“But?”
“But then the dam broke. Something Alison said. I remembered it much later. She said her father was dying but sisters take care of each other, right? I thought she was talking about emotional support or something. But then I thought what if she meant it another way? Like some people use the phrase? Like you did, when we had coffee in New York and the check came and you said you’d take care of it? Meaning you’d pay for me, you’d treat me? I thought what if Alison meant that she’d take care of Julia financially? Share with her? Like she knew the inheritance was all coming her way and Julia was getting nothing and was all uptight about it? But Julia had told me everything was equal, and she was already rich, anyway, because the old man was generous and fair. So I suddenly asked myself what if she’s lying about that? What if the old guy wasn’t generous and fair? What if she’s not rich?”
“She was lying about that?”
Reacher nodded. “Had to be. Suddenly it made a lot of sense. I realized she doesn’t look rich. She dresses very cheap. She has cheap luggage.”
“You based it on her luggage?”
He shrugged. “I told you it was a house of cards. But in my experience if somebody’s got money outside of their salary, it shows up somewhere. It might be subtle and tasteful, but it’s there. And with Julia Lamarr, it wasn’t there. So she was poor. So she was lying. And Jodie told me her firm has this so what else thing. If they find a guy lying about something, they ask themselves so what else? What else is he lying about? So I thought what if she’s lying about the relationship with her sister too? What if she still hates her and resents her, like when she was a little kid? And what if she’s lying about the equal inheritance? What if there’s no inheritance for her at all?”
“Did you check it out?”
“How could I? But check it out yourself and you’ll see. It’s the only thing that fits. So then I thought what the hell else? What if everything is a lie? What if she’s lying about not flying? What if that’s a big beautiful lie too, just sitting there, so big and obvious nobody thinks twice about it? I even asked you how she gets away with it. You said everybody just works around it, like a law of nature. Well, we all did. We just worked around it. Like she intended. Because it made it absolutely impossible it was her. But it was a lie. It had to be. Fear of flying is way too irrational for her.”
“But it’s an impossible lie to tell. I mean, either a person flies, or she doesn’t.”
“She used to, years ago,” Reacher said. “She told me that. Then presumably she grew to hate it, so she stopped. So it was convincing. Nobody who knows her now ever saw her fly. So everybody believed her. But when it came to it, she could put herself on a plane. If it was worth it to her. And this was worth it to her. Biggest motive you ever saw. Alison was going to get everything, and she wanted it for herself. She was Cinderella, all burning up with jealousy and resentment and hatred.”
“Well, she fooled me,” Harper said. “That’s for sure.”
Reacher stroked Scimeca’s hair.
“She fooled everybody,” he said. “That’s why she did the far corners first. To make everybody think about the geography, the range, the reach, the distance. To move herself right outside the picture, subconsciously. ”
Harper was quiet for a beat. “But she was so upset. She cried, remember? In front of us all?”
Reacher shook his head. “She wasn’t upset. She was frightened. It was her time of maximum danger. Remember just before that? She refused to take her rest period. Because she knew she needed to be around, to control any fallout from the postmortem. And then I started questioning the motive, and she got tense as hell because I might be heading in the right direction. But then I said it was weapons theft in the Army, and she cried, but not because she was upset. She cried with relief, because she was still safe. I hadn’t smoked her out. And you remember what she did next?”
Harper nodded. “She started backing you up on the weapons theft thing.”
“Exactly,” Reacher said. “She started making my case for me. Putting words in my mouth. She said we should think laterally, go for it, maximum effort. She jumped on the bandwagon, because she saw the bandwagon was heading in the wrong direction. She was thinking hard, improvising like crazy, sending us all down another blind alley. But she wasn’t thinking hard enough, because that bandwagon was always bullshit. There was a flaw in it, a mile wide.”
“What flaw?”
“It was an impossible coincidence that the eleven witnesses could be the only eleven women obviously living alone afterward. I told you it was partly an experiment. I wanted to see who wouldn’t support it. Only Poulton wouldn’t. Blake was out of it, upset because Lamarr was upset. But Lamarr backed it all the way. She backed it big-time, because it made her safe. And then she went home, with everybody’s sympathy. But she didn’t go home. At least not for more than the time it takes to pack a bag. She came straight here and went to work.”
Harper went pale.
“She actually confessed,” she said. “Right then and there, before she left. Remember that? She said I killed my sister. Because of wasting time, she said. But it was really true. It was a sick joke.”
Reacher nodded. “She’s sick as hell. She killed four women for her stepfather’s money. And this paint thing? It was always so bizarre. So bizarre, it was overwhelming. But it was difficult, too. Can you imagine the practicalities? Why would a person use a trick like that?”
“To confuse us.”
“And?”
“Because she enjoyed it,” Harper said, slowly. “Because she’s really sick.”
“Sick as hell,” Reacher said again. “But very smart, too. Can you imagine the planning? She must have started two whole years ago. Her stepfather fell ill about the same time her sister came out of the Army. She started putting it all together right then. Very, very meticulous. She got the support group list direct from her sister, picked out the ones who obviously lived alone, like I did, then she visited all eleven of them, secretly, probably weekends, by plane. Walked in everywhere she needed to because she was a woman with an FBI shield, just like you walked into Alison’s place the other day and you walked past that cop just now. Nothing more reassuring than a woman with an FBI shield, right? Then she maybe gave them some story about how the Bureau was trying to finally nail the military, which must have gratified them. Said she was starting a big investigation. Sat them down in their own living rooms and asked if she could hypnotize them for background information on the issue.”
“Including her own sister? But how could she do that without Alison knowing she flew there?”
“She made Alison come to Quantico for it. Remember that? Alison said she’d flown out to Quantico so Julia could hypnotize her for deep background. But there were no questions about deep background. No questions at all, in fact, just instructions for the future. She told her what to do, just like she told all of them what to do. Lorraine Stanley was still serving then, so she told her to steal the paint and hide it. The others, she told them to expect a carton sometime in the future and store it. She told all of them to expect another visit from her, and in the meantime to deny everything if they were ever asked about anything. She even scripted the bullshit stories for them, bogus roommates and random delivery mistakes.”
Harper nodded and stared at the bathroom door.
“So then she told Stanley to activate the deliveries,” she said. “And then she went back to Florida and killed Amy Callan. Then Caroline Cooke. And she knew as soon as she killed Cooke, a serial pattern would be established and the whole thing would fall into Blake’s lap at Quantico, whereupon she was right there to start misdirecting the investigation. God, I should have spotted it. She insisted on working the case. And she insisted on staying with it. It was perfect, wasn’t it? Who did the profile? She did. Who insisted on the military motive? She did. Who said we’re looking for a soldier? She did. She even hauled you in as an example of what we were looking for.”
Reacher
said nothing. Harper stared at the door.
“But Alison was the only real target,” she said. “And that’s why she dropped the interval, I guess. Because she was all hyped up and excited and couldn’t wait.”
“She made us do her surveillance,” Reacher said. “She asked us about Alison’s place, remember? She was abandoning the interval, so she didn’t have time for surveillance, so she got us to do it for her. Remember that? Is it isolated? Is the door locked? We did her scouting for her.”
Harper closed her eyes. “She was off duty the day Alison died. It was Sunday. Quantico was quiet. I never even thought about it. She knew nobody would think about it, on a Sunday. She knows nobody’s there.”
“She’s very smart,” Reacher said.
Harper nodded. Opened her eyes. “And I guess it explains the lack of evidence everywhere. She knows what we look for at the scene.”
“And she’s a woman,” Reacher said. “The investigators were looking for a man, because she told them to. Same with the rental cars. She knew if anybody checked they would come back with a woman’s name, which would be ignored. Which is exactly what happened. ”
“But what name?” Harper asked. “She’d need ID for the rental.”
“For the airlines, too,” Reacher said. “But I’m sure she’s got a drawerful of ID. From women the Bureau has sent to prison. You’ll be able to match them up, relevant dates and places. Innocent feminine names, meaning nothing.”
Harper looked rueful. “I passed that message on, remember? From Hertz? It was nothing, I said, just some woman on business.”
Reacher nodded. “She’s very smart. I think she even dressed the same as the victims, while she was in their houses. She watched them, and if they wore a cotton dress, she wore a cotton dress. If they wore pants, she wore pants. Like she’s in here now wearing an old sweater like Scimeca’s. So any fibers she leaves behind will be discounted. She asked us what Alison was wearing, remember? No time for surveillance, so she asked us, all innocent and roundabout. Is she still all sporty and tanned and dressed like a cowboy? We said yes, she is, so no doubt she went in there wearing denim jeans and boots.”
“And she scratched her face because she hated her.”
Reacher shook his head.
“No, I’m afraid that was my fault,” he said. “I kept questioning the lack of violence, right in front of her. So she supplied some, the very next time around. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
Harper said nothing.
“And that’s how I knew she’d be here,” Reacher said. “Because she was trying to imitate a guy like me, all along. And I said I would go for Scimeca next. So I knew she’d be here, sooner or later. But she was a little quicker than I thought. And we were a little slower. She didn’t waste any time, did she?”
Harper glanced at the bathroom door. Shuddered. Glanced away.
“How did you figure the hypnotism thing?” she asked.
“Like everything else,” Reacher said. “I thought I knew who, and why, but the how part looked absolutely impossible, so I just went around and around. That’s why I wanted to get out of Quantico. I wanted space to think. It took me a real long time. But eventually, it was the only possibility. It explained everything. The passivity, the obedience, the acquiescence. And why the scenes looked the way they did. Looked like the guy never laid a finger on them, because she never did lay a finger on them. She just reestablished the spell and told them what to do, step by step. They did everything themselves. Right down to filling their own tubs, swallowing their own tongues. The only thing she did herself was what I did, pull their tongues back up afterward, so the pathologists wouldn’t catch on.”
“But how did you know about the tongues?”
He was quiet for a beat.
“From kissing you,” he said.
“Kissing me?”
He smiled. “You’ve got a great tongue, Harper. It set me thinking. Tongues were the only things which fitted Stavely’s autopsy findings. But I figured there was no way to make somebody swallow their own tongue, until I realized it was Lamarr, and she was a hypnotist, and then the whole thing fell together.”
Harper was silent.
“And you know what?” Reacher said.
“What?”
“The very first night I met her, she wanted to hypnotize me. For deep background, she said, but obviously she was going to tell me to look convincing and get absolutely nowhere. Blake pestered me to do it, and I said no, because she’ll make me run naked down Fifth Avenue. Like a joke. But it was awful near the truth.”
Harper shivered. “Where would she have stopped?”
“Maybe one more,” Reacher said. “Six would be enough. Six would have done it. Sand on the beach.”
She stepped over and sat down next to him on the bed. Stared down at Scimeca, inert beneath the bathrobe.
“Will she be OK?” she asked.
“Probably,” Reacher said. “She’s tough as hell.”
Harper glanced at him. His shirt and pants were wet and smeared. His arms were green, right up to the shoulders.
“You’re all wet,” she said, absently.
“So are you,” he said. “Wetter than me.”
She nodded. Went quiet.
“We’re both wet,” she said. “But at least now it’s over.”
He said nothing.
“Here’s to success,” she said.
She leaned over and threaded her damp arms around his neck. Pulled him close and kissed him, hard on the mouth. He felt her tongue on his lips. Then it stopped moving. She pulled away.
“Feels weird,” she said. “I won’t be able to do this ever again without thinking bad things about tongues.”
He said nothing.
“Horrible way to die,” she said.
He looked at her and smiled.
“You fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on,” he said.
He leaned toward her and cupped a hand behind her head and pulled her close. Kissed her on the mouth. She was completely still for a beat. Then she got back into it. She held the kiss for a long moment. Then she pulled away, smiling shyly.
“Go wake her up,” Reacher said. “Make the arrest, start the questioning. You’ve got a big case ahead of you.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
He looked down at Scimeca’s sleeping face.
“She will,” he said. “Tell her the first time she clams up, I’ll break her arm. The second time, I’ll grind the bones together.”
Harper shivered again and turned away. Stood up and stepped out to the bathroom. The bedroom went quiet. No sound anywhere, just Scimeca’s breathing, steady but noisy, like a machine. Then Harper came back in, a long moment later, white in the face.
“She won’t talk to me,” she said.
“How do you know? You didn’t ask her anything.”
“Because she’s dead.”
Silence.
“You killed her.”
Silence.
“When you hit her.”
Silence.
“You broke her neck.”
Then there were loud footsteps in the hallway below them. Then they were on the stairs. Then they were in the corridor outside the bedroom. The cop stepped into the room. He was holding his mug. He had retrieved it from the porch railing. He stared.
“Hell’s going on?” he said.
31
SEVEN HOURS LATER it was well past midnight. Reacher was locked up alone in a holding pen inside the FBI’s Portland Field Office. He knew the cop had called his sergeant and the sergeant had called his Bureau contact. He knew Portland called Quantico and Quantico called the Hoover Building and the Hoover Building called New York. The cop relayed all that information, breathless with excitement. Then his sergeant arrived in person and he clammed up. Harper disappeared somewhere and an ambulance arrived to take Scimeca to the hospital. He heard the police department cede jurisdiction to the FBI without any kind of a struggle. Then two Portlan
d agents arrived to make the arrest. They cuffed him and drove him to the city and dumped him in the holding pen and left him there.
It was hot in the cell. His clothes dried within an hour, stiff as boards and stained olive with paint. Apart from that, nothing happened. He guessed it was taking time for people to assemble. He wondered if they would come to Portland, or if they’d fly him back to Quantico. Nobody told him anything. Nobody came near him. He was left alone. He spent the time worrying about Scimeca. He imagined harassed strangers in the emergency room, probing and fussing over her.
It stayed quiet until after midnight. Then things started happening. He heard sounds in the building. Arrivals, urgent conversations. First person he saw was Nelson Blake. They’re coming here, he thought. They must have discussed a position and fired up the Lear. Timing was about right. The inner door opened and Blake walked past the bars and glanced into the cell, something in his face. You really screwed up now, he was saying. He looked tired and strained. Red and pale, all at the same time.
It went quiet again for an hour. Past one o’clock in the morning, Alan Deerfield arrived, all the way from New York. The inner door opened and he walked in, silent and morose, red eyes behind the thick glasses. He paused. Glanced through the bars. The same contemplative look he’d used all those nights ago. So you’re the guy, huh?
He walked back out and it went quiet again, another hour. Past two o’clock, a local agent came in with a bunch of keys. He unlocked the door.
“Time to talk,” he said.
He led him out of the cell block into a corridor. Down the corridor to a conference room. Smaller than the New York facility, but just as cheap. Same lighting, same big table. Deerfield and Blake were sitting together on one side. There was a chair positioned opposite. He walked around and sat down in it. There was silence for a long moment. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Then Blake sat forward.
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