Page 72 of The Secret

Reacher shrugged. “I’m an investigator. I find things.”

Kasluga turned the photograph over. There was a stamp on the back, in blue ink, pale to begin with and faded by time. Kasluga brought it closer to her face and peered at the letters. “Copyright Spencer Flemming. And a post office box number. Interesting.”

“Don’t try to find him. You’d be wasting your time. He’s somewhere you’d never expect.”

Kasluga got up, crossed to one of her bookcases, and opened a cupboard that took the place of the lower three shelves. There was a machine inside. A document shredder. She fed the picture into it then slammed the door. “Oops.”

“That won’t help you. Flemming has copies.”

“So what are you going to do? Arrest me? Drag the grieving widow out in handcuffs? Good luck with the optics on that one.”

Reacher stood. “Not me. Not my jurisdiction. If you were in the military you’d already be in a cell. My next meeting’s with the FBI. I’m going to give them everything I have. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon. I just wanted to see the look on your face, first.”

Chapter28

Spencer Flemming was sitting onthe floor, surrounded by his books and papers and files. He had taken a shower so his hair was hanging down even lower on his back than usual. His clothes had been washed so his shirt was brighter and there were fewer stains on his jeans. A plate was on the desk. A sandwich was spilling over the sides, loaded with tomatoes and peppers and red onions and spinach. His favorite combination. Usually. It was out of his reach, but that was OK. He didn’t have the stomach for it just then. He was too busy second-guessing himself. Change was coming. Good things were going to happen, he hoped. But before the sunshine, the storm. Reacher hadn’t hidden that from him when he’d asked for his help. It was just a lot easier to be brave when he wasn’t on his own.

—

The guy atthe postal store was stubborn. He waved off Susan Kasluga’s threats against him and his business. He wasn’t interestedin her bribes. He wouldn’t budge an inch until she spotted the photograph he kept in a frame behind the counter. It showed a woman and two little boys, all hugs and smiles and happiness. Kasluga suggested that two of the men who were with her could track the trio down. She suggested a few things they could do when they caught up with them. Then the guy changed his tune. He gave up Spencer Flemming’s address in a heartbeat. He even warned Kasluga that the premises it corresponded to were extremely unorthodox. He didn’t want her to think he’d tried to stiff her. He didn’t want her coming back. He was extremely clear about that.

—

Kasluga’s driver stoppedthe Town Car at the end of the asylum’s driveway, in the same spot Smith had used six days before. He killed the engine and climbed out. He drew his gun. The other three guards followed and reached for their weapons. Kasluga got out last. The four guys formed up around her and they stood for a moment and stared through the fence at the building. A dark cloud hung low in the sky over the whole site. It felt like some kind of warning. The crumbling brickwork and the rusting screens over the windows seemed to scream,Run. Kasluga nudged the guard in front of her. She said, “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

The guard made a gap in the fence and led the way toward the portico and the huge wooden door. He was carrying a set of bolt cutters and he used them to slice through the padlock and knock its rusty remains loose. Then it took two of them to heave the doors apart far enough to squeeze through. Daylight filtered in. They could see the filthy space on the other side. Kasluga pointed at the footprints in the dust that covered the black and white floor tiles. She said, “That way. Let’s go.”

They stayed close and followed the track past the ruined desk and under the crusted chandelier and all the way out to the courtyard. Kasluga pointed to the line of travel trailers on the far side. “He must be in one of them.”

The drapes in the left-hand trailer were drawn but its door was latched open. Kasluga nudged the guard and said, “Try that one.”

The guard set his foot on the bottom step. He took the next one slowly, and stepped inside. He paused in the doorway, then crept forward. He disappeared from view. He was gone for a minute. Two. Three. There was no sign of him bringing Flemming out. No sign of him returning alone.

Kasluga called out, “Hey. What’s going on in there? What’s taking so long?”

There was no reply.

She nudged the next guard. “Go see what’s happening.”

The guy took the steps at a snail’s pace then rushed forward, gun raised. He vanished inside. And did not reappear.

A voice called out from behind them. A man’s. Firm. Authoritative. It said, “FBI. Drop your weapons. Lie facedown on the ground. Do it now.”

The two remaining guards did as they were told. The pair who had gone into the trailer stumbled back out, disarmed, their hands cuffed behind their backs, followed by two agents. Four more agents swarmed around the guys on the floor. They cuffed them. Hauled them onto their feet, and dragged them away.

Susan Kasluga was alone. She remained on her feet. Reacher and Amber Smith approached from the glass doorway. Smith said, “You heard. Get on the ground.”

Kasluga folded her arms. She stayed standing.

Reacher stepped in close. He leaned down and loomed over her.His voice was barely more than a whisper. He said, “I killed a woman because of you. A woman I shouldn’t have. So if you think I won’t take any chance to rip you to pieces…”

Kasluga brushed the ground in front of her with one foot. She lowered herself to her knees. Pushed away a couple of rocks and eased down until she was lying on her front. Smith cuffed her then pulled her back upright and began a search. She was thorough. She checked under Kasluga’s arms. Around her chest. Her waist. Her thighs. In the seams of her clothes. Even in her hair.

Kasluga poked at the ground with her toe and sneered. “So what was this about, this wild-goose chase?”

Reacher said, “It’s about actions speaking louder than words. Any competent lawyer could have gotten that photo I showed you excluded from a trial. The one with all the bodies from ’69. There’s no way to prove when it was taken. Where. Whether the people were really dead, or just posing. Whether you even knew about them. But you going to such trouble to find the photographer? That’s as good as a guilty plea, all day long.”

“Not in a court of law.”

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