Reacher pointed to the house with one hand and made an arm-around-the-shoulder shape with the other, and said, “Let’s both of us go inside.”
The guy did nothing for a moment, and then he turned and walked briskly back to the house, his bare feet slapping, and he leaned in the open door and pounded on the wall, and shouted out, “Mutti!”
Then he stood back and waited.
A woman came out. She was small and trim. She had fading blonde hair cut short. She was maybe sixty-five years old. A kind face. Worn, but still handsome. She smiled benignly at Reacher, as if to say she was sure he understood, and then she turned away and thanked her son for a job well done, squeezing his hands, patting his shoulder, cupping his cheek, sending him back inside.
Then she stepped up to where Reacher was waiting. She looked at him for a second, and then she said, “Are you from the army?”
She spoke in English, with an accent but no hesitation.
Reacher said, “How did you know?”
“Arnold said you would come.”
“Did he?”
“Although he thought sooner. But still.”
“I’m Major Reacher.”
“I’m Frau Mason.”
“Is Arnold home?”
“Of course.”
The others got out of the car and followed Reacher and the woman through the door. The house was small inside, but light and cheerful, with white paint and sprigged wallpapers. The woman led Reacher to a back parlor. She went in. He followed. She crossed the room and bent down and hugged a man in a wheelchair. She kissed him awake. She said, “Darling, this is Major Reacher from the army.”
Arnold Mason. Once a teenage ranch hand, then an infantry soldier, then a family man with two different families. Now collapsed in a wheelchair, slack on one side, one eye looking, the other eye shut.
Reacher said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mason.”
The guy didn’t answer. He was sixty-five years old, but he looked ninety-five. He had no strength. No focus. Reacher looked at the woman and said, “Frau Mason, can we talk?”
They went back to the hallway. Bishop and Sinclair introduced themselves as government workers. Reacher asked, “What happened to him?”
The woman said, “Don’t you know?”
“No, we don’t.”
“He has a growth in his head.”
“Like a tumor?”
“It’s a long word I don’t understand. It’s crushing his brain. One part after another. Day by day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He knew you would be.”
Reacher said, “When did it start?”
“A year and a half ago.”
“Can he talk?”
“A little. He lost movement on one side, so he sounds funny. But he’s not upset about it. He was never much of a talker. And now he can’t remember anything anyway.”
“That could be a problem. We’re here to ask him questions.”
“I thought you were here to help him.”
“Why?”
“He said if he got sick someone from the army was sure to come.”
“Has he been treated by the army before?”
“No, never.”
“How bad is his memory?”
“Patchy, but mostly very bad.”
“How tired does he get?”
“He’ll lose track after the first few questions.”
Reacher said, “Would you wait outside?”
“Has he done something wrong?”
“The questions are about the period immediately after he mustered out. The six years he wasn’t here. He might not want you to hear his answers. I’m obliged to consider his privacy.”
The woman said, “I know all about Mrs. Wiley, in Sugar Land, Texas. Is that all this is about?”
“Her son,” Reacher said.
They went back in the parlor. Mason was still awake, and a little brighter. He acknowledged introductions with a vague one-eyed glance and a movement of his hand. His wife crouched behind his chair and hugged his shoulders, as if to reassure him, and Reacher squatted in front of him, to get in his line of sight.
Reacher said, “Mr. Mason, do you remember Horace Wiley?”
Mason closed his working eye, and held it shut a moment, and then opened it again. His gaze was faraway and watery. The working half of his face moved with exaggerated diction and he said, “Call me Arnold.”
His voice was low and breathy, and half his mouth was frozen, but the words came out clear enough.
Reacher said, “Arnold, tell me about Horace Wiley.”
Mason’s eye closed again, longer, as if he was consulting an internal source of information, and then his eye opened, and with half a hint of half a smile he said, “I used to call him Horse. Sounded about the same in Texas anyway.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
A pause.
Mason said, “I guess I never heard from him. Not since I left.”
“Did you tell him Davy Crockett stories?”
A longer pause.
Longer.
Mason said, “I don’t remember any of that.”
“He said he joined the army because you told him Davy Crockett stories.”
“Horse joined the army? Hot damn.”
“What about the stories?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You sure?”
“Maybe it was a television show the kid was watching.”
“Nothing more?”