Page 15 of The Secret

Chapellier whimpered and a bubble of blood billowed out of his nose. His voice was strained and husky. He croaked, “Screw you.”

Reacher kept up the pressure on Chapellier’s arm. He said, “Tell me something. Did you pick this spot because, A, a lot of cameras are focused on it? Or B, because no one can see what happens here?”

Chapellier grunted. He managed a faint, “Asshole.”

Reacher said, “Something else for you to think about. Those gun parts are US Army property. No civilian should ever get their hands on them. So I want whoever you’re selling them to behind bars. I’ll need your help with that. If you cooperate, I can’t hurt you. I’ll need you in one piece. Or reasonably close to one piece. But if you don’thelp me I can do as much damage as I like.Injuries sustained while resisting arrest. My word against yours. And you can forget about Sergeant Hall as a friendly witness.”

—

Veronica Sanson pulleda file from her bag, checked a number, and fished a quarter out of her pocket. She was wearing leather gloves, which made snagging the coin more difficult than usual. She finally got hold of it, dropped it into the slot on the front of the payphone, dialed, and waited. It took ten rings for her call to be answered.

“Yes?” It was a man’s voice on the line, quiet and slightly breathless.

Veronica said, “Dr. Brown? Geoffrey Brown?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Sir, this is Special Agent Holbeck with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have some news for you. Bad news, I’m afraid. And I need to ask for your assistance in a very urgent matter.”

Brown took a moment to reply. “Go on.”

“Sir, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but two of your former colleagues are dead.”

“Owen Buck I know about. Cancer, right? Who else?”

“Dr. Buck died of natural causes, as you say, but I’m calling about two others. Varinder Singh and Keith Bridgeman.”

“Bridgeman and Singh? Dead? When? How?”

“Dr. Singh was electrocuted. Dr. Bridgeman fell out of a window. Reports in the press are suggesting their deaths may have been accidental. Those reports are wrong.”

“There was foul play? You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent. The Bureau wouldn’t be involved, otherwise.”

“Who killed them?”

“That’s where I need your help. Our sketch artists have put together a likeness. I need you to take a look. Tell me if you recognize the person.”

“How would I recognize him?”

“He’s killing members of your former research team, Doctor. There must be a connection. And he’s not going to stop until we catch him. We believe you will be his next target. That’s why I’ve come here, now. So please, take a look at the sketch. It’ll only take a minute and it could save your life. I could come to your house and—”

“No. But I’ll meet you. Somewhere public. Forgive me. Old habits.”

Veronica smiled. “I understand. I’m working out of the local field office while I’m in town. There’s no safer place than that, right? I’ll give you the address. And if you could come right away, that would be in everyone’s best interests. Particularly yours.”

Chapter7

It took Dr. Brown thirtyminutes to reach the FBI field office. And another thirty seconds to discover that Agent Holbeck didn’t exist.

Brown knew what he should do next. Run. His go-bag was in the trunk of his car. Old habits. He could take it and disappear. Stay out of sight until he figured out who was coming after him. And how to stop them. That’s what he would have done at any time during his career. And when he was newly retired. But now there was a problem. Without the human contact that comes with work, for the first time in his life, he had started to feel lonely. He didn’t have any friends in the city. He wasn’t a sociable man so he wasn’t likely to make any new ones. He didn’t get on with his neighbors. And he knew no one would ever want to live with him. So he adopted a cat. Hercules. Another creature that no one had wanted. Who was still at his house. With no way to get out. No way to get food. No way to get water.

It took Brown twenty-five minutes to get back to his street. Heslowed down and drove past his house. It looked the same as when he had left it. The drapes were all drawn. The door was closed. There were no cars parked at the curb. No strangers loitering on the sidewalk or poking around his yard. That allayed one of his fears, but he was still worried about something else. A couple of times while he was driving home he’d thought he was being followed. He’d thought it, but he wasn’t certain. So he took a left. Then a right. Then he stopped dead. No cars steered desperately around him. None screeched to a halt behind him. There was no one in sight in his mirror. He shook his head. Chalked it up to rusty instincts. And too much adrenaline. He was out of practice. That was all. With that concern put to bed he figured it was safe enough to loop around and pull up onto his driveway. Dart inside. Grab Hercules. And race back out. A couple of minutes, max.

Brown opened his front door and paused. He listened. He couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t smell anything. But he could feel something. A subliminal disturbance in the silent vibrations he was accustomed to the house giving out. Someone was there. Waiting. For him. Rusty or not, Brown’s instincts told him to get out. Immediately. He started to turn. Then he heard a muffled squawk. From the living room. It was Hercules. He was in distress. Brown crept forward. Stopped at the threshold. Listened. Heard another squawk. More anguished this time. He reached for the door handle. Took a breath. And burst into the room.

A woman was standing next to Brown’s favorite armchair. Her dark hair was pulled back. She was holding Hercules tight to her chest. Another woman was on the other side of the chair. Same height. Same build. Same hair. They were completely still. Their faces were expressionless, like statues. Neither of them spoke.

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