Without Fail

maintained, rusty, probably hadn’t been used in a generation. It was not loaded and there was no ammunition with it.”
    “Identifying marks?”
    “None.”
    “Fingerprints?”
    “Of course not.”
    Reacher nodded.
    “Decoy,” he said.
    “The unlocked door is persuasive,” Stuyvesant said. “What did you do when you went in, for instance?”
    “I locked it again behind me.”
    “Why?”
    “I like it that way, for surveillance.”
    “But if you were going to be shooting?”
    “Then I would have left it open, especially if I didn’t have the key.”
    “Why?”
    “So I could get out fast, afterward.”
    Stuyvesant nodded. “The unlocked door means they were in there to shoot. My take is they were waiting in there with the MP5 or the Vaime Mk2. Maybe both weapons. They imagined the junk gun would be spotted far away at the fence, the bulk of the police presence would move somewhat toward it, we would move Armstrong toward the motorcade, whereupon they would have a clear shot at him.”
    “Sounds right to me,” Reacher said. “But I didn’t actually see anybody in there.”
    “Plenty of places to hide in a country church,” Stuyvesant said. “Did you check the crypt?”
    “No.”
    “The loft?”
    “No.”
    “Plenty of places,” Stuyvesant said again.
    “I sensed somebody.”
    “Yes,” Stuyvesant said. “They were in there. That’s for sure.”
    There was silence for a beat.
    “Any unexplained attendees?” Froelich asked.
    Stuyvesant shook his head. “It was pure chaos. Cops running everywhere, the crowd scattering. By the time order was restored at least twenty people had left. It’s understandable. You’re in a crowd on an open field, somebody finds a gun, you run like hell. Why wouldn’t you?”
    “What about the man on foot in the subdivision?”
    “Just a guy in a coat,” Stuyvesant said. “State cop couldn’t really come up with anything more than that. Probably just a civilian out walking. Probably nobody. My guess is our guys were already in the church by that time.”
    “Something must have aroused the trooper’s suspicions,” Neagley said.
    Stuyvesant shrugged. “You know how it is. How does a North Dakota State Trooper react around the Secret Service? He’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Somebody looks suspicious, he’s got to call it in even if he can’t articulate exactly why afterward. And we can’t moan at him for it. I’d rather he erred on the side of caution. Don’t want to make him afraid to be vigilant.”
    “So we’ve still got nothing,” Froelich said.
    “We’ve still got Armstrong,” Stuyvesant said. “And Armstrong’s still got a pulse. So go eat dinner and be back here at ten for the FBI meeting.”

    First they went back to Froelich’s office to check on Neagley’s NCIC search. It was done. In fact it had been done before they even stepped away from the desk. The rubric at the top of the screen said the search had lasted nine-hundredths of a second and come up with zero matches. Froelich called up the inquiry box again and typed thumbprint on letter . Clicked on search and watched the screen. It redrew immediately and came up with no matches in eight-hundredths of a second.
    “Getting nowhere even faster now,” she said.
    She tried thumbprint on message . Same result, no matches in eight-hundredths of a second. She tried thumbprint on threat . Identical result, identical eight-hundredths of a second. She sighed with frustration.
    “Let me have a go,” Reacher said. She got up and he sat down in her chair and typed a short letter signed with a big thumbprint .
    “Idiot,” Neagley said.
    He clicked the mouse. The screen redrew instantly and reported that within the seven-hundredths of a second it had spent looking the software had detected no matches.
    “But it was a new speed record,” Reacher said, and smiled.
    Neagley laughed, and the mood of frustration eased a little. He typed thumbprint and squalene and hit search again. A tenth of a second later the search came back blank.
    “Slowing down,” he said.
    He tried squalene on its own. No match, eight-hundredths of a second.
    He typed squalane with an a . No match, eight-hundredths of a second.
    “Forget it,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”
    “Wait,” Neagley said. “Let me try again. This is like an Olympic event.”
    She nudged him out of the chair. Typed single unexplained thumbprint . Hit search . No match, six-hundredths of a second. She