Running Blind

“Is Lisa Harper still in the building?”

“Agent Harper?” the voice said. “Hold, please.”

The line went quiet. No music. No recorded advertisements. No your call is very important to us. Just nothing. Then the voice came back.

“Agent Harper is still here,” it said.

“Tell her I want to see her,” Reacher said. “Right away.”

“I’ll pass that message on,” the voice said.

Then the line went dead. Reacher swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, facing the door, waiting.

THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning in Virginia was midnight on the Pacific coast, and midnight was Rita Scimeca’s habitual bedtime. She followed the same routine every night, partly because she was naturally an organized person, and partly because that aspect of her nature had been rigorously reinforced by her military training, and anyway when you’ve always lived alone and always will, how many ways are there of getting yourself to bed?

She started in the garage. Turned off the power to the door opener, slid the bolts into place, checked the car was locked, turned off the light. Locked and bolted the door through to the basement, checked the furnace. Walked upstairs, turned off the basement light, locked the door out to the hallway. Checked the front door was locked, did the bolts, put the chain on.

Then she checked the windows. There were fourteen windows in the house, and all of them had locks. Late fall and cold, they were all closed and locked anyway, but still she checked each one of them. It was her routine. Then she returned to the front parlor with a rag for the piano. She had played four hours, mostly Bach, mostly half speed, but she was getting there. Now she had to wipe down the keyboard. It was important to remove the acid from the skin of her fingers. She knew the keys were actually some kind of sophisticated plastic and were probably impervious, but it was a devotional thing. If she treated the piano right, it would reward her.

She wiped the keyboard vigorously, rumbling down at the bass end, tinkling all the way up to the top of the eighty-eight keys. She closed the lid and turned out the light and returned the rag to the kitchen. Turned out the kitchen light and felt her way in the dark up to her bedroom. Used the bathroom, washed her hands, her teeth, her face, all in her usual strict order. She stood at an angle to the sink, so she didn’t have to look at the tub. She hadn’t looked at the tub since Reacher had told her about the paint.

Then she stepped through to her bedroom and slid under the covers. Pulled her knees up and hugged them. She was thinking about Reacher. She liked him. She really did. It had been good to see him. But then she rolled the other way and put him out of her mind, because she didn’t expect ever to see him again.

HE WAITED TWENTY minutes before the door opened and Harper came back. She didn’t knock, just used her key and walked right in. She was in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows. Her forearms were slim and tanned. Her hair was loose. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Maybe it was still in the motel room in Trenton.

“You wanted me?” she asked.

“You still on the case?” he asked.

She stepped into the room and glanced at herself in the mirror. Stood next to the dresser and turned to face him.

“Sure,” she said. “Advantage of being a plain-vanilla agent, you don’t get the blame for other people’s crazy ideas.”

He was silent. She looked at him.

“What did you want?” she said.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he said. “What would have happened if we’d already known about the paint delivery and we’d asked Alison Lamarr about it instead of the UPS guy? What would she have said?”

“The same as he said, presumably. Poulton told us the guy is solid.”

“No,” Reacher said. “He’s solid, but she would have lied to us.”

“She would? Why?”

“Because they’re all lying to us, Harper. We’ve spoken to seven women, and they all lied to us. Vague stories about roommates and mistakes? All bullshit. If we’d gotten to Alison before, she’d have given us the same kind of a story.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Rita Scimeca was lying to us. That’s for damn sure. I just figured that out. She didn’t have any roommate. Never. It just doesn’t fit.”

“Why not?”

“Everything’s wrong about it. You saw her place. You saw how she lives. All buttoned up and prissy? Everything was so neat and clean and polished. Obsessive. Living like that, she couldn’t stand anybody else in her house. She even threw us out pretty damn quick, and I was her friend. And she didn’t need a roommate for money. You saw her car, some big new sedan. And that piano. You know how much a grand piano costs? More than the car, probably. And did you see the tools on her pegboard? The pegs were all held in with little plastic loops.”

“You’re basing this on loops in her pegboard?”

“On everything. It’s all indicative.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying she was expecting the delivery, just like Alison was. Just like they all were. The cartons came, they all said oh good, just like Alison did, they all made space, they all stored their cartons.”

“It’s not possible. Why would they?”

“Because the guy has got some kind of a hold over them,” Reacher said. “He’s forcing them to participate. He forced Alison to give him their own list of names, he forced Lorraine Stanley to steal the paint, he forced her to hide it in Utah, he forced her to send it out at the right time, he forced each one of them to accept the delivery and then store it until he was ready. He forced each one of them to destroy the delivery notes immediately and he had each of them ready to lie about it afterward if anything unraveled before he got to them.”

Harper stared at him. “But how? How the hell? How would he do all that?”

“I don’t know,” Reacher said.

“Blackmail?” she said. “Threats? Fear? Is he saying, play along and the others die but you live? Like he’s conning them all separately?”

“I just don’t know. Nothing fits. They weren’t an especially fearful bunch, were they? Certainly Alison didn’t look it. And I know Rita Scimeca isn’t afraid of much.”

She was still staring at him.

“But it’s not just participation, is it?” she said. “It’s more than that. He’s forcing them to be happy about it too. Alison said oh good when her carton came.”

Silence in the room.

“Was she relieved or something?” she said. “Did he promise her, you get your carton by UPS instead of FedEx or in the afternoon instead of the morning or on some particular day of the week it means you’re definitely going to be OK?”

“I don’t know,” he said again.

Silence.

“So what do you want me to do?” Harper asked.

He shrugged. “Just keep on thinking, I guess. You’re the only one can do anything about it now. The others won’t get anywhere, not if they keep on heading the direction they’ve been going.”

“You’ve got to tell Blake.”

He shook his head. “Blake won’t listen to me. I’ve exhausted my credibility with him. It’s up to you now.”

“Maybe you’ve exhausted your credibility with me, too.”

She sat down on the bed next to him, like she was suddenly unsteady on her feet. He was looking at her, something in his eyes.

“What?” she said.

“Is the camera on?”