Running Blind (54 page)

"OK, Colonel," he said. "You can wait in here with me, if you like. I guess it's cold out there."

"It sure is," the colonel said, although the cop noticed he was sweating lightly. Probably from the fast walk up the hill, he figured.

"We're not getting anyplace," Harper said.

The plane was on descent. Reacher could feel it in his ears. And he could feel abrupt turns. The pilot was military, so he was using the rudder. Civilian pilots avoid using the rudder. Using the rudder makes the plane slew, like a car skids. Passengers don't like the feeling. So civilian pilots turn by juicing the engines on one side and backing off on the others. Then the plane comes around smoothly. But military pilots don't care about their passengers' comfort. It's not like they've bought tickets.

"Remember Poulton's report from Spokane?" he said.

"What about it?"

"That's the key. Something big and obvious."

Rita made the left off the main road and the right into her street. The cop was back in the way again. Somebody was in the front seat next to him. She stopped on the crown of the road, ready to turn in, hoping he'd take the hint and move, but he just opened his door and got out, like he needed to talk to her. He walked across, stiff from sitting, and placed his hand on the roof of her car and bent down. She opened her window and he peered in and glanced at the shopping bags on the back seat.

"Get what you need?" he asked.

She nodded.

"No problems?"

She shook her head.

"There's a guy here to see you," he said. "A padre, from the Army."

"The guy in your car?" she said, like she had to say something, although it was pretty obvious. She could see the collar.

"Colonel somebody," the cop said. "His ID is OK."

"Get rid of him," she said.

The cop was startled.

"He's all the way from D.C.," he said. "His ID says he's based there."

"I don't care where he's based. I don't want to see him."

The cop said nothing. Just glanced back over his shoulder. The colonel was getting out of the car. Easing up to his full height on the sidewalk. Walking over. Scimeca left her motor running and opened her door. Slid out and stood up and watched him coming, pulling her jacket tight around her in the cold.

"Rita Scimeca?" the padre asked, when he was close enough.

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to see if you're OK."

"OK?" she repeated.

"With your recovery," he said. "After your problems."

"My problems?"

"After the assault."

"And if I'm not OK?"

"Then maybe I can help you."

His voice was warm and low and rich. Infinitely believable. A church voice.

"The Army send you?" she asked. "Is this official?"

He shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "I've argued it with them many times."

She nodded. "If they offer counseling, they're admitting liability."

"That's their view," the colonel said. "Regrettably. So this is a private mission. I'm acting against strict orders, in secret. But it's a matter of conscience, isn't it?"

Scimeca glanced away.

"Why me in particular?" she asked. "There were a lot of us."

"You're my fifth," he said. "I started with the ones who are obviously living alone. I thought that's where my help might be needed most. I've been all over the place. Some fruitful trips, some wasted trips. I try not to force myself on people. But I feel I have to try."

She was silent for a moment. Very cold.

"Well, you've wasted another trip, I'm afraid," she said. "I decline your offer. I don't want your help."

The colonel was not surprised, not unsurprised. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"Totally sure," she said.

"Really? Please think about it. I came a long way."

She didn't answer. Just glanced at the cop, impatiently. He shuffled his feet, calling the colonel's attention his way.

"Asked and answered," he said, like a lawyer.

There was silence in the street. Just the beat of Scimeca's motor idling, the drift of exhaust, a sharp chemical tang in the fall air.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, sir," the cop said. "We've got a situation here."

The colonel was still for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"The offer is always open," he said. "I could come back, anytime."

He turned abruptly and walked back down the hill, moving fast. The slope swallowed him up, legs, back, head. Scimeca watched him below the horizon and slid back into her car. The cop nodded to himself and tapped twice on the roof.

"Nice car," he said, irrelevantly.

She said nothing.

"Right," the cop said.

He walked back to his cruiser. Reversed it up the hill with his door hanging open. She turned into her driveway. Pushed the button on the remote and the garage door rumbled upward. She drove inside and pushed the button again. Saw the cop moving back into position before the door came down and left her in darkness.

She opened her door and the dome light clicked on. She pulled the little lever at her side and popped the trunk. Got out of the car and took her bags from the back seat and carried them through to the basement. Carried them up the stairs to the hallway and through to the kitchen. Placed them side by side on the countertop and sat down on a stool to wait.

It's a low-slung car, so although the trunk is long enough and wide enough, it's not very tall. So you're lying on your side, cramped. Your legs are drawn up, like a fetal position. Getting in was no problem. She left the car unlocked, just like you told her to. You watched her walk away to the store, and then you just stepped over and opened the driver's door and found the lever and popped the trunk. Closed the door again and walked around and lifted the lid. Nothing to it. Nobody was watching. You sort of rolled inside and pulled the lid closed on top of you. It was easy. There were reinforcing members on the underside. Easy to grasp.

It's a long wait in there. But then you feel her get back in and you bear the engine start. You feel a growing patch of heat under your thigh where the exhaust runs under the trunk floor. It's not a comfortable ride. You bounce around a little. You follow the turns in your mind and you know when she arrives back at her place. You hear the cop talking. There's a problem. Then you hear some idiot padre, pleading. You tense up in there. You start to panic. What the hell is going on? What if she asks him in? But she gets rid of him. You hear the ice in her voice. You smile in the dark and open and close your hands in triumph. You hear it when she drives into the garage. The acoustics change. The engine goes louder. You hear the exhaust beating against the walls and the floor. Then she shuts it down and it goes very quiet.

She remembers to pop the trunk. You knew she would, because you told her not to forget. Then you hear her footsteps moving away and you hear the basement door open and close. You ease the trunk lid upward and you climb out. You stand and stretch in the dark. Rub your thigh where the heat has hurt it. Then you move around to the front of the car. You pull your gloves on tighter and you sit down on the fender and you wait.

The plane landed at Portland International like any other Boeing, but it stopped rolling some way short of the terminal and waited on a distant apron. A pickup with a staircase bolted to the load bed came slowly out to meet it. The pickup was followed by a minivan. Both vehicles were shiny clean and painted in Boeing's corporate colors. The flight crew stayed on board to analyze computer data. The minivan took Reacher and Harper around to the arrivals lane, where the taxis waited. Head of the line was a battered Caprice with a checkerboard stripe down the side. The driver wasn't local. He needed to check his map to find the road east toward the tiny village on the slopes of Mount Hood.

She was in the house all of five minutes, and then the doorbell went. The cop was back. She came out of the kitchen and walked the length of the hallway and unlocked the door. Opened it up. He was standing there on the porch, not saying anything, trying to communicate his request with the rueful expression on his face.

"Hi," she said.

Then she just looked at him. Didn't smile or anything.

"Hi," he said back.

She waited. She was going to make him say it anyway. It was nothing to be embarrassed about.

"Guess what?" he said.

"What?"

"Can I use the powder room?"

Cold air was swirling in around her legs. She could feel it striking through her jeans.

"Of course," she said.

She closed the door behind him, to keep some warmth in. Waited next to it, while he disappeared and then came back again.

"Nice and warm in here," he said.

She nodded, although it wasn't really true. She kept the house as cold as she could stand it. For the piano tone. So the wood didn't dry out.

"Cold out there in the car," he said.

She nodded again.

"Run the motor," she said. "Get the heater going."

He shook his head. "Not allowed. Can't idle the engine. Some pollution thing."

"So take off for a spell," she said. "Drive around, get warm. I'll be OK here."

Clearly it wasn't the invitation he was looking for, but he thought about it. Then he shook his head again.

"They'd take my badge," he said. "I've got to stay here."

She said nothing.

"Sorry to bother you with that padre," he said, making the point he'd intervened, and gotten rid of him.

She nodded.

"I'll bring you some hot coffee," she said. "Five minutes, OK?"

He looked pleased. A shy smile.

"Then I'll need the powder room again," he said. "Goes right through me."

"Whenever," she said.

She closed the door on him and went back to the kitchen and set her coffee machine going. Waited on the stool next to the shopping bags until it was done. She found the biggest mug she owned and poured the coffee. Added cream from the refrigerator and sugar from the cupboard. He looked like a cream-and-sugar guy, young, a little fat. She carried the mug outside and walked down the path. Steam swirled off the coffee and hung in a thin horizontal band all the way to the sidewalk. She tapped on his window and he turned and smiled and buzzed the glass down. He took the cup, awkwardly, two-handed.

"Thanks," he said.

He touched it to his lips like an extra gesture of politeness and she walked away, into the driveway, up the path, in through the door. She closed it behind her and locked it and turned around to find the visitor she was expecting standing quietly at the head of the stairs from the garage.

"Hello, Rita," the visitor said.

"Hello," she said back.

The taxi drove south on 205 and found the left turn east on 26. It rode like its next trip should be to the scrap heap. The colors inside the door seams didn't match the outside. It had probably already done three years in New York, and maybe three more in the suburbs of Chicago. But it moved along steadily enough, and its meter clicked a lot slower than it would have in New York or Chicago. And that was important, because Reacher had just realized he had almost no money in his pockets.

"Why is a demonstration of mobility important?" Harper asked.

"That's one of the big lies," Reacher said. "We just swallowed it whole."

Scimeca stood there inside her front door, calmly. The visitor gazed back at her from the other end of the hallway, eyes inquiring.

"Did you buy the paint?"

She nodded.

"Yes, I did," she said.

"So, are you ready?"

"I'm not sure."

The visitor watched her a moment longer, just gazing, very calm, eyes steady.