Without Fail

the long guns under the pew nearest the church door and left the Yukon parked where it was. Walked up toward the bridge and took two rooms in the boardinghouse. Then they headed for the grocery store to get dinner ingredients. The sun was gone and the temperature was below freezing. There was snow in the air again. Big feathery flakes were drifting around, reluctant to settle. They swirled and hung in the air and rose back up like tiny birds.
    The breakfast counter was all closed down, but the woman in the store offered to microwave something from the freezer cabinet. She seemed to assume Reacher and Neagley were a Secret Service advance detail. Everybody seemed to know Armstrong was expected at the service. She heated up some meat pies and some slushy vegetables. They ate them at the darkened counter. They tasted as good as field rations. The woman wouldn’t take money for them.
    The rooms in the boardinghouse were clean, as advertised. They had walls paneled with pine boards. Rag rugs on the floors. One single bed in each, with flowery counterpanes washed so many times they were nearly transparent. There was a bathroom at the far end of the corridor. Reacher let Neagley take the room nearer to it. Then she joined him in his room for a spell, because she was restless and wanted to talk. They sat side by side on the bed, because there was no other furniture.
    “We’ll be going up against a prepared position,” she said.
    “The two of us against two bozos,” Reacher replied. “You worried now?”
    “It’s gotten harder.”
    “Tell me again,” he said. “I’m not making you do this, am I?”
    “You can’t do it alone.”
    He shook his head. “I could do it alone one-handed with my head in a bag.”
    “We know nothing about them.”
    “But we can make some kind of an assessment. The tall guy in Bismarck is the shooter, and the other guy watches his back and drives. Big brother, little brother. There’ll be a lot of loyalty. It’s a brother thing. This whole deal is a brother thing. Explaining the motivation to somebody who wasn’t close would be hard. You can’t just walk up to a stranger and say hey, I want to shoot a guy because his dad threatened to put a stick up my ass and I had to beg him not to.”
    Neagley said nothing.
    “I’m not asking you to participate,” Reacher said.
    Neagley smiled. “You’re an idiot. I’m worried about you, not me.”
    “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Reacher said. “I’m going to die an old man in some lonely motel bed.”
    “This all is a brother thing for you too, isn’t it?”
    He nodded. “Has to be. I don’t really give a damn about Armstrong. I liked Froelich, but I would never have known her except for Joe.”
    “ Are you lonely?”
    “Sometimes. Not usually.”
    She moved her hand, very slowly. It started an inch from his hand. She made the inch last like a million miles. Her fingers moved imperceptibly over the washed-out counterpane until they were a fraction from his. Then they lifted and moved more, until they were directly over his and just a fraction above. It was like there was a layer of air between their hands, compressed so hard it was warm and liquid. She floated her hand on the air and kept it motionless. Then she pressed harder and brought it down and her fingers touched the backs of his fingers, very lightly. She turned her elbow so her hand lay precisely aligned. Then she pushed down harder. Her palm felt warm. Her fingers were long and cool. Their tips lay on his knuckles. They moved and traced the lines and scars and tendons. They raked down between his. He turned his hand over. She pressed her palm into his. Laced her fingers through his fingers and squeezed. He squeezed back.
    He held her hand for five long minutes. Then she slowly pulled it away. Stood up and stepped to the door. Smiled.
    “See you in the morning,” she said.

    He slept badly and woke up at five, worried about the endgame. Complications crowded in on him. He threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. Dressed in the dark and walked down the stairs and out into the night. It was bitter cold and the snowflakes were blowing in faster. They looked wet and heavy. The weather was moving east. Which was good, he guessed.
    There was no light. All the town’s windows were dark, there were no streetlights, there was no moon, there were no stars. The church tower loomed up in the middle distance, faint and gray and ghostly. He walked in the middle of