Tripwire

most of a mile in five minutes. And although this is a very big place, there was a lot less than a mile to cover in the triangle between his desk and the H section and this office, believe me. So he was actually a little slow. I suspect the master sergeant interrupted him, just to frustrate me.”
    Victor Hobie’s file jacket was old and furred, with a printed grid on the cover where access requests were noted in neat handwriting. There were only two. Conrad traced the names with a finger.
    “Requests by telephone,” he said. “General Garber himself, in March of this year. And somebody called Costello, calling from New York, beginning of last week. Why all the sudden interest?”
    “That’s what we hope to find out,” Reacher said.
    A combat soldier has a thick file, especially a combat soldier who did his fighting thirty years ago. Three decades is long enough for every report and every note to end up in exactly the right place. Victor Hobie’s paperwork was a compressed mass about two inches deep. The old furred jacket was molded tight around it. It reminded Reacher of Costello’s black leather wallet, which he’d seen in the Keys bar. He hitched his chair closer to Jodie’s and closer to the front edge of Conrad’s desk. Conrad laid the file down and reversed it on the shiny wood and opened it up, like he was displaying a rare treasure to interested connoisseurs.
    MARILYN’S INSTRUCTIONS HAD been precise, and Sheryl followed them to the letter. The first step was get treatment. She went to the desk and then waited on a hard plastic chair in the triage bay. The St. Vincent’s ER was less busy than it sometimes is and she was seen within ten minutes by a woman doctor young enough to be her daughter.
    “How did this happen?” the doctor asked.
    “I walked into a door,” Sheryl said.
    The doctor led her to a curtained area and sat her down on the examination table. Started checking the reflex responses in her limbs.
    “A door? You absolutely sure about that?”
    Sheryl nodded. Stuck to her story. Marilyn was counting on her to do that.
    “It was half-open. I turned around, just didn’t see it.”
    The doctor said nothing and shone a light into Sheryl’s left eye, then her right.
    “Any blurring of your vision?”
    Sheryl nodded. “A little.”
    “Headache?”
    “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
    The doctor paused and studied the admission form.
    “OK, we need X rays of the facial bones, obviously, but I also want a full skull film and a CAT scan. We need to see what exactly happened in there. Your insurance is good, so I’m going to get a surgeon to take a look at you right away, because if you’re going to need reconstructive work it’s a lot better to start on that sooner rather than later, OK? So you need to get into a gown and lie down. Then I’ll put you on a painkiller to help with the headache.”
    Sheryl heard Marilyn insist make the call before the painkiller, or you’ll fuzz out and forget.
    “I need to get to a phone,” she said, worried.
    “We can call your husband, if you want,” the doctor said, neutrally.
    “No, I’m not married. It’s a lawyer. I need to call somebody’s lawyer.”
    The doctor looked at her and shrugged.
    “OK, down the hall. But be quick.”
    Sheryl walked to the bank of phones opposite the triage bay. She called the operator and asked for collect, like Marilyn had told her to. Repeated the number she’d memorized. The phone was answered on the second ring.
    “Forster and Abelstein,” a bright voice said. “How may we help you?”
    “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Chester Stone,” Sheryl said. “I need to speak with his attorney.”
    “That would be Mr. Forster himself,” the bright voice said. “Please hold.”
    While Sheryl was listening to the hold music, the doctor was twenty feet away, at the main desk, also making a call. Her call featured no music. Her call was to the NYPD’s Domestic Violence Unit.
    “This is St. Vincent’s,” she was saying. ”I’ve got another one for you. This one says she walked into a damn door. Won’t even admit she’s married, much less he’s beating on her. You can come on down and talk to her anytime you want.”
    THE FIRST ITEM in the file was Victor Hobie’s original application to join the Army. It was brown at the edges and crisp with age, handwritten in the same neat left-handed schoolboy script they had seen in the letters home to Brighton. It listed a summary of his education, his