by Lee Child
“So maybe they rendezvous somewhere neutral. For the actual sales. Somewhere close by, in the northeast.”
She nodded. “How did you see their books?”
“I was in their office last night. That’s why I wanted the car.”
She moved to the desk and sat down and tapped the laptop’s touch pad. The screensaver disappeared. My last e-mail was displayed under it: See you in 10 minutes. She went into the deleted items directory and clicked on a message from Powell, the MP who had sold me out.
“We traced those names for you,” she said. “Angel Doll did eight years in Leavenworth for sexual assault. Should have been life for rape and murder, but the prosecution screwed up. He was a communications technician. Raped a female lieutenant colonel, left her to bleed to death from the inside. He’s not a very nice guy.”
“He’s a very dead guy,” I said.
She just looked at me.
“He checked the Maxima’s plates,” I said. “Confronted me. Big error. He was the first casualty.”
“You killed him?”
I nodded. “Broke his neck.”
She said nothing.
“His choice,” I said. “He was about to compromise the mission.”
She was pale.
“You OK?” I said.
She looked away. “I wasn’t really expecting casualties.”
“There might be more. Get used to it.”
She looked back at me. Took a breath. Nodded.
“OK,” she said. Then she paused. “Sorry about the plates. That was a mistake.”
“Anything about Paulie?”
She scrolled down the screen. “Doll had a buddy in Leavenworth called Paul Masserella, a bodybuilder, serving eight for assault on an officer. His defense counsel pleaded it down on account of steroid rage. Tried to blame the army for not monitoring Masserella’s intake.”
“His intake is all over the place now.”
“You think he’s the same Paulie?”
“Must be. He told me he doesn’t like officers. I kicked him in the kidney. It would have killed you or Eliot. He didn’t even notice.”
“What’s he going to do about it?”
“I hate to think.”
“You OK with going back?”
“Beck’s wife knows I’m phony.”
She stared at me. “How?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she just wants me to be. Maybe she’s trying to convince herself.”
“Is she broadcasting it?”
“Not yet. She saw me out of the house last night.”
“You can’t go back.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“You’re not an idiot, either. It’s out of control now.”
I nodded. “But it’s my decision.”
She shook her head. “It’s our decision, jointly. You’re depending on our backup.”
“We need to get Teresa out of there. We really do, Duffy. It’s a hell of a situation for her to be in.”
“I could send SWAT teams for her. Now you’ve confirmed she’s alive.”
“We don’t know where she is right now.”
“She’s my responsibility.”
“And Quinn is mine.”
She said nothing.
“You can’t send SWAT teams,” I said. “You’re off the books. Asking for SWAT teams is the same thing as asking to be fired.”
“I’m prepared to get fired, if it comes to it.”
“It’s not just you,” I said. “Six other guys would get fired with you.”
She said nothing.
“And I’m going back anyway,” I said. “Because I want Quinn. With you or without you. So you might as well use me.”
“What did Quinn do to you?”
I said nothing. She was quiet for a long moment.
“Would Mrs. Beck talk to us?” she said.
“I don’t want to ask her,” I said. “Asking her is the same thing as confirming her suspicions. I can’t be sure exactly where that would lead.”
“What would you do if you went back?”
“Get promoted,” I said. “That’s the key. I need to move up into Duke’s job. Then I’ll be top boy on Beck’s side. Then I’ll get some kind of official liaison with Quinn’s side. That’s what I need. I’m working in the dark without it.”
“We need progress,” she said. “We need evidence.”
“I know,” I said.
“How will you get promoted?”
“Same way anybody gets promoted,” I said.
She didn’t reply to that. Just switched her e-mail program back to inbox and stood up and stepped away to the window to look at the view. I looked at her. The light behind her was coming right through her shirt. Her hair was swept back and a couple of inches of it was on her collar. It looked like a five-hundred-dollar style to me, but I guessed on a DEA salary she probably did it herself. Or got a girlfriend to do it for her. I could picture her in someone’s kitchen, on a chair set out in the middle of the floor, an old towel around her neck, interested in how she looked but not interested enough to spend big bucks in a city salon.
Her butt looked spectacular in the jeans. I could see the label on the back: Waist 24. Leg 32. That made her inseam five inches short of mine, which I was prepared to accept. But a waist a whole foot smaller than mine was ridiculous. I carry almost no body fat. All I’ve got in there are the necessary organs, tight and dense. She must have had miniature versions. I see a waist like that and all I want to do is span it with my hands and marvel at it. Maybe bury my head somewhere a little higher up. I couldn’t tell what that might feel like with her unless she turned around. But I suspected it might feel very nice indeed.
“How dangerous is it now?” she asked. “Realistic assessment?”
“Can’t tell,” I said. “Too many variables. Mrs. Beck is running on intuition, that’s all. Maybe a little wish-fulfillment with it. She’s got no hard evidence. In terms of hard evidence I think I’m holding up OK. So even if Mrs. Beck talks to somebody it all depends on whether they choose to take a woman’s intuition seriously or not.”
“She saw you out of the house. That’s hard evidence.”
“But of what? That I’m restless?”
“This guy Doll was killed while you weren’t locked up.”
“They’ll assume I didn’t get past the wall. And they won’t find Doll. No way. Not in time.”
“Why did they move Teresa?”
“Precaution.”
“It’s out of control now,” she said again.
I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see the gesture. “This kind of thing is always out of control. It’s to be expected. Nothing ever works like you predict it. All plans fall apart as soon as the first shot is fired.”
She went quiet. Turned around.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
I paused a beat. The light was still behind her. Very nice indeed.
“I’m going to take a nap,” I said.
“How long have you got?”
I checked my watch. “About three hours.”
“You tired?”
I nodded. “I was up all night, swimming, mostly.”
“You swam past the wall?” she said. “Maybe you are an idiot.”
“Are you tired too?” I asked.
“Very. I’ve been working hard for weeks.”
“So take a nap with me,” I said.
“Doesn’t feel right. Teresa’s in danger somewhere.”
“I can’t go yet anyway,” I said. “Not until Mrs. Beck is ready.”
She paused a beat. “There’s only one bed.”
“Not a huge problem. You’re thin. You won’t take up much room.”
“Wouldn’t be right,” she said.
“We don’t have to get in,” I said. “We could just lie on top.”
“Right next to each other?”
“Fully dressed,” I said. “I’ll even keep my shoes on.”
> She said nothing.
“It’s not against the law,” I said.
“Maybe it is,” she said. “Some states have weird old statutes. Maine might be one of them.”
“I’ve got other Maine statutes to worry about.”
“Not right this minute.”
I smiled. Then I yawned. I sat on the bed and lay down on my back. Rolled over on my side and turned away from the middle and jammed my arms up under my head. Closed my eyes. I sensed her standing there, minute after minute. Then I felt her lie down next to me. She shuffled around a little. Then she went still. But she was tense. I could feel it. It was coming through the mattress springs, tiny high-frequency thrills of concern.
“Don’t panic,” I said. “I’m way too tired.”
But I wasn’t, really. The problem started when she moved slightly and touched my butt with hers. It was a very faint contact, but she might as well have plugged me into a power outlet. I opened my eyes and stared at the wall and tried to figure out whether she was asleep and had moved involuntarily or whether she had done it on purpose. I spent a couple of minutes thinking it through. But I guess mortal danger is an aphrodisiac because I found myself erring on the side of optimism. Then I wasn’t certain about the required response. What was the correct etiquette? I settled for moving an inch myself and firming up the connection. I figured that would put the ball back in her court. Now she could struggle with the interpretation.
Nothing happened for a whole minute. I was on the point of getting disappointed when she moved again. Now the connection was pretty damn solid. If I didn’t weigh two hundred and fifty pounds she might have slid me right across the shiny bedcover. I was fairly certain I could feel the rivets on her back pockets. My turn. I disguised it with a sort of sleepy sound and rolled over so we were stacked like spoons and my arm was accidentally touching her shoulder. Her hair was in my face. It was soft and smelled like summer. The cotton of her shirt was crisp. It plunged down to her waist and then the denim of her jeans swooped back up over her hips. I squinted down. She had taken her shoes off. I could see the soles of her feet. Ten little toes, all in a line.
She made a sleepy sound of her own. I was pretty sure it was fake. She nestled backward until she was jammed tight against me from top to bottom. I put my hand on her upper arm. Then I moved it down until it fell off her elbow and came to rest on her waist. The tip of my little finger was under the waistband of her jeans. She made another sound. Almost certainly a fake. I held my breath. Her butt was tight against my groin. My heart was thumping. My head was spinning. No way could I resist. No way at all. It was one of those insane hormone-driven moments when I would have risked eight years in Leavenworth for it. I slid my hand up and forward and cupped her breast. After that, things got completely out of control.
She was one of those women who is far more attractive naked than clothed. Not all women are, but she was. She had a body to die for. She had no tan, but her skin was not pale. It was as soft as silk, but it was not translucent. She was very slim, but I couldn’t see her bones. She was long, and she was lean. She was made for one of those bathing suits that swoop way up at the sides. She had small firm breasts, perfectly shaped. Her neck was long and slender. She had great ears and ankles and knees and shoulders. She had a little hollow at the base of her throat. It was very slightly damp.
She was strong, too. I must have outweighed her by a hundred and thirty pounds, but she had worn me out. She was young, I guess. She had maybe ten years on me. She had left me exhausted, which made her smile. She had a great smile.
“Remember my hotel room in Boston?” I said. “The way you sat on the chair? I wanted you right then.”
“I was just sitting on a chair. There wasn’t a way to it.”
“Don’t kid yourself.”
“Remember the Freedom Trail?” she said. “You told me about the long-rod penetrator? I wanted you right then.”
I smiled.
“It was part of a billion-dollar defense contract,” I said. “So I’m glad this particular citizen got something out of it.”
“If Eliot hadn’t been with me I’d have done it right there in the park.”
“There was a woman feeding the birds.”
“We could have gone behind a bush.”
“Paul Revere would have seen us,” I said.
“He rode all night,” she said.
“I’m not Paul Revere,” I said.
She smiled again. I felt it against my shoulder.
“All done, old guy?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Danger is an aphrodisiac, isn’t it?” she said.
“I guess it is.”
“So you admit you’re in danger?”
“I’m in danger of having a heart attack.”
“You really shouldn’t go back,” she said.
“I’m in danger of not being able to.”
She sat up on the bed. Gravity had no effect on her perfection.
“I’m serious, Reacher,” she said.
I smiled up at her. “I’ll be OK. Two or three more days. I’ll find Teresa and I’ll find Quinn and then I’ll get out.”
“Only if I let you.”
I nodded.
“The two bodyguards,” I said.
She nodded in turn. “That’s why you need my end of the operation. You can forget all about the heroic stuff. With you or without you, my ass. We turn those guys loose and you’re a dead man, one phone call later.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the first motel, back in Massachusetts. Where we made the plans. The guys from the Toyota and the college car are sitting on them.”
“Hard, I hope.”
“Very.”
“That’s hours away,” I said.
“By road,” she said. “Not by telephone.”
“You want Teresa back.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m in charge.”
“You’re a control freak,” I said.
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, is all.”
“Nothing bad ever happens to me.”
She leaned down and traced her fingertips over the scars on my body. Chest, stomach, arms, shoulders, forehead. “You’ve taken a lot of damage for a guy nothing bad ever happens to.”
“I’m clumsy,” I said. “I fall over a lot.”
She stood up and walked to the bathroom, naked, graceful, completely unself-conscious.
“Hurry back,” I called.
But she didn’t hurry back. She was in the bathroom a long time and when she came out again she was wearing a robe. Her face had changed. She looked a little awkward. A little rueful.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It was unprofessional.”
She looked straight at me. I nodded. I guessed it was a little unprofessional.
“But it was fun,” I said.
“We shouldn’t have.”
“We’re grown-ups. We live in a free country.”
“It was just taking comfort. Because we’re both stressed and uptight.”
“Nothing really wrong with that.”
“It’s going to complicate things,” she said.
I shook my head.
“Not if we don’t let it,” I said. “Doesn’t mean we have to get married or anything. We don’t owe each other anything because of it.”
“I wish we hadn’t.”
“I’m glad we did. I think if a thing feels right, you should do it.”
“That’s your philosophy?”
I looked away.
“It’s the voice of experience,” I said. “I once said no when I wanted to say yes and I lived to regret it.”
She hugged the robe tight around her.
“It did feel good,” she said.
“For me too,” I said.
“But we should forget it now. It meant what it meant, nothing more, OK?”
“
OK,” I said.
“And you should think hard about going back.”
“OK,” I said again.
I lay on the bed and thought about how it felt to say no when you really wanted to say yes. On balance saying yes had been better, and I had no regrets. Duffy was quiet. It was like we were just waiting for something to happen. I took a long hot shower and dressed in the bathroom. We were done talking by then. There was nothing left to say. We both knew I was going back. I liked the fact that she didn’t really try to stop me. I liked the fact that we were both focused, practical people. I was lacing my shoes when her laptop went ping, like a muffled high-pitched bell. Like a microwave when your food is ready. No artificial voice saying You’ve got mail. I came out of the bathroom and she sat down in front of the computer and clicked a button.
“Message from my office,” she said. “Records show eleven dubious ex-cops called Duke. I put the request in yesterday. How old is he?”
“Forty, maybe,” I said.
She scrolled through her list.
“Southern guy?” she asked. “Northern?”
“Not Southern,” I said.
“Choice of three,” she said.
“Mrs. Beck said he’d been a federal agent, too.”
She scrolled some more.
“John Chapman Duke,” she said. “He’s the only one who went federal afterward. Started in Minneapolis as a patrolman and then a detective. Subject of three investigations by Internal Affairs. Inconclusive. Then he joined us.”
“DEA?” I said. “Really?”
“No, I meant the federal government,” she said. “He went to the Treasury Department.”
“To do what?”
“Doesn’t say. But he was indicted within three years. Some kind of corruption. Plus suspicion of multiple homicides, no real hard evidence. But he went to prison for four years anyway.”
“Description?”
“White, about your size. The photo makes him look uglier, though.”
“That’s him,” I said.
She scrolled some more. Read the rest of the report.
“Take care,” she said. “He sounds like a piece of work.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. I thought about kissing her good-bye at the door. But I didn’t. I figured she wouldn’t want me to. I just ran over to the Cadillac.
