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 pulled 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
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.”
