“I don’t think I would have told stories. Not back then. People said I didn’t talk much.”
Then his eye closed again, and his chin fell to his chest. His wife propped his head comfortably and hauled herself up. She said, “He’ll sleep now. That was more talking than he’s used to.”
They filed out to the hallway with the sprig wallpaper. The woman said, “Can you help him?”
Bishop said, “We’ll check with the Veterans’ Administration.”
Reacher said, “Did he ever tell you the Davy Crockett stories?”
The woman said, “No, never.”
Sinclair said, “How is your son?”
“He’s well, thank you. A little slow. By now like a seven-year-old. But placid, not boisterous. We have much to look forward to. Except that Arnold blames himself. Which is why he went back to Texas after his discharge. All those years ago. He ran away. He couldn’t face it all day every day. Because he thought it was his fault.”
“Why?”
“It’s genetic. It’s him or me. He says it’s him. Truth is it could be both of us. But he insists. But he came back in the end. It all calmed down. He did very well. But he still blames himself. And now he worries what will become of us.”
—
They got back in the car, and they turned around, and they drove away. Reacher said, “Did you believe him?”
“Believe what?” Sinclair said. “He couldn’t remember anything.”
“Did you believe he couldn’t remember anything?”
“Didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure. On the one hand, OK, he’s dying from a brain tumor. On the other hand, I didn’t like the call-me-Arnold bullshit. He was buying time. He was an infantryman twenty years, so he can smell MPs a mile away. He wanted to think about his answers.”
“Which were, in the end?”
“No, Wiley hadn’t contacted him, and no, he didn’t remember telling Davy Crockett stories.”
“You think he was lying?”
“A person in that condition is hard to read. I think the first part was probably true. He was sad, not defensive. But he paused an awful long time after the Davy Crockett question. Maybe it was the brain tumor. Or maybe he was putting two and two together. The passage of time, plus Horace Wiley’s inborn nature, which he observed at close quarters, plus whatever was in the Davy Crockett stories, plus then many years later the sudden appearance of an O-4 investigator, equals some kind of an eventual bad outcome. And therefore a need for denial. Which our natural sympathy excuses as memory loss. Which it might actually be. But we’ll never know for sure. Because we can’t find out. We can’t smack the guy around. So to speak.”
Bishop said, “He can’t be actively involved. He’s been sick a year and a half.”
“Agreed,” Reacher said.
“So it’s all about the Davy Crockett stories. Which at face value sound like nothing. Just stupid fairytales for kids. But they were top of Wiley’s cryptic list. So clearly they have personal meaning for him.”
Sinclair said, “Personal meaning how?”
Neagley said, “He didn’t tell his wife. So they were work-based stories, not home-based. They were army stories. Of which there are millions. All kinds of unit legends. Maybe Mason told Wiley his unit’s legend, man to man, trying to bond with the kid. Like in the movies. The mother’s new boyfriend always does that. Maybe Wiley always remembered the stories. Maybe they were powerful enough to make him come check them out, all these years later.”
“What kind of legends are there?”
“We could try a Hail Mary,” Neagley said. She was reading Arnold Mason’s service record like a sheet of music, moving her finger from measure to measure, head cocked, listening to the tune. She said, “It’s a long shot, but if you start way back, a first lieutenant with these guys might have rotated back in as a captain. Maybe again as a major or a light colonel. Back then airborne infantry could build careers. If such a guy did well, he could still be with us. Very senior now, but he’ll remember. Everybody remembers their first unit.”
“It’s forty years ago.”
“If he graduated the Point at twenty-two, he’s still short of retirement.”
“He’d be a general by now.”
“Probably.”
“How would you find him?”
“I would call a friend in Personnel Command. Someone would figure it out.”
“Do it,” Sinclair said. “As soon as we get back.”
They drove on. Outside the sky grew darker. Either rain coming, or late afternoon. Or both.
—
In Jalalabad dusk was already falling. The messenger was leaving the white mud house. She climbed into a Toyota pick-up truck. Same system as before. Drive all night, and take the first flight out. She was ready. Still a clean skin, more or less. Not that the Swiss cared. All money was the same to them. She had been coached.