One Shot (Page 52)

"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 forever. That had been Grigor Linsky’s experience.

Afterward 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 center. 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. "Years 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 color map of twin snowmelt 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 toward 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 that 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."