Without Fail

nicely dressed. She had short fair hair turning gray the way fair hair does. Reacher knew exactly who she was, immediately. And she knew who he was, or thought she did. She stopped talking and stopped walking and just stared at him the same way her daughter had. She looked at his face, confused, like she was comparing similarities and differences against a mental image.
    “You?” she said. “Or is it?”
    Her face was strained and tired. She was wearing no makeup. Her eyes were dry, but they hadn’t been for the last two days. That was clear. They were rimmed with red and lined and swollen.
    “I’m his brother,” Reacher said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
    “You should be,” she said. “Because this is entirely Joe’s fault.”
    “Is it?”
    “He made her change jobs, didn’t he? He wouldn’t date a coworker, so she had to change. He wouldn’t change. She went over to the dangerous side, while he stayed exactly where he was, safe and sound. And now look what’s come of it.”
    Reacher paused a beat.
    “I think she was happy where she was,” he said. “She could have changed back, you know, afterward, if she wasn’t. But she didn’t. So I think that means she wanted to stay there. She was a fine agent, doing important work.”
    “How could she change back? Was she supposed to see him every day like nothing had happened?”
    “I meant she could have waited the year, and then changed back.”
    “What difference does a year make? He broke her heart. How could she ever work for him again?”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “Is he coming here?” she asked.
    “No,” Reacher said. “He’s not.”
    “Good,” she said. “Because he wouldn’t be welcome.”
    “No, I guess he wouldn’t,” Reacher said.
    “I suppose he’s too busy ,” she said.
    She walked off, toward the dirt road. The clergyman followed her, and so did Froelich’s father. But then he hesitated and turned back.
    “She knows it’s not really Joe’s fault,” he said. “We both know Mary Ellen was doing what she wanted.”
    Reacher nodded. “She was terrific at it.”
    “Was she?”
    “Best they ever had.”
    The old man nodded, like he was satisfied.
    “How is Joe?” he asked. “I met him a couple of times.”
    “He died,” Reacher said. “Five years ago. In the line of duty.”
    There was quiet for a moment.
    “I’m very sorry,” the old man said.
    “But don’t tell Mrs. Froelich,” Reacher said. “If it helps her not to know.”
    The old man nodded again and turned away and set off after his wife with a strange loping stride.
    “See?” Neagley said quietly. “Not everything is your fault.”
    There was a notice board planted in the ground near the church door. It was like a very slim cabinet mounted on sturdy wooden legs. It had glass doors. Behind the doors was a square yard of green felt with slim cotton tapes thumbtacked diagonally all over it. Notices typed on a manual typewriter were slipped behind the tapes. At the top was a permanent list of regular Sunday services. The first was held every week at eight o’clock in the morning. This was clearly a denomination that demanded a high degree of commitment from its parishioners. Next to the permanent list was a hastily typed announcement that this Sunday’s eight o’clock service would be dedicated to the memory of Mary Ellen Froelich. Reacher checked his watch and shivered in the cold.
    “Twenty-two hours,” he said. “Time to lock and load.”
    They brought the Yukon nearer to the church and opened the tailgate. Bent over together and loaded all four weapons. They took a Steyr each. Neagley took the H&K and Reacher took the M16. They distributed the spare rounds between them, as appropriate. Then they locked the car and left it.
    “Is it OK to bring guns into a church?” Neagley asked.
    “It’s OK in Texas,” Reacher said. “Probably compulsory here.”
    They hauled the oak door open and stepped inside. It was very similar to the Bismarck building. Reacher wondered briefly whether rural communities had bought their churches by mail order, the same as everything else. It had the same parchment-white paint, the same shiny pews, the same pulpit. The same three bell ropes hanging down inside the tower. The same staircase. They went all the way up to the high ledge and found a ladder bolted to the wall, with a trapdoor above it.
    “Home sweet home,” Reacher said.
    He led the way up the ladder and through the trapdoor and into the