Worth Dying For

like you?’
    ‘Back then, I guess. A little.’
    ‘There you go. Nice guy, right?’
    ‘Nice enough.’
    ‘And a fine soldier, as I recall.’
    ‘He came home with a Bronze Star.’
    ‘I knew it. VII Corps, right?’
    ‘Second Armored Cavalry.’
    ‘Third Squadron?’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘I knew it,’ Reacher said again. An old, old process, exploited by fortune tellers everywhere. Steer a guy through an endless series of yes-no, right-wrong questions, and in no time at all a convincing illusion of intimacy built itself up. A simplepsychological trick, sharpened by listening carefully to answers, feeling the way, and playing the odds. Most people who wore name tags every day forgot they had them on, at least initially. And a lot of heartland cops were ex-military. Way more than the average. And even if they weren’t, most of them had big families. Lots of brothers and cousins. Virtually certain that at least one of them would have been in the army. And Desert Storm had been the main engagement for that whole generation, and VII Corps had been by far its largest component, and a Bronze Star winner from the Second Armored Cavalry was almost certainly from the Third Squadron, which had been the tip of the spear. An algorithm. Playing the odds. No-brainers all the way.
    Reacher asked, ‘So what’s your cousin doing now?’
    ‘Tony? He’s back in Lincoln. He got out before the second go-round, thank God. He’s working for the railroad. Two kids, one in junior high and one in college.’
    ‘That’s terrific. You see him much?’
    ‘Now and then.’
    ‘Be sure to remember me to him, OK? Jack Reacher, 110th MP. One desert rat to another.’
    ‘So what are you doing now? He’s bound to ask.’
    ‘Me? Oh, the same old, same old.’
    ‘What, you’re still in?’
    ‘No, I mean I was an investigator, and I’m still an investigator. But private now. My own man, not Uncle Sam’s.’
    ‘Here in Nebraska?’
    ‘Just temporarily,’ Reacher said. Then he paused. ‘You know what? Maybe you could help me out. If you don’t mind me asking.’
    ‘What do you need?’
    ‘You guys going on duty or going off?’
    ‘We’re coming on. We got the night shift ahead of us.’
    ‘Mind if I sit down?’
    The cop called Hoag scooted over, all swishing vinyl and creaking leather. Reacher perched on the part of the bench he had vacated. It was warm. He said, ‘I knew this other guy,name of McNally. Another Second Armored guy, as a matter of fact. Turns out he has a friend of a friend who has an aunt in this county. She’s a farmer. Her daughter disappeared twenty-five years ago. Eight years old, never seen again. The woman never really got over it. Your department handled it, with the FBI as the icing on the cake. McNally’s friend of a friend thinks the FBI screwed up. So McNally hired me to review the paperwork.’
    ‘Twenty-five years ago?’ Hoag said. ‘Before my time.’
    ‘Right,’ Reacher said. ‘I guess we were both in basic back then.’
    ‘And the kid was never seen again? That means it’s an open case. Cold, but open. Which means the paperwork should still exist. And someone should remember it.’
    ‘That’s exactly what McNally was hoping.’
    ‘And he’s looking to screw the FBI? Not us?’
    ‘The story is you guys did a fine job.’
    ‘And what did the FBI do wrong?’
    ‘They didn’t find the kid.’
    ‘What good will all this do?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Reacher said. ‘You tell me. You know how it is with people. It might put some minds at rest, I guess.’
    ‘OK,’ Hoag said. ‘I’ll put the word out at the station house. Someone will get you in, first thing tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Any chance of doing something tonight? If I could get this done by midnight, it would cut McNally’s bill by one day. He doesn’t have much money.’
    ‘You turning down a bigger pay cheque?’
    ‘One veteran to another. You know how it is. Plus I’ve got business elsewhere. I need to get to Virginia as soon as I can.’
    Hoag checked his watch. Twenty minutes past four. He said, ‘All that old stuff is in the basement under the county clerk’s office. You can’t be in there after five o’clock.’
    ‘Any way of getting it out?’
    ‘Oh, man, that’s asking a lot.’
    ‘I don’t need court exhibits. I don’t want the physical evidence, assuming there is any. I just want the paperwork.’
    ‘I could get my ass kicked real bad.’
    ‘I just want to read it. Where’s the