One Shot (37 page)

"We're going to start over,' he said. 'Right from the
beginning. We can assume the police will have missed
something.'

Reacher pulled the fire door open and removed the
cardboard plug from the lock and put it in his pocket. He
stepped inside and let the door latch behind him.

He followed the back corridor to the elevator and rode
up to three. Knocked on Hutton's door. He had a line in
his head, from Jack Nicholson playing a hard-ass
Marine colonel in some movie about Navy lawyers:
Nothing beats a woman you have to salute in the
morning.

Hutton took her time opening the door. He guessed
she had settled down somewhere after getting rid of the
cops. She hadn't expected to be disturbed again so
soon. But eventually the door opened and she was
standing there. She was wearing a robe, fresh out of the
shower. The light behind her haloed her hair. The
corridor was dim and the room looked warm and
inviting. 'You came back,' she said.

'Did you think I wouldn't?'

He stepped into the suite and she closed the door
behind him. 'The cops were just here,' she said.

'I know,' he said. 'I watched them all the way.' 'Where
were you?'

'In a garbage dump two blocks away.'

'You want to wash up?'

'It was a very clean garbage dump. Behind a shoe
store.' 'You want to go out to dinner?'

'I'd prefer room service,' he said. 'I don't want to be
walking around more than I have to.' 'OK,' she said.

'That makes sense. Room service it is.'

'But not just yet.'

'Should I get dressed?'

'Not just yet.'

She paused a beat.

'Why not?' she said.

'Unfinished business,' he said.

She said nothing.

'It's good to see you again,' he said. 'It's been less than
three hours,' she said. 'I mean today,' he said. 'As a
whole. After all this time.' Then he stepped close and
cupped her face in his hands. Pushed his fingertips into
her hair like he used to and traced the contours of her
cheekbones with his thumbs. 'Should we do this?' she
said.

'Don't you want to?'

'It's been fourteen years,' she said. 'Like riding a
bicycle,' he said.

'Think it will be the same?'

'It'll be better.'

'How much better?' she asked.

'We were always good,' he said. 'Weren't we? How
much better could it get?'

She held still for a long moment. Then she put her
hands behind his head. She pulled and he bent down
and they kissed. Then again, harder. Then again, longer.

Fourteen years melted away. Same taste, same feel.

Same excitement. She pulled his shirt out of his pants
and unbuttoned it from the bottom upward, urgently.

When the last button was open she smoothed the flat of
her hands over his chest, his shoulders, his back, down
to his waistband, around to the front. His boat shoes
came off easily. And his socks.

He kicked his pants across the room and untied her
belt. Her robe fell open.

'Damn, Hutton,' he said. 'You haven't changed a bit.'

'You either,' she said.

Then they headed for the bed, stumbling, fast and
urgent, locked together like an awkward four-legged
animal.

Grigor Linsky took the south side of town. He checked
the salad place and then cruised down to the docks.

Turned around and quartered the narrow streets,
covering three sides of every block, pausing at the
turns to scan the sidewalks on the fourth. The Cadillac
idled along. The power steering hissed at every corner.

It was slow, patient work. But it wasn't a large city. There
was no bustle. No crowds. And nobody could hide for
ever. That had been Grigor Linsky's experience.

Afterwards Hutton lay in Reacher's arms and used her
fingertips to trace a long slow inventory of the body she
had known so well. It had changed in fourteen years. He
had said you haven't changed a bit and she had said
you either, but she knew both of them had been
generous. Nobody stays the same.

The Reacher she had known in the desert had been
younger and baked lean by the heat, as fluid and
graceful as a greyhound. Now he was heavier, with
knotted muscles as hard as old mahogany. The scars
she remembered had smoothed out and faded and were
replaced by newer marks. There were lines in his
forehead.

Lines around his eyes. But his nose was still straight
and unbroken. His front teeth were still there, like
trophies. She slid her hand down to his and felt his
knuckles. They were large and hard, like walnut shells
matted with scar tissue. Still a fighter, she thought. Still
trading his hands for his nose and his teeth. She moved
up to his chest. He had a hole there, left of centre.

Ruptured muscle, a crater big enough for the tip of her
finger. A gunshot wound. Old, but new to her. Probably
a.38. 'New York,' Reacher said.

Tears ago. Everyone asks.'

'Everyone?'

'Who sees it.'

Hutton snuggled in closer. 'How many people see it?'

He smiled. 'You know, on beaches, stuff like that.'

'And in bed?'

'Locker rooms,' he said.

'And in bed,' she said again.

'I'm not a monk,' he said.

'Did it hurt?'

'I don't remember. I was out for three weeks.'

'It's right over your heart.'

'It was a little revolver. Probably a weak load. He
should have tried a head shot. That would have been
better.' 'For him. Not for you.'

'I'm a lucky man. Always have been, always will be.'

'Maybe. But you should take better care.'

'I try my best.'

Chenko and Vladimir stayed together and took the
north side of town. They kept well away from the motor
court. The cops had that situation buttoned up,
presumably. So their first stop was the sports bar. They
went in and walked around. It was dark inside and not
very busy. Maybe thirty guys. None of them matched the
sketch. None of them was Reacher. Vladimir stayed
near the door and Chenko checked the men's room.

One stall had a closed door. Chenko waited until the
toilet flushed and the guy came out. It wasn't Reacher. It
was just a guy. So Chenko rejoined Vladimir and they
got back in the car. Started quartering the streets,
slowly, patiently, covering three sides of every block
and pausing at the turns to scan the sidewalks on the
fourth.

Hutton propped herself on an elbow and looked down
at Reacher's face. His eyes were still the same. Set a
little deeper, maybe, and a little more hooded. But they
still shone blue like ice chips under an Arctic sun. Like a
colour map of twin snow-melt lakes in a high mountain
landscape. But their expression had changed. Fourteen
years ago they had been rimmed red by the desert
sandstorms and clouded with some kind of bitter
cynicism. They had been army eyes. Cop eyes. She
remembered the way they would swing slow and lazy
across a room like deadly tracers curling in towards a
target. Now they were clearer. Younger.

More innocent. He was fourteen years older, but his
gaze was like a child's again. 'You just had your hair
cut,' she said.

'This morning,' he said. 'For you.'

'For me?'

'Yesterday I looked like a wild man. They told me you
were coming. I didn't want you to think I was some kind
of a bum.' 'Aren't you?'

'Some kind, I guess.'

'What kind?'

'The voluntary kind.'

We should eat,' she said.

'Sounds like a plan,' he said.

What do you want?'

Whatever you get. We'll share. Order big portions.'

'You can choose your own if you want'

He shook his head. 'A month from now some DoD

clerk is going to go through your expenses. Better for
you if he sees one meal rather than two.' Worried about
my reputation?'

'I'm worried about your next promotion.'

'I won't get one. I'm terminal at brigadier general.' 'Not
now this Petersen guy owes you a big one.'

'Can't deny two stars would be cool.'

'For me too,' Reacher said. 'I got screwed by plenty of
two stars. To think I screwed one myself would be fun.'

She made a face.

'Food,' Reacher said.

'I like salads,' she said.

'Someone's got to, I guess.'

'Don't you?'

'Get a chicken Caesar to start and a steak to follow.

You eat the rabbit food, I'll eat the steak. Then get some
kind of a big dessert. And a big pot of coffee.'

'I like tea.'

'Can't do it,' Reacher said. 'There are some
compromises I just can't make.

Not even for the DoD.'

'But I'm thirsty.'

'They'll send ice water. They always do.'

'I outrank you.'

'You always did. You ever see me drink tea because of
it?'

She shook her head and got out of bed. Padded naked
across to the desk.

Checked the menu and dialled the phone. Ordered
chicken Caesar, a sixteen-ounce sirloin, and a big pie
with ice cream. And a six-cup pot of coffee. Reacher
smiled at her.

'Twenty minutes,' she said. 'Let's take a shower.'

Raskin took the heart of downtown. He was on foot
with the sketch in his hand and a list in his head:
restaurants, bars, diners, sandwich shops, groceries,
hotels. He started at the Metropole Palace. The lobby,
the bar. No luck. He moved on to a Chinese restaurant
two blocks away. In and out, fast and discreet. He
figured he was pretty good for this kind of work. He
wasn't a very noticeable guy. Not memorable. Average
height, average weight, unremarkable face. Just a hole
in the air, which in some ways was a frustration, but in
others was a major advantage. People looked at him,
but they didn't really see him. Their eyes slid right on by.

Reacher wasn't in the Chinese place. Or the sub shop,
or the Irish bar. So Raskin stopped on the sidewalk and
decided to dodge north. He could check the lawyer's
office and then head towards the Marriott. Because
according to Linsky those places were where the
women were. And in Raskin's experience guys who
weren't just holes in the air got to hang out with women
more than the average.

Reacher got out of the shower and borrowed Hutton's
toothbrush and toothpaste and comb. Then he towelled
off and walked around and collected his clothes.

Put them on and tucked them in. He was dressed and
sitting on the bed when he heard the knock at the door.

'Room service,' a foreign voice called.

Hutton put her head out the bathroom door. She was
dressed but halfway through drying her hair. 'You go,'

Reacher said.

The?'

'You have to sign for it.'

'You can write my name.'

'Two hours from now the cops won't have found me
and they'll come back here.

Better that we don't have a guy downstairs who knows
you're not alone.' 'You never relax, do you?'

'The less I relax the luckier I get.'

Hutton patted her hair into shape and headed for the
door. Reacher heard the rattle of a cart and the clink of
plates and the scratch of a pen. Then he heard the door
close and he stepped through to the living room and
found a wheeled table set up in the middle of the floor.