Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(26)

“Someone might get in.”

“Like who?” Patty said.

“A passerby.”

“Here?”

“Or one of them.”

“I would wake up. Then I would wake you up.”

“Promise?”

“Count on it.”

Shorty kicked off his shoes, and wedged one between the outer face of the door and the jamb, and he bent the other into a pliable shape, and propped it against the inner face, to push back against gentle nighttime breezes. Potato-farmer engineering, he knew, but it looked like it might work.





Chapter 12


Steven called to Robert, who called to Peter, who called to Mark. They were all in different rooms. They got together in the back parlor, and stared at the screens.

“It’s a pair of shoes,” Steven said. “In case you’re wondering.”

“Why did they do it?” Mark asked. “Did they say?”

“She wants air. It’s consistent behavior. She’s mentioned it before. I don’t think it’s a problem.”

Mark nodded. “I told her a story about a supermodel doing her make up. I think she believed it. I told her a mechanic will be riding to the rescue in the morning. I even made up some technical stuff about the heater hoses. I think she believed all of it. I think she’s calm now. Doesn’t matter about the door.”

“We need to lock it pretty soon.”

“But not tonight. Let sleeping dogs lie. They’re relaxed now. They have nothing to worry about.”

—

Reacher preferred to move on whenever possible, so he found a new place to sleep, one street away from the previous night. It was a fancy bed and breakfast, in a narrow house built of brick, with its trim newly painted in faded colors. He got a top-floor room, through a low door at the head of a steep and dog-legged stair. He took a long hot shower, and fell asleep, still warm and damp.

Until one minute past three in the morning.

Once again he snapped awake, instantly, like flicking a switch. The same thing exactly. Not touch or taste or sight or smell. Therefore sound. This time he got out of bed immediately, and he pulled his pants out from under the mattress, and dressed fast, and tied his shoes. Then he headed out through the low door and down the winding stair to the street.

The night air was cool, and the silence was hard and brittle, all brick and glass and narrow spaces and humming electricity in the wires. He stood still. A minute later he heard a brief scrape of feet on the sidewalk. Ahead and half left. Maybe thirty yards away. Not going anywhere. Just shuffling in place. Maybe two people. Nothing visible.

He waited.

Another minute later he heard a muted yelp. A woman’s voice. Maybe joy. Or ecstasy. Or maybe not. Maybe outrage or anger. It was hard to tell. But it was definitely muted. It was suppressed, in a particular way. It was the sound of clamped lips.

Nothing visible.

He moved left, and saw a gap between a bag store and a shoe store. It was pedestrian access to a narrow alley that divided two buildings. The alley had doors both sides for walk-up apartments above the stores. Two people were standing next to one of the doors. A man and a woman, in a full-on clinch. Like wrestling standing up. They were half lit by a harsh bulb above the door. The guy was young. Not much more than a kid. But he was big and solid. The woman was a little older. She had blonde hair, and she was wearing high heels and black nylons under a short black coat, which was getting rucked up by the wrestling.

Good or bad?

Hard to tell.

He didn’t want to ruin anyone’s evening.

He watched.

Then the woman squirmed her face away and said, “No,” in a sudden low and breathy tone, like spitting, as firm as talking to a dog, but also with what Reacher took to be feelings of shame and embarrassment and disgust. She pushed against the guy’s chest, and tried to get away. The guy wouldn’t let her.

Reacher said, “Hey.”

They both turned their faces toward him.

He said, “Take your hands off her, kid.”

The boy said, “This is none of your business.”

“It is now. You woke me up.”

“Get lost.”

“I heard her say no. So step back.”

The kid half turned. He was wearing a sweatshirt embroidered with the name of a famous university. He was a big solid boy. Maybe six-three, and 220 pounds. Maybe an athlete. He was rippling with youth and excitement. He had a look in his eye. He thought he was a hell of a guy.

Reacher looked at the woman and said, “Miss, are you OK?”

She asked, “Are you a cop?”

“I was once upon a time, in the army. Now I’m just a guy passing through.”

She didn’t reply. She was close to thirty, Reacher thought. She looked like a nice person. But sad.

“Are you OK?” he asked her again.

She pushed away from the boy and stood a yard apart. She didn’t speak. But she looked at Reacher like she didn’t want him to leave.

He said, “Did this happen last night too?”

She nodded.

“Same place?”

She nodded again.

“Same exact time?”

“It’s when I get home from work.”

“You live here?”

“Until I get on my feet.”