Without Fail (18 page)

He looked at all the usual places women hide things in kitchens and found five hundred dollars in mixed bills inside an earthenware casserole on a high shelf inside a cupboard. Emergency cash. Maybe an old Y2K precaution that she decided to stick with afterwards. He found an M9 Beretta nine-millimetre sidearm in a drawer, carefully hidden under a stack of place mats. It was old and scratched and stained with dried oil in random patches. Probably army surplus, redistributed to another government department. Last generation Secret Service issue, without a doubt. It was unloaded. The magazine was missing. He opened the next drawer to the left and put his hand on four spares laid out in a line under an oven glove. They were all loaded with standard jacketed cartridges. Good news and bad news. The layout was smart. Pick up the gun with your right hand, access the magazines with your left. Sound ergonomics. But storing magazines full of bullets was a bad idea. Leave them long enough, the spring in the magazine learns its compressed shape and won't function right. More jams are caused by tired magazine springs than any other single reason. Better to keep the gun with a single shell locked in the chamber and all the other bullets loose. You can fire once right-handed while you thumb loose shells into an empty magazine with your left. Slower than the ideal, but a lot better than pulling the trigger and hearing nothing at all except a dull click.

He closed the kitchen drawers and moved back into the living room. Nothing there, except a hollowed-out book on the shelves, and it was empty. He turned on the TV, and it worked. He had once known a guy who hid things inside a gutted TV set. The guy's quarters had been searched eight times before anybody thought to check that everything was exactly as it seemed.

There was nothing in the hallway. Nothing taped under the drawers in the little chest. Nothing in the bathrooms. Nothing of significance in the bedrooms except a shoe box under Froelich's bed. It was full of letters addressed in Joe's handwriting. He put them back without reading them. Went back downstairs and carried his garbage bag up to the guest room. Decided to wait an hour and then eat alone if she wasn't back. He would send for the hot and sour and the General Tso's again. It had been pretty good. He put his bathroom items next to the sink. Hung his Atlantic City clothes in the closet next to Joe's abandoned suits. He looked at them and stood still for a long moment and then selected one at random and pulled it off the rail.

The plastic wrap tore as he stripped it away. It was stiff and brittle. The label inside the suit coat had a single Italian word embroidered in fancy script. Not a brand he recognized. The material was some kind of fine wool. It was very dark grey and had a faint sheen to it. The lining was acetate made to look like dark red silk. Maybe it was silk. It had a watermark. There was no vent in the back. He laid it on the bed and put the pants next to it. They were very plain. No pleats, no cuffs.

He went back to the closet and took out a shirt. Lifted the plastic off it. It was pure white broadcloth. No buttons on the collar. A small label inside the neckband with two names in copperplate script, too obscure to read. Somebody & Somebody. Either an exclusive London shirtmaker, or some sweatshop faking it. The fabric was hefty. Not thick like fatigues, but there was some weight to it.

He unlaced his shoes. Took off his jacket and jeans and folded them over a chair. Followed them with his T-shirt and his underwear. Stepped into the bathroom and set the shower running. Stepped into the stall. There was soap and shampoo in there. The soap was dried rock-hard and the shampoo bottle was stuck shut with old suds. Clearly Froelich didn't have frequent house guests. He soaked the bottle under the stream of hot water and forced it open. Washed his hair and soaped his body. Leaned out and grabbed his razor and shaved carefully. Rinsed all over and got out and dripped on the floor and searched for a towel. He found one in a cupboard. It was thick and new. Too new to be any good at drying. It just slid the water around on his skin. He did his best with it and then wrapped it round his waist and combed his hair with his fingers.

He stepped back into the bedroom and picked up Joe's shirt. Hesitated a second, and then put it on. Flipped the collar up and buttoned it at the neck. Buttoned it down the front. Opened the closet door and checked the fit in the mirror. It was perfect, more or less. Could have been tailored for him. He buttoned the cuffs. Sleeve length was excellent. He twisted left and right. Caught sight of a shelf behind the rail. The space where the suit and the shirt had been let him see it. There were neckties neatly rolled and placed side by side. Tissue-paper packages from a laundry, sealed with sticky labels. He opened one and found a pile of clean white boxers.. Opened another and found black socks folded together in pairs.

He moved back to the bed and dressed in his brother's clothes. Selected a dark maroon tie with a discreet pattern. British, like it represented a regimental association or one of those expensive high schools. He put it on and cracked the shirt collar down over it. Put on a pair of boxers and a pair of socks. Stepped into the suit pants. Shrugged into the jacket. He put his new shoes on and used the discarded tissue paper to scrub the scuffs off them. Stood up straight and walked back to the mirror. The suit fitted very well. It was maybe a fraction long in the arms and legs, because he was a fraction shorter than Joe had been. And it was maybe a fraction tight, because he was a little heavier. But overall he looked very impressive in it. Like a completely different person. Older. More authoritative. More serious. More like Joe.

He bent down and picked up the cardboard box from the closet floor. It was heavy. Then he heard a sound down in the hallway. Somebody out on the step, knocking on the front door. He put the box back under the hanging rail and headed down the stairs. Opened up. It was Froelich. She was standing in the evening mist with her hand raised ready to knock again. Light from the street behind her put her face in shadow.

"I gave you my key," she said.

He stepped back and she stepped in. Looked up and froze. She fumbled behind her back and pushed the door shut and leaned hard up against it. Just stared at him. Something in her eyes. Shock, fear, panic, loss, he didn't know.

"What?" he said.

"I thought you were Joe," she said. "Just for a second."

Her eyes filled with tears and she laid her head back against the wood of the door. She blinked against the tears and looked at him again and started crying hard. He stood still for a second and then stepped forward and took her in his arms. She dropped her purse and burrowed into his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I tried on his suit." She said nothing. Just cried. "Stupid, I guess," he said. She moved her head, but he couldn't tell if she was saying yes, it was or no, it wasn't. She locked her arms around his body and just held on. He put one hand low on her back and used the other to smooth her hair. He held her like that for minutes. She fought the tears and then gulped twice and pulled away. Swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Not your fault," she said. He said nothing. "You looked so real. I bought him that tie."

"I should have thought," Reacher said.

She ducked down to her purse and came back with a tissue. Blew her nose and smoothed her hair.

"Oh, God," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll be OK."

He said nothing.

"You looked so good, is all," she said. "Just standing there." She was staring at him quite openly. Then she reached out and straightened his tie. Touched a spot on his shirt where her tears had dampened it. Ran her fingers behind the lapels of his jacket. Stepped forward on tiptoe and locked her hands behind his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

"So good," she said, and kissed him again, hard.

He held still for a second and then kissed her back. Hard. Her mouth was cool. Her tongue was swift. She tasted faintly of lipstick. Her teeth were small and smooth. He could smell perfume on her skin and in her hair. He put one hand low on her side and the other behind her head. He could feel her breasts against his chest. Her ribs, yielding slightly under his hand. Her hair, between his fingers. Her hand was cold and urgent on the back of his neck. Her fingers were raking upward into the stubble from his haircut. He could feel her nails on his skin. He slid his hand up her back. Then she stopped moving. Held still. Pulled away. She was breathing heavily. Her eyes were closed. She touched the back of her hand to her mouth. "We shouldn't do this," she said.

He looked at her. "Probably not," he said. She opened her eyes. Said nothing.

"So what should we do?" he asked.

She moved sideways and stepped into her living room. "I don't know," she said. "Eat dinner, I guess. Did you wait?"

He followed her into the room. "Yes," he said. "I waited."

"You're very like him," she said. "I know," he said.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

He nodded. "What you saw in him you see in me, a little bit."

"But are you like him?"

He knew exactly what she was asking. Did you see things the same? Did you share tastes? Were you attracted to the same women?

"Like I told you," he said. "There are similarities. And there are differences."

"That's no answer."

"He's dead," Reacher said. "That's an answer."

"And if he wasn't?"

"Then a lot of things would be different."

"Suppose I'd never known him. Suppose I'd gotten your name some other way."

"Then I might not be here at all."

"Suppose you were anyway."

He looked at her. Took a deep breath, and held it, and let it out.

"Then I doubt if we'd be standing here talking about dinner," he said.

"Maybe you wouldn't be a substitute," she said. "Maybe you'd be the real thing and Joe was the substitute."

He said nothing.

"This is too weird," she said. "We can't do this."

"No," he said. "We can't."

"It was a long time ago," she said. "Six years."

"Is Armstrong OK?"

"Yes," she said. "He's OK."

Reacher said nothing.

"We broke up, remember," she said. "A year before he died. It's not like I'm his tragic widow or something."

Reacher said nothing.

"And it's not like you're really his grieving brother either," she said. "You hardly knew him."

"Mad at me about that?"

She nodded. "He was a lonely man. He needed somebody. So I'm a little mad about it."

"Not half as much as I am." She said nothing in reply. Just moved her wrist and checked her watch. It was a strange gesture, so he checked his, too. The second hand hit nine thirty exactly. Her cell phone rang inside her open purse out in the hallway. It was loud in the silence.

"My people checking in," she said. "From Armstrong's house."

She stepped back to the hallway and bent down and answered the call. Hung up without comment.

"All quiet," she said. "I told them to call every hour."

He nodded. She looked anywhere but straight at him. The moment was gone.

"Chinese again?" she asked.

"Suits me," he said. "Same order."

She called it in from the kitchen phone and disappeared upstairs to take a shower. He waited in the living room and took the food from the delivery guy when he eventually showed up with it. She came down again and they ate across from each other at the kitchen table. She brewed coffee and they drank two cups each, slowly, not talking. Her cell phone rang again at exactly ten thirty. She had it next to her at the table and answered it immediately. Just a short message.

"All quiet," she said. "So far so good."

"Stop worrying," he said. "It would take an air strike to get him in his house."

She smiled suddenly. "Remember Harry Truman?"

"My favourite president," Reacher said. "From what I know about him."

"Ours, too," she said. "From what we know about him. One time around 1950 the White House residence was being renovated and he was living in Blair House across Pennsylvania Avenue. Two men came to kill him. One was taken out by the cops on the street, but the other made it to the door. Our people had to pull Truman off the assassin. He said he was going to take his gun away and stick it up his ass."

"Truman was like that."

"You bet he was. You should hear some of the old stories."