number rang for a long time because it was already the middle of the evening six thousand miles to the east. Then it was answered.
“Reacher’s here,” Simon whispered. “Right now, with a woman. They’re in the lab, right now. Looking.”
Hobie’s voice came back low and controlled. “Who’s the woman?”
“Jodie Garber,” Simon said. “General Garber’s daughter.”
“Alias Mrs. Jacob.”
“What do you want me to do?”
There was silence on the line. Just the whistle of the long-distance satellite.
“You could give them a ride back to the airport, maybe. The woman’s got an appointment in New York tomorrow afternoon, so I guess they’ll be trying to make the seven o’clock flight. Just make sure they don’t miss it.”
“OK,” Simon said, and Hobie broke the connection.
THE LAB WAS a wide, low room, maybe forty feet by fifty. There were no windows. The lighting was the bland wash of fluorescent tubes. There was the faint hiss of efficient air circulation, but there was a smell in the room, somewhere between the sharp tang of strong disinfectant and the warm odor of earth. At the far end of the space was an alcove filled with racks. On the racks were rows of cardboard boxes, marked with reference numbers in black. Maybe a hundred boxes.
“The unidentified,” Reacher said.
Newman nodded at his side.
“As of now,” he said, quietly. “We won’t give up on them.”
Between them and the distant alcove was the main body of the room. The floor was tile, swabbed to a shine. Standing on it were twenty neat wooden tables set in precise rows. The tables were waist high and topped with heavy polished slabs. Each table was a little shorter and a little narrower than an Army cot. They looked like sturdy versions of the tables decorators use for wallpaper pasting. Six of them were completely empty. Seven of them had the lids of seven polished aluminum caskets laid across them. The final seven tables held the seven aluminum caskets themselves, in neat alternate rows, each one adjacent to the table bearing its lid. Reacher stood silent with his head bowed, and then he drew himself up to attention and held a long, silent salute for the first time in more than two years.
“Awful,” Jodie whispered.
She was standing with her hands clasped behind her, head bowed, like she was at a graveside ceremony. Reacher released his salute and squeezed her hand.
“Thank you,” Newman said quietly. “I like people to show respect in here.”
“How could we not?” Jodie whispered.
She was staring at the caskets, with tears starting in her eyes.
“So, Reacher, what do you see?” Newman asked in the silence.
Reacher’s eyes were wandering around the bright room. He was too shocked to move.
“I see seven caskets,” he said quietly. “Where I expected to see eight. There were eight people in that Huey. Crew of five, and they picked up three. It’s in DeWitt’s report. Five and three make eight.”
“And eight minus one makes seven,” Newman said.
“Did you search the site? Thoroughly?”
Newman shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll have to figure that out.”
Reacher shook himself and took a step forward. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” Newman replied. “Tell me what you see. Concentrate hard, and we’ll see what you’ve remembered, and what you’ve forgotten.”
Reacher walked to the nearest casket and turned so that he was looking down into it along its length. The casket held a rough wooden box, six inches smaller in every dimension than the casket itself.
“That’s what the Vietnamese make us use,” Newman said. “They sell those boxes to us and make us use them. We put them in our own caskets in the hangar at the airfield in Hanoi.”
The wooden box had no lid. It was just a shallow tray. There was a jumble of bones in it. Somebody had arranged them in roughly the correct anatomical sequence. There was a skull at the top, yellowed and old. It grinned up with a grotesque smile. There was a gold tooth in the mouth. The empty eye sockets stared. The vertebrae of the neck were lined up neatly. Below them the shoulder blades and the collarbones and the ribs were laid out in their correct places above the pelvis. The arm bones and the leg bones were stacked to the sides. There was the dull glint of a metal chain draped over the vertebrae of the neck, running away under the flatness of the left shoulder blade.
“May I?” Reacher asked again.
Newman nodded. “Please.”
Reacher stood silent for a long moment and then leaned in and hooked his finger under the chain and eased it out. The bones stirred and clicked and moved as the dog tags caught. He pulled them out and brought them up and rubbed the ball of his thumb across their faces. Bent down to read the stamped name.
“Kaplan,” he said. “The copilot.”
“How did he die?” Newman asked.
Reacher draped the tags back across the bony ribs and looked hard for the evidence. The skull was OK. No trace of damage to the arms or legs or chest. But the pelvis was smashed. The vertebrae toward the bottom of the spine were crushed. And the ribs at the back were fractured, eight of them on both sides, counting upward from the bottom.
“Impact, when the Huey hit the ground. He took a big hit in the lower back. Massive internal trauma and hemorrhage. Probably fatal within a minute.”
“But he was strapped in his seat,” Newman said. “Head-on crash into the ground, how does that injure him from behind?”
Reacher looked again. He felt the way he had years before in the classroom, nervous about screwing up in front of the legendary Nash Newman. He looked hard, and he put his hands lightly on the dry bones, feeling them. But he had to be right. This was a crushing impact to the lower back. There was no other explanation.
“The Huey spun,” he said. “It came in at a shallow angle and the trees spun it around. It separated between the cabin and the tail and the cabin hit the ground traveling backward.”
Newman nodded. “Excellent. That’s exactly how we found it. It hit backward. Instead of his harness saving him, his chair killed him.”
Reacher moved on to the next casket. There was the same shallow wooden tray, the same jumble of yellow bones. The same grotesque, accusing, grinning skull. Below it, the neck was broken. He eased the dog tags out from between the shards of cracked bone.
“Tardelli,” he read.
“The starboard side gunner,” Newman said.
Tardelli’s skeleton was a mess. The gunners stood on a slick stand in the open doorway, basically unsecured, juggling with the heavy machine gun swinging on a bungee cord. When the Huey went down, Tardelli had been thrown all over the cabin.
“Broken neck,” Reacher said. “Crushing to the upper chest.”
He turned the awful yellow skull over. It was fractured like an eggshell.
“Head trauma also. I’d say he died instantaneously. Wouldn’t like to say which exact injury killed him.”
“Neither would I,” Newman said. “He was nineteen years old.”
There was silence. Nothing in the air except the faint sweet aroma of loam.
“Look at the next one,” Newman said.
The next one was different. There was a single injury to the chest. The dog tags were tangled into splintered bones. Reacher couldn’t free them. He had to bend his head to get the name.
“Bamford.”
“The crew chief,” Newman said. “He would have been sitting on the cabin bench, facing the rear, opposite the three guys they picked up.”
