Persuader (Jack Reacher #7)

Persuader (Jack Reacher #7) Page 6

No point in going to bed, so I just stood at the window and watched the dawn. It was soon in full flow. The sun came up over the sea. The air was fresh and clear. I could see fifty miles. I watched an arctic tern coming in low from the north. It skimmed the rocks as it passed them. I guessed it was looking for a place to build a nest. The low sun behind it threw shadows as big as vultures. Then it gave up on the search for shelter and looped and wheeled and swooped away over the water and tumbled into the ocean. It came out a long moment later and silver droplets of freezing water trailed it back into the sky. It had nothing in its beak. But it flew on like it was happy enough. It was better adapted than me.

There wasn't much to see after that. There were a few herring gulls far in the distance. I squinted against the glare and looked for signs of whales or dolphins and saw nothing. I watched mats of seaweed drift around on circular currents. At six-fifteen I heard Duke's footsteps in the corridor and the click of my lock. He didn't come in. He just tramped away again. I turned and faced the door and took a deep breath. Day thirteen, Thursday. Maybe that was better than day thirteen falling on a Friday. I wasn't sure. Whatever, bring it on. I took another breath and walked out through the door and headed down the stairs.

Nothing was the same as the morning before. Duke was fresh and I was tired. Paulie wasn't around. I went down to the basement gym and found nobody there. Duke didn't stay for breakfast. He disappeared somewhere. Richard Beck came in to eat in the kitchen. There was just him and me at the table. The mechanic wasn't there. The cook stayed busy at the stove. The Irish girl came in and out from the dining room. She was moving fast. There was a buzz in the air. Something was happening.

"Big shipment coming in," Richard Beck said. "It's always like this. Everybody gets excited about the money they're going to make."

"You heading back to school?" I asked him.

"Sunday," he said. He didn't seem worried about it. But I was. Sunday was three days away. My fifth full day there. The final deadline. Whatever was going to happen would have happened by then. The kid was going to be in the crossfire throughout.

"You OK with that?" I asked.

"With going back?"

I nodded. "After what happened."

"We know who did it now," he said. "Some assholes from Connecticut. It won't happen again."

"You can be that sure?"

He looked at me like I was nuts. "My dad handles stuff like this all the time. And if it's not done by Sunday, then I'll just stay here until it is."

"Does your dad run this whole thing by himself? Or does he have a partner?"

"He runs it all by himself," he said. His ambivalence was gone. He looked happy to be home, secure and comfortable, proud of his dad. His world had contracted to a barren half-acre of lonely granite, hemmed in by the restless sea and a high stone wall topped by razor wire.

"I don't think you really killed that cop," he said.

The kitchen went quiet. I stared at him.

"I think you just wounded him," he said. "I'm hoping so, anyway. You know, maybe he's recovering right now. In a hospital somewhere. That's what I'm thinking. You should try to do the same. Think positive. It's better that way. Then you can have the silver lining without the cloud."

"I don't know," I said.

"So just pretend," he said. "Use the power of positive thinking. Say to yourself, I did a good thing and there was no downside."

"Your dad called the local police," I said. "I don't think there was any room for doubt."

"So just pretend," he said again. "That's what I do. Bad things didn't happen unless you choose to recall them."

He had stopped eating and his left hand was up at the left side of his head. He was smiling brightly, but his subconscious was recalling some bad things, right there and then. That was clear. It was recalling them big time.

"OK," I said. "It was just a flesh wound."

"In and out," he said. "Clean as a whistle."

I said nothing.

"Missed everything by a fraction," he said. "It was a miracle."

I nodded. It would have been some kind of a miracle. That was for damn sure. Shoot somebody in the chest with a soft-nose.44 Magnum and you blow a hole in them the size of Rhode Island. Death is generally instantaneous. The heart stops immediately, mostly because it isn't there anymore. I figured the kid hadn't seen anybody shot before. Then I thought, but maybe he has. And maybe he didn't like it very much.

"Positive thinking," he said. "That's the key. Just assume he's warm and comfortable somewhere, making a full recovery."

"What's in the shipment?" I asked.

"Fakes, probably," he said. "From Pakistan. We get two-hundred-year-old Persians made there. People are such suckers."

"Are they?"

He looked at me and nodded. "They see what they want to see."

"Do they?"

"All the time."

I looked away. There was no coffee. After a while you realize that caffeine is addictive. I was irritated. And tired.

"What are you doing today?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I said.

"I'm just going to read," he said. "Maybe stroll a little. Walk the shoreline, see what washed up in the night."

"Things wash up?"

"Sometimes. You know, things fall off boats."

I looked at him. Was he telling me something? I had heard of smugglers floating bales of marijuana ashore in isolated places. I guessed the same system would work for heroin. Was he telling me something? Or was he warning me? Did he know about my hidden bundle of hardware? And what was all that stuff about the shot cop? Psychobabble? Or was he playing games with me?

"But that's mostly in the summer," he said. "It's too cold for boats right now. So I guess I'll stay inside. Maybe I'll paint."

"You paint?"

"I'm an art student," he said. "I told you that."

I nodded. Stared at the back of the cook's head, like I could induce her to make coffee by telepathy. Then Duke came in. He walked over to where I was sitting. Placed one hand on the back of my chair and the other flat on the table. Bent low, like he needed to have a confidential conversation.

"Your lucky day, asshole," he said.

I said nothing.

"You're driving Mrs. Beck," he said. "She wants to go shopping."

"Where?"

"Wherever," he said.

"All day?"

"It better be."

I nodded. Don't trust the stranger on shipment day.

"Take the Cadillac," he said. He dropped the keys on the table. "Make sure she doesn't rush back."

Or, don't trust Mrs. Beck on shipment day.

"OK," I said.

"You'll find it very interesting," he said. "Especially the first part. Gives me a hell of a kick, anyway, every single time."

I had no idea what he meant, and I didn't waste time speculating about it. I just stared at the empty coffee pot and Duke left and a moment later I heard the front door open and close. The metal detector beeped twice. Duke and Beck, guns and keys. Richard got up from the table and wandered out and I was left alone with the cook.

"Got any coffee?" I asked her.

"No," she said.

I sat there until I finally figured that a dutiful chauffeur should be ready and waiting, so I headed out through the back door. The metal detector beeped politely at the keys. The tide was all the way in and the air was cold and fresh. I could smell salt and seaweed. The swell was gone and I could hear waves breaking. I walked around to the garage block and started the Cadillac and backed it out. Drove it around to the carriage circle and waited there with the motor running to get the heater going. I could see tiny ships on the horizon heading in and out of Portland. They crawled along just beyond the line where the sky met the water, half-hidden, infinitely slow. I wondered if one of them was Beck's, or whether it was in already, all tied up and set for unloading. I wondered whether a Customs officer was already walking right past it, eyes front, heading for the next ship in line, a wad of crisp new bills in his pocket.

Elizabeth Beck came out of the house ten minutes later. She was wearing a knee-length plaid skirt and a thin white sweater with a wool coat over it. Her legs were bare. No panty hose. Her hair was pulled back with a rubber band. She looked cold. And defiant, and resigned, and apprehensive. Like a noblewoman walking to the guillotine. I guessed she was used to having Duke drive her. I guessed she was a little conflicted about riding with the cop-killer. I got out and made ready to open the rear door. She walked right past it.

"I'll sit in front," she said.

She settled herself in the passenger seat and I slid back in next to her.

"Where to?" I asked politely.

She stared out her window.

"We'll talk about that when we're through the gate," she said.

The gate was closed and Paulie was standing dead-center in front of it. His shoulders and arms looked like he had basketballs stuffed inside his suit. The skin on his face was red with cold. He had been waiting there for us. I stopped the car six feet in front of him. He made no move toward the gate. I looked straight at him. He ignored me and tracked around to Elizabeth Beck's window. Smiled at her and tapped on the glass with his knuckles and made a winding motion with his hand. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Tried to ignore him. He tapped again. She turned to look at him. He raised his eyebrows. Made the winding motion again. She shuddered. It was enough of a definite physical spasm to rock the car on its springs. She stared hard at one of her fingernails and then placed it on the window button and pressed. The glass buzzed down. Paulie squatted with his right forearm on the door frame.

"Good morning," he said.

He leaned in and touched her cheek with the back of his forefinger. Elizabeth Beck didn't move. Just stared straight ahead. He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

"I enjoyed our visit last night," he said.

She shuddered again. Like she was deathly cold. He moved his hand. Dropped it to her breast. Cupped it. Squeezed it. She sat still for it. I used the button on my side. Her glass buzzed up. Then it stalled against Paulie's giant arm and the safety feature kicked in and it came back down again. I opened my door and slid out. Rounded the hood. Paulie was still squatting down. He still had his hand inside the car. It had moved a little lower.

"Back off," he said, looking at her, talking to me.

I felt like a lumberjack confronting a redwood tree without an ax or a chainsaw. Where do I start? I kicked him in the kidney. It was the kind of kick that would have sent a football out of the stadium and into the parking lot. It would have cracked a utility pole. It would have put most guys in the hospital all by itself. It would have killed some of them. It had about as much effect on Paulie as a polite tap on the shoulder. He didn't even make a noise. He just put both hands on the door frame and slowly pushed himself upright. Turned around to face me.

"Relax, Major," he said. "Just my way of saying good morning to the lady."

Then he moved away from the car and looped right around me and unlocked the gate. I watched him. He was very calm. No sign of a reaction. It was like I hadn't touched him at all. I stood still and let the adrenaline drain away. Then I looked at the car. At the trunk, and at the hood. To walk around the trunk would say I'm scared of you. So I walked around the hood instead. But I made sure to stay well out of his reach. I had no desire to give some surgeon six months' work rebuilding the bones in my face. The closest I got to him was about five feet. He made no move on me. Just cranked the gate all the way open and stood there patiently waiting to close it again.

"We'll talk about that kick later, OK?" he called.

I didn't reply.

"And don't get the wrong impression, Major," he said. "She likes it."

I got back in the car. Elizabeth Beck had closed her window. She was staring straight ahead, pale and silent and humiliated. I drove through the gate. Headed west. Watched Paulie in the mirror. He closed the gate and headed back inside the lodge. Disappeared from sight.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Elizabeth said quietly.

I said nothing.

"And thank you for your intervention," she said. "But it will prove futile. And I'm afraid it will bring you a lot of trouble. He already hates you, you know. And he's not very rational."

I said nothing.

"It's a control thing, of course," she said. It was like she was explaining it to herself. It wasn't like she was talking to me. "It's a demonstration of power. That's all it is. There's no actual sex. He can't do it. Too many steroids, I suppose. He just paws me."

I said nothing.

"He makes me undress," she said. "Makes me parade around for him. Paws me. There's no sex. He's impotent."

I said nothing. Just drove slow, keeping the car steady and level through the coastal curves.

"It usually lasts about an hour," she said.

"Have you told your husband?" I asked.

"What could he do?"

"Fire the guy."

"Not possible," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because Paulie doesn't work for my husband."

I glanced at her. Recalled telling Duke: You should get rid of him. Duke had answered: That's not easy.

"So who does he work for?" I said.

"Somebody else."

"Who?"

She shook her head. It was like she couldn't speak the name.

"It's a control thing," she said again. "I can't object to what they do to me, just like my husband can't object to what they do to him. Nobody can object. To anything, you see. That's the point. You won't be allowed to object to anything, either. Duke wouldn't think to object, of course. He's an animal."

I said nothing.

"I just thank God I have a son," she said. "Not a daughter."

I said nothing.

"Last night was very bad," she said. "I was hoping he would start leaving me alone. Now that I'm getting old."

I glanced at her again. Couldn't think of anything to say.

"It was my birthday yesterday," she said. "That was Paulie's present to me."

I said nothing.

"I turned fifty," she said. "I suppose you don't want to think about a naked fifty-year-old, parading around."

I didn't know what to say.

"But I keep in shape," she said. "I use the gym when the others aren't around."

I said nothing.

"He pages me," she said. "I have to carry a pager at all times. It buzzed in the middle of the night. Last night. I had to go, right away. It's much worse if I keep him waiting."

I said nothing.

"I was on my way back when you saw me," she said. "Out there on the rocks."

I pulled onto the side of the road. Braked gently and stopped the car. Eased the gearshift into Park.

"I think you work for the government," she said.

I shook my head.

"You're wrong," I said. "I'm just a guy."

"Then I'm disappointed."

"I'm just a guy," I said again.

She said nothing.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that," I said. "I'm in enough trouble already."

"Yes," she said. "They'd kill you."

"Well, they'd try," I said. Then I paused. "Have you told them what you think?"

"No," she said.

"Well don't. And you're wrong anyway."

She said nothing.

"There'd be a battle," I said. "They'd come for me and I wouldn't go quietly. People would get hurt. Richard, maybe."

She stared at me. "Are you bargaining with me?"

I shook my head again.

"I'm warning you," I said. "I'm a survivor."

She smiled a bitter smile.

"You have absolutely no idea," she said. "Whoever you are, you're in way over your head. You should leave now."

"I'm just a guy," I said. "I've got nothing to hide from them."

The wind rocked the car. I could see nothing but granite and trees. We were miles from the nearest human being.

"My husband is a criminal," she said.

"I figured that," I said.

"He's a hard man," she said. "He can be violent, and he's always ruthless."

"But he's not his own boss," I said.

"No," she said. "He isn't. He's a hard man who literally quakes in front of the person who is his boss."

I said nothing.

"There's an expression," she said. "People ask, why do bad things happen to good people? But in my husband's case, bad things are happening to a bad person. Ironic, isn't it? But they are bad things."

"Who does Duke belong to?"

"My husband. But Duke's as bad as Paulie, in his way. I wouldn't care to choose between them. He was a corrupt cop, and a corrupt federal agent, and a killer. He's been in prison."

"Is he the only one?"

"On my husband's payroll? Well, he had the two bodyguards. They were his. Or they were provided for him, anyway. But they were killed, of course. Outside Richard's college. By the men from Connecticut. So yes, Duke's the only one now. Apart from the mechanic, of course. But he's just a technician."

"How many has the other guy got?"

"I'm not sure. They seem to come and go."

"What exactly are they importing?"

She looked away. "If you're not a government man, then I guess you wouldn't be interested."

I followed her gaze toward the distant trees. Think, Reacher. This could be an elaborate con game designed to flush me out. They could all be in it together. His gate man's hand on his wife's breast would be a small price for Beck to pay for some crucial information. And I believed in elaborate con games. I had to. I was riding one myself.

"I'm not a government man," I said.

"Then I'm disappointed," she said again.

I put the car in Drive. Held my foot on the brake.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Do you think I care where the hell we go?"

"You want to get some coffee?"

"Coffee?" she said. "Sure. Go south. Let's stay well away from Portland today."

I made the turn south onto Route One, about a mile short of I-95. It was a pleasant old road, like roads used to be. We passed through a place called Old Orchard Beach. It had neat brick sidewalks and Victorian streetlights. There were signs pointing left to a beach. There were faded French flags. I guessed Quebec Canadians had vacationed there before cheap airfares to Florida and the Caribbean had changed their preferences.

"Why were you out last night?" Elizabeth Beck asked me.

I said nothing.

"You can't deny it," she said. "Did you think I hadn't seen you?"

"You didn't react," I said.

"I was in Paulie mode," she said. "I've trained myself not to react."

I said nothing.

"Your room was locked," she said.

"I climbed out the window," I said. "I don't like to be locked in."

"What did you do then?"

"I took a stroll. Like I thought you were doing."

"Then you climbed back in?"

I nodded. Said nothing.

"The wall is your big problem," she said. "There are the lights and the razor wire, obviously, but there are sensors too, in the ground. Paulie would hear you from thirty yards away."

"I was just getting some air," I said.

"No sensors under the driveway," she said. "They couldn't make them work under the blacktop. But there's a camera on the lodge. And there's a motion alarm on the gate itself. Do you know what an NSV is?"

"Soviet tank-turret machine gun," I said.

"Paulie's got one," she said. "He keeps it by the side door. He's been told to use it if he hears the motion alarm."

I breathed in, and then I breathed out. An NSV is more than five feet long and weighs more than fifty-five pounds. It uses cartridges four and a half inches long and a half-inch wide. It can fire twelve of them in a second. It has no safety mechanism. The combination of Paulie and an NSV would be nobody's idea of fun.

"But I think you swam," she said. "I can smell the sea on your shirt. Very faintly. You didn't dry yourself properly when you got back."

We passed a sign for a town called Saco. I coasted to the shoulder and stopped again. Cars and trucks whined past us.

"You were incredibly lucky," she said. "There are some bad riptides off the point. Strong undertow. But I expect you went in behind the garages. In which case you missed them by about ten feet."

"I don't work for the government," I said.

"Don't you?"

"Don't you think you're taking a hell of a chance?" I said. "Let's say I wasn't exactly what I appeared to be. Just for the sake of argument. Let's say I was from a rival organization, for instance. Don't you see the risk? You think you would make it back to the house alive? Saying what you're saying?"

She looked away.

"Then I guess that will be the test," she said. "If you're a government man, you won't kill me. If you're not, you will."

"I'm just a guy," I said. "You could get me in trouble."

"Let's find coffee," she said. "Saco is a nice town. All the big mill owners lived there, way back."

We ended up on an island in the middle of the Saco River. There was an enormous brick building on it that had been a gigantic mill, way back in history. Now it was being gentrified into hundreds of offices and stores. We found a glass-and-chrome coffee shop called Cafe Cafe. A pun in French, I guessed. But the smell alone was worth the trip. I ignored the lattes and the flavored foamy stuff and ordered regular coffee, hot, black, large. Then I turned to Elizabeth Beck. She shook her head.

"You stay," she said. "I've decided to go shopping. Alone. I'll meet you back here in four hours."

I said nothing.

"I don't need your permission," she said. "You're just my driver."

"I don't have any money," I said.

She gave me twenty bucks from her purse. I paid for the coffee and carried it to a table. She came with me and watched me sit down.

"Four hours," she said. "Maybe a little more, but no less. In case there's something you need to do."

"I've got nothing to do," I said. "I'm just your driver."

She looked at me. Zipped her purse. The space around my table was tight. She twisted a little to get the strap of her purse square on her shoulder. Jackknifed slightly to avoid touching the table and spilling my coffee. There was a clunk, like plastic hitting the floor. I looked down. Something had fallen out from under her skirt. She stared at it and her face slowly turned a deep shade of red. She bent and picked the thing up and clutched it in her hand. Fumbled her way onto the chair opposite me like all the strength had gone out of her. Like she was utterly humiliated. She was holding a pager. It was a black plastic rectangle a little smaller than my own e-mail device. She stared at it. Her neck was bright red all the way down under her sweater. She spoke in a low rueful whisper.

"He makes me carry it there," she said. "Inside my underpants. He likes it to have what he calls the appropriate effect when it buzzes. He checks that it's there every time I go through the gate. Normally I take it out and put it in my bag afterward. But I didn't want to do that, you know, this time, with you watching."

I said nothing. She stood up. Blinked twice and took a breath and swallowed.

"Four hours," she said. "In case there's something you need to do."

Then she walked away. I watched her go. She turned left outside the door and disappeared. An elaborate con game? It was possible that they could try to set me up with her story. Possible that she could carry a pager in her pants to back it up. Possible that she could contrive to shake it loose at exactly the right moment. All possible. But what wasn't even remotely possible was that she could manufacture a deep red blush, right on cue. Nobody can do that. Not even the world's finest actress at the peak of her powers could do that. So Elizabeth Beck was for real.

I didn't abandon sensible precautions entirely. They were too deeply ingrained for that. I finished my coffee like an innocent person with all the time in the world. Then I strolled out to the mall's internal sidewalks and turned random lefts and rights until I was sure I was alone. Then I went back to the coffee shop and bought another cup. Borrowed their restroom key and locked myself in. Sat on the lid of the john and took off my shoe. There was a message waiting from Duffy: Why interest in Teresa Daniel's real name? I ignored it and sent: Where is your motel? Ninety seconds later she answered: What did you have for breakfast first day in Boston? I smiled. Duffy was a practical woman. She was worried my e-mail device had been compromised. She was asking a security question. I sent: Short stack with egg, coffee, three-dollar tip, I ate it. Any other answer than that and she would be running for her car. Ninety seconds later she came back with: West side of Route One 100 yards south of Kennebunk River. I figured that was about ten miles away. I sent: See you in 10 minutes.

It took me more like fifteen minutes by the time I had gotten back to the car and fought the traffic where Route One bottlenecked through Saco. I kept one eye on the mirror the whole way and saw nothing to worry about. I crossed the river and found a motel on my right. It was a cheerful bright gray place pretending to be a string of classic New England saltboxes. It was April and not very busy. I saw the Taurus I had been a passenger in out of Boston parked next to the end room. It was the only plain sedan I could see. I put the Cadillac thirty yards away behind a wooden shed hiding a big propane tank. No sense in leaving it visible to everybody passing by on Route One.

I walked back and knocked once and Susan Duffy opened the door fast and we hugged. We just went straight into it. It took me completely by surprise. I think it took her by surprise, too. We probably wouldn't have done it if we had thought about it first. But I guess she was anxious and I was stressed and it just happened. And it felt real good. She was tall, but she was slight. My hand spanned almost the whole width of her back and I felt her ribs give a little. She smelled fresh and clean. No perfume. Just skin, not long out of the shower.

"What do you know about Teresa?" she asked.

"You alone?" I asked.

She nodded. "The others are in Portland. Customs says Beck's got a boat coming in today."

We let go of each other. Moved on into the room.

"What are they going to do?" I asked.

"Observation only," she said. "Don't worry. They're good at it. Nobody will see them."

It was a very generic motel room. One queen bed, a chair, a desk, a TV, a window, a through-the-wall air conditioner. The only things that distinguished it from a hundred thousand other motel rooms were a blue-and-gray color scheme and nautical prints on the wall. They gave it a definite New England coastal flavor.

"What do you know about Teresa?" she asked again.

I told her about the name carved into the basement room floor. And the date. Duffy stared at me. Then she closed her eyes.

"She's alive," she said. "Thank you."

"Well, she was alive yesterday," I said.

She opened her eyes. "You think she's alive today?"

I nodded. "I think the odds are pretty good. They want her for something. Why keep her alive nine weeks and kill her now?"

Duffy said nothing.

"I think they just moved her," I said. "That's all. That's my best guess. The door was locked in the morning, she was gone by the evening."

"You think she's been treated OK?"

I didn't tell her what Paulie liked to do with Elizabeth Beck. She already had enough to worry about.

"I think she scratched her name with a fork," I said. "And there was a spare plate of steak and potatoes lying around last night, like they took her out in such a hurry they forgot to tell the cook. So I think they were probably feeding her. I think she's a prisoner, plain and simple."

"Where would they have taken her?"

"I think Quinn's got her," I said.

"Why?"

"Because it seems to me what we're looking at here is one organization superimposed over another. Beck's a bad guy for sure, but he's been taken over by a worse guy."

"Like a corporate thing?"

"Exactly," I said. "Like a hostile takeover. Quinn's put his staff into Beck's operation. He's riding it like a parasite."

"But why would they move Teresa?"

"A precaution," I said.

"Because of you? How worried are they?"

"A little," I said. "I think they're moving things and hiding things."

"But they haven't confronted you yet."

I nodded. "They're not really sure about me."

"So why are they taking a risk with you?"

"Because I saved the boy."

She nodded. Went quiet. She looked a little tired. I guessed maybe she hadn't slept at all since I asked her for the car at midnight. She was wearing jeans and a man's Oxford shirt. The shirt was pure white and neatly tucked in. The top two buttons were undone. She was wearing boat shoes over bare feet. The room heat was set on high. There was a laptop computer on the desk, next to the room phone. The phone was a console thing all covered in fast-dial buttons. I checked the number and memorized it. The laptop was plugged through a complex adapter into a data port built into the base of the phone. There was a screensaver playing on it. It showed the Justice Department shield drifting around. Every time it reached the edge of the screen it would bounce off in a new random direction like that ancient video tennis game. There was no sound with it.

"Have you seen Quinn yet?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"Know where he operates out of?"

I shook my head again. "I haven't really seen anything. Except their books are coded and they don't have enough of a distribution fleet to be moving what they seem to move. Maybe their customers collect."

"That would be insane," she said. "They wouldn't show their customers their base of operations. In fact we already know they don't. Beck met with the LA dealer in a parking garage, remember."

"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.

I was back in the coffee shop and almost at the end of my second cup when Elizabeth Beck appeared. She had nothing to show for her shopping. No purchases, no gaudy bags. I guessed she hadn't actually been inside any stores. She had hung around for four long hours to let the government guy do whatever he needed to. I raised my hand. She ignored me and headed straight for the counter. Bought herself a tall white coffee and carried it over to my table. I had decided what I was going to tell her.

"I don't work for the government," I said.

"Then I'm disappointed," she said, for the third time.

"How could I?" I said. "I killed a cop, remember."

"Yes," she said.

"Government people don't do stuff like that."

"They might," she said. "By accident."

"But they wouldn't run away afterward," I said. "They would stick around and face the music."

She went quiet and stayed quiet for a long time. Sipped her coffee slowly.

"I've been there maybe eight or ten times," she said. "Where the college is, I mean. They run events for the students' families, now and then. And I try to be there at the start and finish of every semester. One summer I even rented a little U-Haul and helped him move his stuff home."

"So?"

"It's a small school," she said. "But even so, on the first day of the semester it gets very busy. Lots of parents, lots of students, SUVs, cars, vans, traffic everywhere. The family days are even worse. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I've never seen a town policeman there. Not once. Certainly not a detective in plain clothes."

I looked out the window to the internal mall sidewalk.

"Just a coincidence, I suppose," she said. "A random Tuesday morning in April, early in the day, nothing much going on, and there's a detective waiting right by the gate, for no very obvious reason."

"What's your point?" I asked.

"That you were terribly unlucky," she said. "I mean, what were the odds?"

"I don't work for the government," I said.

"You took a shower," she said. "Washed your hair."

"Did I?"

"I can see it and smell it. Cheap soap, cheap shampoo."

"I went to a sauna."

"You didn't have any money. I gave you twenty dollars. You bought at least two cups of coffee. That would leave maybe fourteen dollars."

"It was a cheap sauna."

"It must have been," she said.

"I'm just a guy," I said.

"And I'm disappointed about it."

"You sound like you want your husband to get busted."

"I do."

"He'd go to prison."

"He already lives in a prison. And he deserves to. But he'd be freer in a real prison than where he is now. And he wouldn't be there forever."

"You could call somebody," I said. "You don't need to wait for them to come to you."

She shook her head. "That would be suicide. For me and Richard."

"Just like it would be if you talked about me like this in front of anybody else. Remember, I wouldn't go quietly. People would get hurt. You and Richard, maybe."

She smiled. "Bargaining with me again?"

"Warning you again," I said. "Full disclosure."

She nodded.

"I know how to keep my mouth shut," she said, and then she proved it by not saying another word. We finished our coffee in silence and walked back to the car. We didn't talk. I drove her home, north and east, completely unsure whether I was carrying a ticking time bomb with me or turning my back on the only inside help I would ever get.

Paulie was waiting behind the gate. He must have been watching from his window and then taken up position as soon as he saw the car in the distance. I slowed and stopped and he stared out at me. Then he stared at Elizabeth Beck.

"Give me the pager," I said.

"I can't," she said.

"Just do it," I said.

Paulie unlatched the chain and pushed the gate. Elizabeth unzipped her bag and handed me the pager. I let the car roll forward and buzzed my window down. Stopped level with where Paulie was waiting to shut the gate again.

"Check this out," I called.

I tossed the pager overarm out in front of the car. It was a left-handed throw. It was weak and lacked finesse. But it got the job done. The little black plastic rectangle looped up in the air and landed dead-center on the driveway maybe twenty feet in front of the car. Paulie watched its trajectory and then froze when he realized what it was.

"Hey," he said.

He went after it. I went after him. I stamped on the gas and the tires howled and the car jumped forward. I aimed the right-hand corner of the front bumper at the side of his left knee. I got very close. But he was incredibly quick. He scooped the pager off the blacktop and skipped back and I missed him by a foot. The car shot straight past him. I didn't slow down. Just accelerated away and watched him in the mirror, standing in my wake, staring after me, blue tire smoke drifting all around him. I was severely disappointed. If I had to fight a guy who outweighed me by two hundred pounds I'd have been much happier if he was crippled first. Or at least if he wasn't so damn fast.

I stopped on the carriage circle and let Elizabeth Beck out at the front door. Then I put the car away and was heading for the kitchen when Zachary Beck and John Chapman Duke came out looking for me. They were agitated and walking quickly. They were tense and upset. I thought they were going to give me a hard time about Paulie. But they weren't.

"Angel Doll is missing," Beck said.

I stood still. The wind was blowing in off the ocean. The lazy swell was gone and the waves were as big and noisy as they had been on the first evening. There was spray in the air.

"He spoke with you last thing," Beck said. "Then he locked up and left and he hasn't been seen since."

"What did he want with you?" Duke asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"You don't know? You were in there five minutes."

I nodded. "He took me back to the warehouse office."

"And?"

"And nothing. He was all set to say something but his cell phone rang."

"Who was it?"

I shrugged. "How would I know? Some kind of an urgent thing. He talked on the phone the whole five minutes. He was wasting my time and yours so I just gave it up and walked back out."

"What was he saying on the phone?"

"I didn't listen," I said. "Didn't seem polite."

"Hear any names?" Beck asked.

I turned to him. Shook my head.

"No names," I said. "But they knew each other. That was clear. Doll did a lot of listening, I guess. I think he was taking instructions about something."

"About what?"

"No idea," I said.

"Something urgent?"

"I guess so. He seemed to forget all about me. Certainly he didn't try to stop me when I walked away."

"That's all you know?"

"I assumed it was some kind of a plan," I said. "Instructions for the following day, maybe."

"Today?"

I shrugged again. "I'm just guessing. It was a very one-sided conversation."

"Terrific," Duke said. "You're a real big help, you know that?"

Beck looked out at the ocean. "So he took an urgent call on his cell and then he locked up and left. That's all you can tell us?"

"I didn't see him lock up," I said. "And I didn't see him leave. He was still on the phone when I came out."

"Obviously he locked up," Beck said. "And obviously he left. Everything was perfectly normal this morning."

I said nothing. Beck turned through ninety degrees and faced east. The wind came off the sea and flattened his clothes against him. His trouser legs flapped like flags. He moved his feet, scuffing the soles of his shoes against the grit, like he was trying to get warm.

"We don't need this now," he said. "We really don't need this. We've got a big weekend coming up."

I said nothing. They turned around together and headed back to the house and left me there, alone.

I was tired, but I wasn't going to get any rest. That was clear. There was bustle in the air and the routine I had seen on the previous two nights was all shot to hell. There was no food in the kitchen. No dinner. The cook wasn't there. I heard people moving in the hallway. Duke came into the kitchen and walked straight past me and went out the back door. He was carrying a blue Nike sports bag. I followed him out and stood and watched from the corner of the house and saw him go into the second garage. Five minutes later he backed the black Lincoln out and drove off in it. He had changed the plates. When I had seen it in the middle of the night it had six-digit Maine plates on it. Now it was showing a seven-digit New York number. I went back inside and looked for coffee. I found the machine, but I couldn't find any filter papers. I settled for a glass of water instead. I was halfway through drinking it when Beck came in. He was carrying a sports bag, too. The way it hung from its handles and the noise it made when it bumped against his leg told me it was full of heavy metal. Guns, probably, maybe two of them.

"Get the Cadillac," he said. "Right now. Pick me up at the front."

He took the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the table in front of me. Then he crouched down and unzipped his bag and came out with two New York license plates and a screwdriver. Handed them to me.

"Put these on it first," he said.

I saw guns in the bag. Two Heckler amp; Koch MP5Ks, short and fat and black with big bulbous molded handles. Futuristic, like movie props.

"Where are we going?" I said.

"We're following Duke down to Hartford, Connecticut," he said. "We've got some business there, remember?"

He zipped the bag and stood up and carried it back out into the hallway. I sat still for a second. Then I raised my glass of water and toasted the blank wall in front of me.

"Here's to bloody wars and dread diseases," I said to myself.