Bad Luck and Trouble

Franz calls him with a problem, what else is Swan going to do? He’s going to run right over there. It’s twenty minutes down the road.”
    “He’d have gone anyway, unemployed or not.”
    “They all would. And I guess they all did.”
    “So are they all dead now?”
    “Hope for the best, plan for the worst.”
    “You got what you wanted, Reacher. It’s just the two of us.”
    “I didn’t want it for these reasons.”
    “I just can’t believe it. All of them?”
    “Someone’s going to pay.”
    “You think? We’ve got nothing. We’ve got one last chance with a password. Which by definition we’ll be too nervous to take.”
    “This is no kind of a time to be getting nervous.”
    “So tell me what to type.”
    Reacher said nothing.

    They retraced their route through the surface streets. Neagley drove in silence and Reacher pictured Tony Swan making the same drive more than three weeks earlier. Maybe with the contents of his New Age desk boxed up in his trunk, his pens and pencils and his chip of Soviet concrete. On his way to help his old buddy. Other old buddies pouring in down spokes of an invisible wheel. Sanchez and Orozco hustling over from Vegas on the 15. O’Donnell and Dixon coming in on planes from the East Coast, toting luggage, taking taxis, assembling.
    Meeting and greeting.
    Running into some kind of a brick wall.
    Then their images faded away and he was alone again with Neagley in the car. Just the two of us. Facts were to be faced, not fought.

    Neagley left the car with the Beverly Wilshire valets and they entered the lobby from the rear through the crooked corridor. They rode up in the elevator in silence. Neagley used her key and pushed open her door.
    Then she stopped dead.
    Because sitting in her chair by the window, reading Calvin Franz’s autopsy report, was a man in a suit.
    Tall, fair, aristocratic, relaxed.
    David O’Donnell.

17
    O’Donnell looked up, somber. “I was going to inquire as to the meaning of all those rude and abusive messages on my answering machine.” Then he raised the autopsy report, an explanatory gesture. “But now I understand.”
    Neagley asked, “How did you get in here?”
    O’Donnell just said, “Oh, please.”
    “Where the hell were you?” Reacher asked.
    “I was in New Jersey,” O’Donnell said. “My sister was sick.”
    “How sick?”
    “Very sick.”
    “Did she die?”
    “No, she recovered.”
    “Then you should have been here days ago.”
    “Thanks for your concern.”
    “We were worried,” Neagley said. “We thought they got you, too.”
    O’Donnell nodded. “You should be worried. You should stay worried. It’s a worrying situation. I had to wait four hours for a flight. I used the time making calls. No answer from Franz, obviously. Now I know why, of course. No answer from Swan or Dixon or Orozco or Sanchez, either. My conclusion was that one of them had gotten all the others together and they had run into a problem. Not you or Reacher, because you’re too busy in Chicago and who the hell could ever find Reacher? And not me, because I was temporarily off the grid in New Jersey.”
    “I wasn’t too busy,” Neagley said. “How could anyone think that? I’d have dropped everything and come running.”
    O’Donnell nodded again. “At first that was the only thing that gave me hope. I figured they would have called you.”
    “So why didn’t they? Don’t they like me?”
    “If they hated you they’d still have called you. Without you it would have been like fighting with one hand behind their backs. Who would do that voluntarily? But in the end it’s perception that counts, not reality. You’re very high grade now compared to the rest of us. I think they might have hesitated with you. Maybe until it was too late.”
    “So what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that one of them, and now I see that it would have been Franz, was in trouble, and he called all of us that he perceived as readily available. Which excluded you and Reacher by definition, and me also, by bad luck, because I wasn’t where I normally am.”
    “That’s how we saw it, too. Except you’re a bonus. Your sister being sick was a stroke of luck for us. And for you, maybe.”
    “But not for her.”
    “Stop whining,” Reacher said. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”
    “Nice to see you, too,” O’Donnell said. “After all these years.”
    “How did you get in here?” Neagley asked.
    O’Donnell shifted in his seat and took a