself in his living descendants. He had never had a clear idea of what would become of his beautiful mop-haired daughter and his two handsome grandsons, nor did he really want one, but like every other twentieth-century male human in Europe he hoped they would live lives of peace, prosperity, and plenty, while simultaneously knowing they almost certainly wouldn’t. So he hoped they would bear their burdens with grace and good humor, and he was comforted in his final moments by the knowledge that so far they always had, and probably always would.
Lee Child
