"Don't touch it," Froelich said.
"Wasn't going to," Reacher replied.
He ducked his head back out the door and checked the street. All the nearby cars were empty. All the nearby windows were closed and draped. No pedestrians. No loiterers in the dark. All was quiet. He came back inside and closed the door slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb the paper with a draft.
"How did they get it in here?" Froelich said.
"Through the door," Reacher said. "Probably at the back."
Froelich pulled the SIG Sauer from her holster and they walked through the living room together and into the kitchen. The door to the backyard was closed, but it was unlocked. Reacher opened it a foot. Scanned the outside surroundings and saw nothing at all. Eased the door back wide so the inside light fell onto the exterior surface. Leaned close and looked at the scratch plate around the keyhole.
"Marks," he said. "Very small. They were pretty good."
"They're here in D.C.," she said. "Right now. They're not in some Midwest bar."
She stared through the kitchen into the living room.
"The phone," she said.
It was pulled out of position on the table next to the fireside chair.
"They used my phone," she said.
"To call me, probably," Reacher said.
"Prints?"
He shook his head. "Gloves."
"They've been in my house," she said.
She moved away from the rear door and stopped at the kitchen counter. Glanced down at something and snatched open a drawer.
"They took my gun," she said. "I had a backup gun in here."
"I know," Reacher said. "An old Beretta."
She opened the drawer next to it.
"The magazines are gone too," she said. "I had ammo in here."
"I know," Reacher said again. "Under an oven glove."
"How do you know?"
"I checked, Monday night."
"Why would you?"
"Habit," he said. "Don't take it personally."
She stared at him and then opened the wall cupboard with the money stash in it. He saw her check the earthenware pot. She said nothing, so he assumed the cash was still there. He filed the observation away in the professional corner of his mind, as confirmation of a long-held belief: people don't like searching above head height.
Then she stiffened. A new thought.
"They might still be in the house," she said, quietly.
But she didn't move. It was the first sign of fear he had ever seen from her.
"I'll check," he said. "Unless that's an unhealthy response to a challenge."
She just handed him her pistol. He turned out the kitchen light so he wouldn't be silhouetted on the basement stairs and walked slowly down. Listened hard past the creaks and sighs of the house, and the hum and trickle of the heating system. Stood still in the dark and let his eyes adjust. There was nobody there. Nobody upstairs, either. Nobody hiding and waiting. People hiding and waiting give off human vibrations. Tiny hums and quivers. And he wasn't feeling anything. The house was empty and undisturbed, apart from the displaced telephone and the missing Beretta and the message on the hallway floor. He came back to the kitchen and held out the SIG, butt-first.
"Secure," he said.
"I better make some calls," she said.
Special Agent Bannon showed up forty minutes later in a Bureau sedan with three members of his task force. Stuyvesant arrived five minutes after them in a department Suburban. They left both vehicles double-parked in the street with their strobes going. The neighboring houses were spattered with random bursts of light, blue and red and white. Stuyvesant stood still in the open doorway.
"We weren't supposed to get any more messages," he said.
Bannon was on his knees, looking at the sheet of paper.
"This is generic," he said. "We predicted we wouldn't get specificity. And we haven't. The word soon is meaningless as to time and place. It's just a taunt. We're supposed to be impressed with how smart they are."
"I was already impressed with how smart they are," Stuyvesant said.
Bannon looked up at Froelich. "How long have you been out?"
"All day," Froelich said. "We left at six-thirty this morning to meet with you."
"We?"
"Reacher's staying here," she said.
"Not anymore, he's not," Bannon said. "Neither of you is staying here. It's too dangerous. We're putting you in a secure location."
Froelich said nothing.
"They're in D.C. right now," Bannon said. "Probably regrouping somewhere. Probably got in from North Dakota a couple hours after you did. They know where you live. And we need to work here. This is a crime scene."
"This is my house," Froelich said.
"It's a crime scene," Bannon said again. "They've been here. We'll have to rip it up some. Better that you stay away until we put it back together."
Froelich said nothing.
"Don't argue," Stuyvesant said. "I want you protected. We'll put you in a motel. Couple of U.S. marshals outside the door, until this is over."
"Neagley, too," Reacher said.
Froelich glanced at him. Stuyvesant nodded.
"Don't worry," he said. "I already sent somebody to pick her up."
"Neighbors?" Bannon asked.
"Don't really know them," Froelich answered.
"They might have seen something," Bannon said. He checked his watch. "They might still be up. At least I hope so. Dragging witnesses out of bed generally makes them very cranky."
"So get what you need, people," Stuyvesant called. "We're leaving, right now."
Reacher stood in Froelich's guest room and had a strong feeling he would never come back to it. So he took his things from the bathroom and his garbage bag of Atlantic City clothes and all of Joe's suits and shirts that were still clean. He stuffed clean socks and underwear into the pockets. Carried all the clothes in one hand and Joe's cardboard box under the other arm. He came down the stairs and stepped out into the night air and it hit him that for the first time in more than five years he was leaving a place carrying baggage. He loaded it into the Suburban's trunk and then walked around and climbed into the backseat. Sat still and waited for Froelich. She came out of her house carrying a small valise. Stuyvesant took it from her and stowed it and they climbed into the front together. Took off down the street. Froelich didn't look back.
They drove due north and then turned west all the way through the tourist sites and out again on the other side. They stopped at a Georgetown motel about ten blocks shy of Armstrong's street. There was an old-model Crown Vic parked outside, with a new Town Car next to it. The Town Car had a driver in it. The Crown Vic was empty. The motel itself was a small neat place with dark wood all over it. A discreet sign. It was hemmed in by three embassies with fenced grounds. The embassies belonged to new countries Reacher had never heard of, but their fences were OK. It was a very protected location. Only one way in, and a marshal in the lobby would take care of that. An extra marshal in the corridor would be icing on the cake.
Stuyvesant had booked three rooms. Neagley had already arrived. They found her in the lobby. She was buying soda from a machine and talking to a big guy in a cheap black suit and patrolman's shoes. A U.S. marshal, without a doubt. The Crown Vic driver. Their vehicle budget must be smaller than the Secret Service's, Reacher thought. As well as their clothing allowance.
Stuyvesant did the paperwork at the desk and came back with three key cards. Handed them around in an embarrassed little ceremony. Mentioned three room numbers. They were sequential. Then he scrabbled in his pocket and came out with the Suburban's keys. Gave them to Froelich.
"I'll ride back with the guy who brought Neagley over," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, seven o'clock in the office, with Bannon, all of you."
Then he turned and left. Neagley juggled her key card and her soda and a garment bag and went looking for her room. Froelich and Reacher followed behind her, with a key card each. There was another marshal at the head of the bedroom corridor. He was sitting awkwardly on a plain dining chair. He had it tilted back against the wall for comfort. Reacher squeezed his untidy luggage past him and stopped at his door. Froelich was already two rooms down, not looking in his direction.
He went inside and found a compact version of what he had seen a thousand times before. Just one bed, one chair, a table, a normal telephone, a smaller TV screen. But the rest was generic. Floral drapes, already closed. A floral bedspread, Scotchgarded until it was practically rigid. No-color bamboo-weave stuff on the walls. A cheap print over the bed, pretending to be a hand-colored architectural drawing of some part of some ancient Greek temple. He stowed his baggage and arranged his bathroom articles on the shelf above the sink. Checked his watch. Past midnight. Thanksgiving Day, already. He took off Joe's jacket and dropped it on the table. Loosened his tie and yawned. There was a knock at the door. He opened up and found Froelich standing there.
"Come in," he said.
"Just for a minute," she said. He walked back and sat on the end of the bed, to let her take the chair. Her hair was a mess, like she had just run her fingers through it. She looked good like that. Younger, and vulnerable, somehow.