Chapter

58

A Humvee is a very wide vehicle, and it was on a very narrow dirt road. It almost filled it, ditch to ditch. It was painted in standard green and black camouflage colors, and it was very clean. Maybe brand new.

I walked toward it and it came to a stop and the motor shut off. The driver’s door opened and a guy climbed down. He was in woodland-pattern BDUs and clean boots. Since before the start of my career, battledress uniform had been worn with subdued name tapes and badges of rank, and like everything else in the army the definition of subdued had been specified within an inch of its life, to the point where names and ranks were unreadable from more than three or four feet away. An officer-led initiative, for sure. Officers worried about snipers picking them off first. The result was I had no idea who had just gotten out of the Humvee. Could have been a private first class, could have been a two-star general. Three-stars and above don’t drive themselves. Not usually. Not on business. Not off duty either. They don’t do much of anything themselves.

But I had a clear premonition about who the guy was. An easy conclusion, actually. Who else was authorized to be out and about? He even looked like me. Same kind of height, same kind of build, similar coloring. It was like looking in a mirror, except he was five years my junior, and it showed in the way he moved. He was bouncing around with plenty of energy. An impartial judge would have said he looked young and overexuberant. The same judge would have said I looked old and overtired. Such was the contrast between us.

He watched me approach, curious about who I was, curious about a white man in a black neighborhood. I let him gawp until I was six feet away. My eyesight is as good as it ever was, and I can read subdued tapes from further than I should, especially on bright sunlit Mississippi afternoons.

His tapes said: Munro. U.S. Army.

He had little black oak leaves on his collar, to show he was a major. He had a field cap on his head, the same camouflage pattern as his blouse and his pants. He had fine lines around his eyes, which were about the only evidence he wasn’t born yesterday.

I had the advantage, because my shirt was plain. Civilian issue. No name tape. So I stood there for a moment in silence. I could smell diesel from his ride, and rubber from its tires. I could hear its engine tick as it cooled. I could hear the breeze in Emmeline McClatchy’s shade tree.

Then I stuck out my hand and said, “Jack Reacher.”

He took it and said, “Duncan Munro.”

I asked, “What brings you here?”

He said, “Let’s sit in the truck a spell.”

A Humvee is equally wide inside, but most of the space is taken up by a gigantic transmission tunnel. The front seats are small and far apart. It was like sitting in adjacent traffic lanes. I think the separation suited both our moods.

Munro said, “The situation is changing.”

I said, “The situation is always changing. Get used to it.”

“The officer in question has been relieved of his command.”

“Reed Riley?”

“We’re not supposed to use that name.”

“Who’s going to know? You think this truck is wired for sound?”

“I’m just trying to maintain protocol.”

“Was that him in the Blackhawk?”

Munro nodded. “He’s on his way back to Benning. Then they’re going to move him on and hide him away somewhere.”

“Why?”

“There was some big panic two hours ago. The phone lines were burning up. I don’t know why.”

“Kelham just lost its quarantine force, that’s why.”

“That again? There never was a quarantine force. I told you that.”

“I just met them. Bunch of civilian yahoos.”

“Like Ruby Ridge?”

“But less professional.”

“Why do people do stupid shit like that?”

“They envy our glamorous lives.”

“What happened to them?”

“I chased them away.”

“So then someone felt he had to withdraw Riley. You’re not going to be popular.”

“I don’t want to be popular. I want to get the job done. This is the army, not high school.”

“He’s a senator’s son. He’s making his name. Did you know the Marine Corps employs lobbyists?”

I said, “I heard that.”

“This was our version.”

I looked out my window at the McClatchy place, at its low roof, its mud-stained siding, its mean windows, its spreading tree. I asked, “Why did you come here?”

“Same reason you chased the yahoos away,” Munro said. “I’m trying to get the job done.”

“In what way?”

“I checked out the other two women you mentioned. There were FYI memos in the XO’s files. Then I cross-referenced bits and pieces of information I picked up along the way. It seems like Captain Riley is something of a ladies’ man. Since he got here he’s had a string of girlfriends longer than my dick. It’s likely both Janice Chapman and Shawna Lindsay were on the list. I want to see if Rosemary McClatchy will make it three for three.”

“That’s why I’m here, too.”

“Great minds think alike,” Munro said. “Or fools never differ.”

“Did you bring his picture?”

He unbuttoned his right breast pocket, just below his name. He pulled out a slim black notebook and opened it and slid a photograph from between its pages. He handed it to me, arm’s length across the transmission tunnel.

Captain Reed Riley. The first time I had seen his face. The photograph was in color, possibly taken for a passport or some other civilian document that prohibited headgear or other visual obstructions. He looked to be in his late twenties. He was broad but chiseled, somewhere halfway between bulky and slender. He was tan and had very white teeth, some of which were on display behind an easy grin. He had brown hair buzzed short, and wise empty eyes creased at the corners with webs of fine lines. He looked steady, competent, hard, and full of shit. He looked exactly like every infantry captain I had ever seen.

I handed the picture back, arm’s length across the transmission tunnel.

I said, “We’ll be lucky to get a definitive ID. I bet all Rangers look the same to old Mrs. McClatchy.”

“Only one way to find out,” Munro said, and opened his door. I got out on my side and waited while he looped around the stubby hood. He said, “I’ll tell you something else that came up with the cross-referencing. Something you might like to know. Sheriff Deveraux is not a lesbian. She’s a notch on Riley’s bedpost too. Apparently they were dating less than a year ago.”

And then he walked on ahead of me, to Emmeline McClatchy’s door.

Emmeline McClatchy opened up after Munro’s second knock. She greeted us with polite reserve. She remembered me from before. She paid close attention as Munro introduced himself, and then she invited us inside, to a small room that had two wooden wheelback chairs either side of a fireplace, and a rag rug on the floor. The ceiling was low and the dimensions were cramped and the air smelled of cooked food. There were three framed photographs on the wall. One was Martin Luther King, and one was President Clinton, and the third was Rosemary McClatchy, from the same series as the picture I had seen in the Sheriff’s Department’s file, but possibly even more spectacular. A friend with a camera, one roll of film, a sunny afternoon, a frame, a hammer, and a nail, and that was all that was left of a life.

Emmeline and I took the chairs by the fireplace and left Munro standing on the rug. In the tiny room he looked as big as I felt, and just as awkward, and just as clumsy, and just as alien. He took the photograph from his pocket again and held it face down against his chest. He said, “Mrs. McClatchy, we need to ask you about your daughter Rosemary’s friends.”

Emmeline McClatchy said, “My daughter Rosemary had lots of friends.”

Munro said, “In particular one young man from the base she might have been seeing.”

“Seeing?”

“Stepping out with. Dating, in other words.”

“Let me see the picture.”

Munro bent down and handed it over. She held it this way and that in the light from the window. She studied it. She asked, “Is this man suspected of killing the white girl?”

Munro said, “We’re not sure. We can’t rule him out.”

“Nobody brought pictures to me when Rosemary was killed. Nobody brought pictures to Mrs. Lindsay when Shawna was killed. Why is that?”

Munro said, “Because the army made a bad mistake. There’s no excuse for it. All I can say is it would have been different if I had been involved back then. Or Major Reacher here. Beyond that, all I can do is apologize.”

She looked at him, and so did I. Then she looked at the picture again and said, “This man’s name is Reed Riley. He’s a captain in the 75th Ranger Regiment. Rosemary said he commanded Bravo Company, whatever that is.”

“So they were dating?”

“Almost four months. She was talking about a life together.”

“Was he?”

“Men will say anything to get what they want.”

“When did it end?”

“Two weeks before she was killed.”

“Why did it end?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Did you have an opinion?”

Emmeline McClatchy said, “I think she got pregnant.”