Without Fail (20 page)

"It's your call," he said. "Only you can make it."

"I had other boyfriends," she said. "You know, after."

He said nothing.

"And Joe had other girlfriends," she said. "He wasn't all that shy, really."

"But he left his stuff here."

"Does that matter?"

"I don't know," he said. "Got to mean something."

"He's dead, Reacher. Nothing can affect him now."

"I know."

She was quiet for a second.

"I'm going to make tea," she said. "You want some?"

He shook his head. "I'm going to bed."

She stepped into the living room on her way to the kitchen and he walked upstairs. Closed the guest room door quietly behind him and opened up the closet. Stripped off Joe's suit and put it back on the wire dry cleaner's hanger. Hung it on the rail. Took off the tie and rolled it and put it back on the shelf. Took off the shirt and dropped it on the closet floor. He didn't need to save it. There were four more on the rail, and he didn't expect to be around longer than four more days. He peeled off the socks and dropped them on top of the shirt. Walked into the bathroom wearing only his boxers.

He took his time in there and when he came out Froelich was standing in the guest room doorway. Wearing a nightgown. It was white cotton. Longer than a T-shirt, but not a whole lot longer. The hallway light behind her made it transparent. Her hair was tousled. Without shoes she looked smaller. Without makeup she looked younger. She had great legs. A wonderful shape. She looked soft and firm, all at the same time.

"He broke up with me," she said. "It was his choice, not mine."

"Why?"

"He met somebody he preferred."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter who. Nobody you ever heard of. Just somebody."

"Why didn't you say so?"

"Denial, I guess," she said. "Trying to protect myself, maybe.

And trying to protect his memory in front of his brother."

"He wasn't nice about it?"

"Not very."

"How did it happen?"

"He just told me one day."

"And walked out?"

"We weren't really living together. He spent time here, I spent time there, but we always kept separate places. His stuff is still here because I wouldn't let him come back to get it. I wouldn't let him in the door. I was hurt and angry with him."

"I guess you would be."

She shrugged. The hem of her nightgown rode up an inch on her thigh.

"No, it was silly of me," she said. "I mean, it's not like things like that never happen, is it? It was just a relationship that started and then finished. Hardly unique in human history. Hardly unique in my history. And half the times it was me who did the walking away."

"Why are you telling me?"

"You know why," she said. He nodded. Didn't speak.

"So you can start with a blank slate," she said, "How you react to me can be about you and me, not about you and me and Joe. He took himself out of the picture. It was his choice. So it's none of his business, even if he was still around."

He nodded again.

"But how blank is your slate?" he asked.

"He was a great guy," she said. "I loved him once. But you're not him. You're a separate person. I know that. "I'm not looking to get him back. I don't want a ghost." She took one step into the room.

"That's good," he said. "Because "I'm not like him. Hardly at all. You need to be real clear about that from the start."

"I'm clear about it," she said. "The start of what?" She took another step into the room and then stood still.

"The start of whatever," he said. "But the end will turn out the same, you know. You need to be real clear about that, too. I'll leave, just like he did. I always do."

She came closer. They were a yard apart.

"Soon?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."

"I'll take my chances," she said. "Nothing lasts for ever."

"Doesn't feel right," he said.

She glanced at his face. "What doesn't?"

"I'm standing here wearing your ex-lover's clothes."

"Not many of them," she said. "And it's a situation that can be easily remedied."

He paused.

"Is it?" he said. "Want to show me how?"

He stepped forward again and she put her hands on his waist. Slipped her fingers under the elastic waistband of his boxers and remedied the situation. Stepped back a little and raised her arms above her head. Her nightgown slipped off very easily. Fell to the floor. They barely made it to the bed.

They got three hours' sleep and woke up at seven when her alarm started ringing in her own room. It sounded faraway and faint through the guest room wall. He was on his back and she was curled under his arm. Her thigh was hooked over his. Her head was resting against his shoulder. Her hair touched his face. He felt comfortable in that position. And warm. Warm and comfortable. And tired. Warm and comfortable and tired enough to want to ignore the noise and stay put. But she struggled free and sat up in the bed, dazed and sleepy.

"Good morning," he said.

There was grey light from the window. She smiled and yawned and pulled her elbows back and stretched. The clock in the next room kept on making noise. Then it went into a new mode and got louder. He slid his hand flat against her stomach. Moved it up to her breasts. She yawned again and smiled again and twisted round and ducked her head and nuzzled into his neck.

"Good morning to you too," she said.

The alarm blared on through the wall. It clearly had a feature that made it get more and more urgent if it was ignored. He pulled her down on top of him. Smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her. The distant clock started chirping and howling like a cop car. He was glad he wasn't in the same room with it.

"Got to get up," she said.

"We will," he said. "Soon."

He held her. She stopped struggling. They made love breathlessly, like the alarm clock was spurring them on. It sounded like they were in a nuclear bunker with missile sirens ticking off the last moments of their lives. They finished, panting, and she heaved herself out of bed and ran through to her own room and shut the noise off. The silence was deafening. He lay back on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling. An oblique bar of grey light from the window showed some imperfections in the plaster. She came back, naked, walking slowly.

"Come back to bed," he said.

"Can't," she said. "Got to go to work."

"He'll be OK for a spell. And if he isn't, they can always get another one. That Twentieth Amendment thing. They'll be lining up around the block."

"And I'll be lining up for a new job. Maybe flipping burgers."

"You ever done that?"

"What, flipped burgers?"

"Been out of work."

She shook her head. "Never."

He smiled. "I haven't really worked for five years."

She smiled back. "I know. I checked the computers. But you're working today. So get your ass out of bed."

She gave him a fine view of her own ass as she walked away to her own bathroom. He lay still for a second longer with Dawn Penn's old song coming back at him. You don't love me, yes I know now. He shook it out of his head and threw back the covers and stood up and stretched. One arm up to the ceiling, then the other. He arched his back. Pointed his toes and stretched his legs. That was the whole of his fitness routine. He walked to the guest bathroom and went for the full twenty-two minute ablution sequence. Teeth, shave, hair, shower. He dressed in another of Joe's old suits. This one was pure black, same brand, same tailoring details. He paired it with another fresh shirt, same Somebody & Somebody label, same pure white cotton. Clean boxers, clean socks. A dark. blue silk tie with tiny silver parachutes all over it. There was a British manufacturer's label on it. Maybe it was from the Royal Air Force. He checked himself in the mirror and then ruined the look by putting his new Atlantic City coat over the suit. It was coarse and clumsy in comparison and the colours didn't match, but he figured to be spending some time out in the cold today, and it didn't seem that Joe had left any overcoats behind. He must have skipped out in summer.

He met Froelich at the bottom of the stairs. She was in a feminine version of his own outfit, a black trouser suit with an open-necked white blouse. But her coat was better. It was dark grey wool, very formal. She was putting her earpiece in. It had a curly wire that straightened after six inches to run down her back.

"Want to help?" she said. She pulled her elbows back in the same gesture she had used when she woke up. It pushed her jacket collar off the back of her neck. He dropped the wire down between her jacket and her blouse. The tiny plug on the end acted like a counterweight and took it all the way to her waist. She pulled her coat and her jacket aside and he found a black radio unit clipped to her belt in the small of her back. The microphone lead was already plugged in and threaded up her back and down her left sleeve. He plugged the earpiece in. She let her jacket and her coat fall back into place and he saw her gun in a holster clipped to her belt near her left hip, butt forward for easy access by her right hand. It was a big boxy SIG-Sauer P226, which he was happy about. Altogether a better proposition than the previous-issue Beretta in her kitchen drawer.

"OK," she said. Then she took a deep breath. Checked her watch. Reacher did the same thing. It was nearly a quarter to eight.

"Sixteen hours and sixteen minutes to go," she said. "Call Neagley and tell her we're on our way."

He used her mobile as they walked back to her Suburban. The morning was damp and cold, exactly the same as the night had been except now there was some grudging grey light in the sky. The Suburban's windows were all misted over with dew. But it started on the first turn of the key and the heater worked fast and the interior was warm and comfortable by the time Neagley climbed on board outside the hotel. Armstrong slipped a leather jacket over his sweater and stepped out of his back door. The wind caught his hair and he zipped the coat as he walked to his gate. Two paces before he got there he was picked up in the scope. The scope was a Hensoldt 1.5-6x42 BL originally supplied with a SIG SSG3000 sniper rifle, but it had been adapted by the Baltimore gunsmith to fit its new home, which was on top of a Vaime Mk2.

Vairne was a word registered by Oy Vaimennin Metalli Ab, which was a Finnish weapons specialist that correctly figured it needed a simplified name if it was going to sell its excellent products in the West. And the Mk2 was an excellent product. It was a silenced sniper rifle that used a low-powered version of the standard 7.62 millimetre NATO round. Low-powered, because the bullet had to fly at subsonic speeds to preserve the silence that the built-in suppressor created. And because of the low power and the suppressor's complex exhaust gas management scheme there was very little recoil. Almost none at all. Just the gentlest little kick imaginable. It was a fine rifle. With a good scope like the Hensoldt it was a guaranteed killer at any range up to two hundred yards. And the man with his eye to the scope was only a hundred and twenty-six yards from Armstrong's back gate. He knew that for an exact fact, because he had just checked the distance with a laser range finder. He was exposed to the weather, but he was adequately prepared. He knew how to do this. He was wearing a dark green down coat and a black hat made of synthetic fleece. He had gloves made from the same material, with the right-hand fingertips cut off for control. He was lying down out of the wind, which kept his eyes clear of tears. He anticipated absolutely no problems at all.

The way a man goes through a gate works like this: he stops walking momentarily. He stands still. He has to, whichever way the gate hinges. If it hinges towards him, he reaches out for the latch and flips it open and pulls the gate and kind of stands on tiptoe and arches his legs so the gate can swing past them. If it hinges away from him, he stands still while he finds the latch and pushes it open. That's faster, but there's still a moment where there's no real forward motion at all. And this particular gate opened towards the house. That fact was clearly visible through the Hensoldt. There was going to be a two-second window of perfect opportunity.

Armstrong reached the gate. Stopped walking. One hundred and twenty-six yards away the man with his eye to the scope nudged the rifle a fraction left until the target was exactly centred. Held his breath. Eased his finger back. Took up the slack in the trigger. Then he squeezed it all the way. The rifle coughed loudly and kicked gently. The bullet took a hair over four-tenths of a second to travel the hundred and twenty-six yards. It hit Armstrong with a wet thump high on the forehead. It penetrated his skull and followed a downward angle through his frontal lobe, through his central ventricles, through his cerebellum. It shattered his first vertebra and exited at the base of his neck through soft tissue near the top of his spinal cord. It flew on and struck the ground eleven feet farther back and buried itself deep in the earth.