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the path came on in sequence, following their pace, as if their passing was switching the power. They ate alone, at a table for two in a different part of the cafeteria. They walked back to the main building through full darkness. They rode the elevator and she unlocked his door with her key.
“Thanks for your input,” she said.
He said nothing.
“And thanks for the handgun tutorial,” she said.
He nodded. “My pleasure.”
“It’s a good technique.”
“An old master sergeant taught it to me.”
She smiled. “No, not the shooting technique. The tutorial technique.”
He nodded again, remembering her back pressed close against his chest, her hips jammed against his, her hair in his face, her feel, her smell.
“Showing is always better than telling, I guess,” he said.
“Can’t beat it,” she replied.
She closed the door on him and he heard her walk away.
(ouweetv
‘ t woke early, before daybreak. Stood at the window for a spell, wrapped in a towel, staring out into the darkness. It was cold again. He shaved and showered. He was halfway through the Bureau’s bottle of shampoo. He dressed standing next to the bed. Took his coat from the closet and put it on. Ducked back into the bathroom and clipped his toothbrush into the inside pocket. Just in case today was the day.
He sat on the bed with the coat wrapped around him against the cold and waited for Harper. But when the key went into the lock and the door opened, it wasn’t Harper standing there. It was Poulton. He was keeping his face deliberately blank, and Reacher felt the first stirrings of triumph.
“Where’s Harper?” he asked.
“Off the case,” Poulton said.
“Did she talk to Blake?”
“Last night.”
“And?”
Poulton shrugged. “And nothing.”
“You’re ignoring my input?”
“You’re not here for input.”
Reacher nodded. “OK. Ready for breakfast?”
Poulton nodded back. “Sure.”
The sun was coming up in the east and sending color into the sky. There was no cloud. No damp. No wind. It was a pleasant walk through the early
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gloom. The place felt busy again. Monday morning, the start of a new week. Blake was at the usual table in the cafeteria, over by the window. Lamarr was sitting with him. She was wearing a black blouse in place of her customary cream. It was slightly faded, like it had been washed many times. There was coffee on the table, and mugs, and milk and sugar, and doughnuts. But no newspapers.
“I was sorry to hear the news from Spokane,” Reacher said.
Lamarr nodded, silently.
“I offered her time off,” Blake said. “She’s entitled to compassionate leave.”
Reacher looked at him. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”
“In the midst of life is death,” Lamarr said. “That’s something you learn pretty quickly around here.”
“You’re not going to the funeral?”
Lamarr took a teaspoon and balanced it across her forefinger. Stared down at it.
“Alison hasn’t called me,” she said. “I don’t know what the arrangements are going to be.”
“You didn’t call her?”
She shrugged. “I’d feel like I was intruding.”
“I don’t think Alison would agree with that.”
She looked straight at him. “But I just don’t know.”
There was silence. Reacher turned a mug over and poured coffee.
“We need to get to work,” Blake said.
“You didn’t like my theory?” Reacher said.
“It’s a guess, not a theory,” Blake said back. “We can all guess, as much as we want to. But we can’t turn our backs on eighty women just because we enjoy guessing.”
“Would they notice the difference?” Reacher asked.
He took a long sip of coffee and looked at the doughnuts. They were wrinkled and hard. Probably Saturday’s.
“So you’re not going to pay attention?” he asked.
Blake shrugged. “I gave it some consideration.”
“Well, give it some more. Because the next woman to die will be one of the eleven I marked, and it’ll be on your head.”
Blake said nothing and Reacher pushed his chair back.
“I want pancakes,” he said. “I don’t like the look of those doughnuts.”
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Irfcy
He stood up before they could object and stepped away toward the center of the room. Stopped at the first table with a New York Times on it. It belonged to a guy on his own. He was reading the sports. The front section was discarded to his left. Reacher picked it up. The story he was waiting for was right there, front page, below the fold.