Lee Child's Jack Reacher Books 1-6

by Lee Child

  But he was nervous about ringing the bell again. She was an uptight character, that was for damn sure. Who knows how she might react, even though he was being real polite, just returning her mug? Even though he’d gotten rid of the chaplain for her? He bounced the mug up and down on his knee and tried to balance out between how cold he was and how offended she might get.

  THE TAXI DROVE on, through Gresham, through Kelso, through Sandy. Route 26 picked up a name, Mount Hood Highway. The grade steepened. The old V-8 dug deep and rumbled upward.

  “Who is it?” Harper asked.

  “The key is in Poulton’s report from Spokane.”

  “It is?”

  He nodded. “Big and obvious. But it took me some time to spot it.”

  “The UPS thing? We went through all of that.”

  He shook his head. “No, before that. The Hertz thing. The rental car.”

  SCIMECA CAME BACK up the basement stairs with a screwdriver in her hand. It was the third-largest she had, about eight inches long, with a blade fine enough to slip between the can and the lid, but broad enough to make an effective lever.

  “I think this is the best one,” she said. “You know, for the purpose.”

  The visitor looked at it from a distance. “I’m sure it’s fine. As long as you’re comfortable with it. You’ll be using it, not me.”

  Scimeca nodded.

  “I think it’s good,” she said.

  “So where’s your bathroom?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Want to show me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bring the paint,” the visitor said. “And the screwdriver. ”

  Scimeca went back to the kitchen and picked up the can.

  “Do we need the stirring stick too?” she called.

  The visitor hesitated. New procedure, needs a new technique.

  “Yes, bring the stirring stick.”

  The stick was about twelve inches long, and Scimeca clasped it together with the screwdriver in her left hand. Picked up the can by the handle with her right.

  “This way,” she said.

  She led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Across the upstairs hallway and into her bedroom. Across the bedroom and into the bathroom.

  “This is it,” she said.

  The visitor looked it over, and felt like an expert on bathrooms. This one was the fifth, after all. It was medium-budget, probably. A little old-fashioned. But it suited the age of the house. A fancy marble confection would have looked wrong.

  “Put the stuff down on the floor, OK?”

  Scimeca bent and put the can down. The metal made a faint liquid clonk as it hit the tile. She folded the wire handle down and balanced the screwdriver and the stick across the lid. The visitor came out with a folded garbage sack, black plastic, from a coat pocket. Shook it out and held it open.

  “I need you to put your clothes in here.”

  HE GOT OUT of the car, with the mug in his hand. Walked around the hood and into the driveway. Up the looping path. Up the porch steps. He juggled the mug into the other hand, ready to ring the bell. Then he paused. It was very quiet inside. No piano music. Was that good or bad? She was kind of obsessive, always playing the same thing over and over again. Probably didn’t like being interrupted in the middle of it. But the fact that she wasn’t playing might mean she was doing something else important. Maybe taking a nap. The Bureau guy said she got up at six. Maybe she took a siesta in the afternoon. Maybe she was reading a book. Whatever she was doing, she probably wasn’t just sitting there hoping he’d come to her door. She hadn’t shown any inclinations along those lines before.

  He stood there, indecisive, his hand held out a foot away from her bell. Then he dropped it to his side and turned around and went back down the steps to the path. Back down the path to the driveway. Back around the hood of his car. He got in and leaned over and stood the mug upright in the passenger footwell.

  SCIMECA LOOKED CONFUSED.

  “What clothes?” she asked.

  “The clothes you’re wearing,” the visitor said.

  Scimeca nodded, vaguely.

  “OK,” she said.

  “I’m not happy with the smile, Rita,” the visitor said. “It’s slipping a little.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Check it out in the mirror, tell me if that’s a happy face.”

  Scimeca turned to the mirror. Gazed for a second and started working on the muscles in her face, one by one. The visitor watched her reflection.

  “Make it a big one. Real cheerful, OK?”

  Scimeca turned back.

  “How’s this?” she said, smiling as wide as she could.

  “Very good,” the visitor said. “You want to make me happy, right?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So put your clothes in the bag.”

  Scimeca took off her sweater. It was a heavy knit item with a tight neck. She hauled the hem up and stretched it over her head. Shook it right side out and leaned over and dropped it in the bag. Second layer was a flannel blouse, washed so many times it was soft and shapeless. She unbuttoned it all the way down and pulled the tails out of the waistband of her jeans. Shrugged it off and dropped it in the bag.

  “Now I’m cold,” she said.

  She unbuttoned the jeans and undid the zip and pushed them down her legs. Kicked off her shoes and stepped out of the jeans. Rolled the shoes and the jeans together and put them in the bag. Peeled off her socks and shook them out and threw them in, one at a time.

  “Hurry up, Rita,” the visitor said.

  Scimeca nodded and put her hands behind her back and unhooked her bra. Pulled it off and tossed it in the bag. Slipped her panties down and stepped out of them. Crushed them into a ball and threw them into the bag. The visitor closed the neck of the bag and dropped it on the floor. Scimeca stood there, naked, waiting.

  “Run the bath,” the visitor said. “Make it warm, since you’re cold.”

  Scimeca bent down and put the stopper in the drain. It was a simple rubber item, secured by a chain. She opened the faucets, three-quarters hot and one-quarter cold.

  “Open the paint,” the visitor said.

  Scimeca squatted down and picked up the screwdriver. Worked the tip into the crack and levered. Rotated the can under the screwdriver, once, twice, until the lid sucked free.

  “Be careful. I don’t want any mess.”

  Scimeca laid the lid gently on the tile. Looked up, expectant.

  “Pour the paint in the tub.”

  She picked up the can, both hands. It was wide, not easy to hold. She clamped it between her palms and carried it to the tub. Twisted from the waist and tipped it over. The paint was thick. It smelled of ammonia. It ran slowly over the lip of the can and poured into the water. The swirl from the faucets caught it. It eddied into a spiral pattern and sank like a weight. The water started dissolving the edges of the spiral and thin green color drifted through the tub like clouds. She held the can upside down until the thick stream thinned, and then stopped.

  “Careful,” the visitor said. “Now put the can down. And don’t make a mess.”

  She turned the can the right way up and squatted again and placed it gently on the tile next to the lid. It made a hollow, empty sound, damped slightly by the residue coating the metal.

  “Now get the stirring stick. Mix it up.”

  She picked up the stick and knelt at the edge of the tub. Worked the stick into the thick sunken mass and stirred.

  “It’s mixing,” she said.

  The visitor nodded. “That’s why you bought latex.”

  The color changed as the paint dissolved. It went from dark olive to the color of grass growing in a damp grove. It thinned, all the way down to the consistency of milk. The visitor watched carefully. It was OK. Not as dramatic as the real thing, but it was dramatic enough to be using paint at all, in the circumstances.

  “OK, that’ll do. Put the stick in the can. No mess.”

  Scimeca p
ulled the stick out of the green water and shook it carefully. Reached back and stood it upright in the empty can.

  “And the screwdriver.”

  She stood the screwdriver next to the stick.

  “Put the lid back on.”

  She picked the lid up by the edge and laid it across the top of the can. It canted up at a shallow angle, because the stirring stick was too tall to let it go all the way down.

  “You can turn the faucets off now.”

  She turned back to the tub and shut off the water. The level was up to within six inches of the rim.

  “Where did you store your carton?”

  “In the basement,” she said. “But they took it away.”

  The visitor nodded. "I know. But can you remember exactly where it was?”

  Scimeca nodded in turn.

  “It was there for a long time,” she said.

  “I want you to put the can down there,” the visitor said. “Right where the carton was. Can you do that?”

  Scimeca nodded.

  “Yes, I can do that,” she said.

  She raised the metal hoop. Eased it up alongside the unsteady lid. Carried the can out in front of her, one hand on the handle, the other palm down against the lid, securing it. She went down the stairs and through the hallway and down to the garage and through to the basement. Stood for a second with her feet on the cold concrete floor, trying to get it exactly right. Then she stepped to her left and placed the can on the floor, in the center of the space the carton had occupied.

  THE TAXI WAS struggling on a long hill past a small shopping center. There was a supermarket, with rows of stores flanking it. A parking lot, mostly empty.

  “Why are we here?” Harper asked.

  “Because Scimeca is next,” Reacher said.

  The taxi labored onward. Harper shook her head.

  “Tell me who.”

  “Think about how,” Reacher said. “That’s the absolute final proof.”

  SCIMECA MOVED THE empty can an inch to the right. Checked carefully. Nodded to herself and turned and ran back upstairs. She felt she ought to hurry.

  “Out of breath?” the visitor asked.

  Scimeca gulped and nodded.

  “I ran,” she said. “All the way back.”

  “OK, take a minute.”

  She breathed deeply and pushed her hair off her face.

  “I’m OK,” she said.

  “So now you have to get into the tub.”

  Scimeca smiled.

  “I’ll get all green,” she said.

  “Yes,” the visitor said. “You’ll get all green.”

  Scimeca stepped to the side of the tub and raised her foot. Pointed her toe and put it in the water.

  “It’s warm,” she said.

  The visitor nodded. “That’s good.”

  Scimeca took her weight on the foot in the water and brought the other in after it. Stood there in the tub up to her calves.

  “Now sit down. Carefully.”

  She put her hands on the rim and lowered herself down.

  “Legs straight.”

  She straightened her legs and her knees disappeared under the green.

  “Arms in.”

  She let go of the rim and put her hands down beside her thighs.

  “Good,” the visitor said. “Now slide down, slowly and carefully.”

  She shuffled forward in the water. Her knees came up. They were stained green, dark and then pale where little rivulets of paint flowed over her skin. She lay back and felt the warmth moving up her body. She felt it lap over her shoulders.

  “Head back.”

  She tilted her head and looked up at the ceiling. She felt her hair floating.

  “Have you ever eaten oysters?” the visitor asked.

  She nodded. She felt her hair swirl in the water as she moved her head.

  "Once or twice,” she said.

  “You remember how it feels? They’re in your mouth, and you just suddenly swallow them whole? Just gulp them down?”

  She nodded again.

  “I liked them,” she said.

  “Pretend your tongue is an oyster,” the visitor said.

  She glanced sideways, puzzled.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I want you to swallow your tongue. I want you to just gulp it down, real sudden, like it was an oyster.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Can you try?”

  “Sure, I can try.”

  “OK, give it a go, right now.”

  She concentrated hard, and tried. Gulped it back, suddenly. But nothing happened. Just a noise in her throat.

  “Doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Use your finger to help,” the visitor said. “The others all had to do that.”

  “My finger?”

  The visitor nodded. “Push it back in there with your finger. It worked for the others.”

  “OK.”

  She raised her hand. Thin paint ran off her arm, with thicker globules where the mixing wasn’t perfect.

  “Which finger?” she asked.

  “Try the middle,” the visitor said. “It’s the longest.”

  She extended her middle finger and folded the others. Opened her mouth.

  “Put it right under your tongue,” the visitor said. “And push back hard.”

  She opened her mouth wider and pushed back hard.

  “Now swallow.”

  She swallowed. Then her eyes jammed open in panic.

  30

  THE CAB PULLED up nose to nose with the police cruiser. Reacher was the first one out, partly because he was tense, and partly because he needed Harper to pay the driver. He stood on the sidewalk and glanced around. Stepped back into the street and headed for the cop’s window.

  “Everything OK?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” the cop said.

  “FBI,” Reacher said. “Is everything OK here?”

  “Can I see a badge?”

  “Harper, show this guy your badge,” Reacher called.

  The taxi backed off and pulled a wide curb-to-curb turn in the road. Harper put her purse back in her pocketbook and came out with her badge, gold on gold, the eagle on top with its head cocked to the left. The cop glanced across at it and relaxed. Harper put it back in her bag and stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the house.

  “It’s all quiet here,” the cop said, through his window.

  “She in there?” Reacher asked him.

  The cop pointed at the garage door.

  “Just got back from the store,” he said.

  “She went out?”

  “I can’t stop her from going out,” the cop said.

  “You check her car?”

  “Just her and two shopping bags. There was a padre came calling for her. From the Army, some counseling thing. She sent him away.”

  Reacher nodded. “She would. She’s not religious.”

  “Tell me about it,” the cop said.

  “OK,” Reacher said. “We’re going inside.”

  “Just don’t ask for the powder room,” the cop said.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s kind of touchy about being disturbed.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” Reacher said.

  “Well, can you give her this for me?” the cop asked.

  He ducked down in his car and came back with an empty mug from the passenger footwell. Handed it out through the window.

  “She brought me coffee,” he said. “Nice lady when you get to know her.”

  “Yes, she is,” Reacher said.

  He took the mug and followed Harper into the driveway. Up the looping path, up the porch steps, to the door. Harper pressed the bell. He listened to the sound echoing to silence off the polished wood inside. Harper waited ten seconds and pressed again. A burst of purring metallic noise, then echoes, then silence.

  “Where is she?” she said.

  She hit the bell for the third time. Noise, ech
oes, silence. She looked at him, worried. He looked at the lock on the door. It was a big heavy item. Probably new. Probably carried all kinds of lifetime warranties and insurance discounts. Probably had a thick case-hardened latch fitted snugly into a steel receptacle chiseled neatly into the doorframe. The doorframe was probably Oregon pine felled a hundred years ago. The best construction timber in history, dried like iron over a century.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He stepped back to the edge of the porch and balanced the cop’s empty mug on the rail. Danced forward and smashed the sole of his foot against the lock.

  “Hell are you doing?” Harper said.

  He whirled back and hit the door again, once, twice, three times. Felt the timbers yield. He grasped the porch railings like a ski jumper and bounced twice and hurled himself forward. Straightened his leg and smashed his whole two hundred and thirty pounds into an area the size of his heel directly over the lock. The frame splintered and part of it followed the door into the hallway.

  “Upstairs,” he gasped.

  He raced up, with Harper crowding his back. He ducked into a bedroom. Wrong bedroom. Inferior linens, a cold musty smell. A guest room. He ducked into the next door. The right bedroom. A made bed, dimpled pillows, the smell of sleep, a telephone and a water glass on the nightstand. A connecting door, ajar. He stepped across the room and shoved it open. He saw a bathroom.

  Mirrors, a sink, a shower stall.

  A tub full of hideous green water.

  Scimeca in the water.

  And Julia Lamarr.

  Julia Lamarr, turning and rising and twisting off her perch on the rim of the tub, whirling around to face him. She was wearing a sweater and pants and black leather gloves. Her face was white with hate and fear. Her mouth was half-open. Her crossed teeth were bared in panic. He seized her by the front of the sweater and spun her around and hit her once in the head, a savage abrupt blow from a huge fist powered by blind anger and crushing physical momentum. It caught her solidly on the side of the jaw and her head snapped back and she bounced off the opposite wall and went down like she was hit by a truck. He didn’t see her make it to the floor because he was already turning back to the tub. Scimeca was arched up out of the slime, naked, rigid, eyes bulging, head back, mouth open in agony.