Running Blind

She nodded.

“No problems?”

She shook her head.

“There’s a guy here to see you,” he said. “A padre, from the Army.”

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

“Colonel somebody,” the cop said. “His ID is OK.”

“Get rid of him,” she said.

The cop was startled.

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

“I don’t care where he’s based. I don’t want to see him.”

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

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

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to see if you’re OK.”

“OK?” she repeated.

“With your recovery,” he said. “After your problems. ”

“My problems?”

“After the assault.”

“And if I’m not OK?”

“Then maybe I can help you.”

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

“The Army send you?” she asked. “Is this official?”

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’ve argued it with them many times.”

She nodded. “If they offer counseling, they’re admitting liability.”

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

Scimeca glanced away.

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

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

She was silent for a moment. Very cold.

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

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

She nodded.

“Totally sure,” she said.

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

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

“Asked and answered,” he said, like a lawyer.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice car,” he said, irrelevantly.

She said nothing.

“Right,” the cop said.

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

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

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

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

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

29

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

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

'Hi,” she said.

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

“Hi,” he said back.