Page 7 of The Secret

Hall paused for a moment, then said, “It’s basically random. No method to it.”

Reacher said, “Who decides?”

“I do, I guess. From a record-keeping point of view.”

“I think you do have a method. And it has nothing to do with record-keeping. You make sure the guns that come to you to test are in good shape. And are older ones. With full-auto capability.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Where do you get the civilian-spec lower receivers?”

“Civilian-spec? You must be confused. We have nothing to do with civilian weapons.”

Reacher said, “Full-auto capable lower receivers are valuable things. They can turn an AR-15 that any bozo can buy into a military grade weapon. So you swap them out, sell them, then send the complete-looking guns to be destroyed. No one ever finds out.Shouldever find out. But you heard that a crate of doctored weapons had gotten lost on the base. An admin screwup. That could be a big problem. You had to cover your ass. So you called in a bogus report. You said M16s were being stolen. They weren’t, so you knew everyone at Rock Island would be cleared. Including yourself. Then if the doctored weapons came to light, you figured the suspicion would be deflected up the chain, to the original owners in the Gulf. Who would never be traced because the systems are all out of whack.”

Hall jumped to her feet. “Doctored weapons? I don’t know what—”

“Sit down.” Reacher’s voice was loud enough to have knocked her over.

Hall sat. She wriggled back into the chair, looking small and deflated.

Reacher said, “You’re in a hole. So you know what you should do?”

Hall shook her head. Just a tiny, nervous motion.

Reacher said, “Stop digging. You’re only making things worse for yourself. Now’s the time to be honest. Tell me everything, right now, no more bullshit, and I’ll see what I can do to help you. Maybe I can limit the damage a little. But only if you stop being a pain in my ass.”

Hall covered her face with her hands and curled up even smaller. When she emerged a moment later, a tear was running down one cheek. “OK.” She sniffed. “I’m not admitting to anything. It wasn’t me. But I know things. I’ll tell you. Make you look good with your CO. Just let me use the bathroom first. I’ll be quick. I need to get my head straightened out.”

Reacher said, “Fine. But use the one upstairs.”

Hall unfolded herself from her chair and scuttled to the door.

Reacher heard light, fast footsteps on the stairs. He heard Hall’s bedroom door slam shut and a couple of seconds later he heard her bathroom door close, more quietly, on the far side.

—

Sergeant Hall knewReacher would have heard the doors. She wanted him to hear them. Needed him to, for authenticity. But she prayed that he did not hear the next sound she made. The slight, unavoidable squeak as she eased her bathroom window open.

—

Susan Kasluga wasin the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when Charles Stamoran found her. It was a wide rectangular spacewith an island in the center. The countertops were plain white, polished to a high shine. The cabinets were also white, with smooth fronts and no ornamentation. The backsplashes were made from sheets of stainless steel, and the few appliances that were on display were organized into logical groups. Kasluga had specified every detail herself and when a journalist had once described the place as feeling like a laboratory, she had been delighted.

Stamoran said, “Got a minute, Susie? We need to talk.”

Kasluga crossed her arms. “Better not be about mytea.” Her tone was fierce, but a smile was playing around the corners of her eyes.

The pair had been together twenty years and married a month shy of seventeen. They weren’t a typical couple. She was ten years younger. Six inches taller. She had wild red hair that reached her waist when it wasn’t tied up for work—to match a suit or, less often these days, a lab coat. She had high cheekbones and bright green eyes. When she walked into a room, people noticed. They couldn’t help it. They couldn’t avoid staring, even now that she was on the wrong side of fifty. Physically, Stamoran was the opposite. The wrong side of sixty, short, compact, forgettable face, hair innocuously cropped—what was left of it. He could be by her side throughout a party or a reception or a dinner and people would have to check the press photos the next day to tell if he’d been there at all. They worked in different worlds. They had different interests. Different hobbies. Different tastes in food and books and movies. But when it came to brains and guile, they were a perfect match.

“This has nothing to do with your…drink.” Stamoran smiled, too, but there was no warmth in it. He was a precise man. Pedantic, even. He couldn’t stand that she called a bunch of foul-smelling herbs infused in hot watertea,because there wasn’t any tea in it. He hated the lack of accuracy and thought that as a research scientistshe should know better. It was one of the few things about her that rankled with him, even after two decades. “I have some news. Not good. Three people who worked at Mason Chemical when you were there have died. All in the last month.” He paused. “Owen Buck. Varinder Singh. Keith Bridgeman.”

The kettle managed a first feeble hint of a whistle, but Kasluga didn’t wait for it to get louder. She picked it up and poured hot water into her mug. She knew she didn’t need the full 212 degrees for that kind oftea. And she had no problem with switching between precision at work and vernacular at home. Her husband’s single-track rigidity drove her crazy.

She said, “Those names ring a bell. They were in India, in ’69, right? They were part of some special development team. Their work was kept separate. Some kind of a secret project. Those guys must all be pretty long in the tooth by now. What happened? Old age catch up with them?”

“Buck, cancer got him. The others, not so clear-cut. The police say fifty/fifty, suicide or accident.”

“Both of them?”

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