“No,” Reacher said. “He’s solid, but she would have lied to us.”

“She would? Why?”

“Because they’re all lying to us, Harper. We’ve spoken to seven women, and they all lied to us. Vague stories about roommates and mistakes? All bullshit. If we’d gotten to Alison before, she’d have given us the same kind of a story.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Rita Scimeca was lying to us. That’s for damn sure. I just figured that out. She didn’t have any roommate. Never. It just doesn’t fit.”

“Why not?”

“Everything’s wrong about it. You saw her place. You saw how she lives. All buttoned up and prissy? Everything was so neat and clean and polished. Obsessive. Living like that, she couldn’t stand anybody else in her house. She even threw us out pretty damn quick, and I was her friend. And she didn’t need a roommate for money. You saw her car, some big new sedan. And that piano. You know how much a grand piano costs? More than the car, probably. And did you see the tools on her pegboard? The pegs were all held in with little plastic loops.”

“You’re basing this on loops in her pegboard?”

“On everything. It’s all indicative.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying she was expecting the delivery, just like Alison was. Just like they all were. The cartons came, they all said oh good, just like Alison did, they all made space, they all stored their cartons.”

“It’s not possible. Why would they?”

“Because the guy has got some kind of a hold over them,” Reacher said. “He’s forcing them to participate. He forced Alison to give him their own list of names, he forced Lorraine Stanley to steal the paint, he forced her to hide it in Utah, he forced her to send it out at the right time, he forced each one of them to accept the delivery and then store it until he was ready. He forced each one of them to destroy the delivery notes immediately and he had each of them ready to lie about it afterward if anything unraveled before he got to them.”

Harper stared at him. “But how? How the hell? How would he do all that?”

“I don’t know,” Reacher said.

“Blackmail?” she said. “Threats? Fear? Is he saying, play along and the others die but you live? Like he’s conning them all separately?”

“I just don’t know. Nothing fits. They weren’t an especially fearful bunch, were they? Certainly Alison didn’t look it. And I know Rita Scimeca isn’t afraid of much.”

She was still staring at him.

“But it’s not just participation, is it?” she said. “It’s more than that. He’s forcing them to be happy about it too. Alison said oh good when her carton came.”

Silence in the room.

“Was she relieved or something?” she said. “Did he promise her, you get your carton by UPS instead of FedEx or in the afternoon instead of the morning or on some particular day of the week it means you’re definitely going to be OK?”

“I don’t know,” he said again.

Silence.

“So what do you want me to do?” Harper asked.

He shrugged. “Just keep on thinking, I guess. You’re the only one can do anything about it now. The others won’t get anywhere, not if they keep on heading the direction they’ve been going.”

“You’ve got to tell Blake.”

He shook his head. “Blake won’t listen to me. I’ve exhausted my credibility with him. It’s up to you now.”

“Maybe you’ve exhausted your credibility with me, too.”

She sat down on the bed next to him, like she was suddenly unsteady on her feet. He was looking at her, something in his eyes.

“What?” she said.

“Is the camera on?”

She shook her head. “They gave up on that. Why?” “Because I want to kiss you again.”

“Why?”

“I liked it, before.”

“Why should I want to kiss you again?”

“Because you liked it before too.”

She blushed. “Just a kiss?”

He nodded.

“Well, OK, I guess,” she said.

She turned to him and he took her in his arms and kissed her. She moved her head like she had before. Pressed harder and put her tongue against his lips and his teeth. Into his mouth. He moved his hand down to her waist. She laced her fingers into his hair. Kissed harder. Her tongue was urgent. Then she put her hand on his chest and pushed herself away. Breathed hard.

“We should stop now,” she said.

“I guess,” he said.

She stood up, unsteady. Bent forward and back and tossed her hair behind her shoulders.

“I’m out of here,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She opened the door. Stepped outside. He heard her wait in the corridor until the door swung shut again. Then he heard her walk away to the elevator. He lay back on the bed. Didn’t sleep. Just thought about obedience and acquiescence, and means and motives and opportunities. And truth and lies. He spent five solid hours thinking about all of those things.

SHE CAME BACK at eight in the morning. She was showered and glowing and wearing a different suit and tie. She looked full of energy. He was tired, and crumpled and sweaty and hot and cold all at the same time. But he was standing just inside the door with his coat buttoned, waiting for her, his heart hammering with urgency.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Right now.”

Blake was in his office, at his desk, same as he had been before. Maybe he’d been there all night. The UPS fax was still at his elbow. The television was still playing silently. Same channel. Some Washington reporter was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue, the White House behind his shoulder. The weather looked good. Bright blue sky, clear cold air. It would be an OK day for travel.

“Today you work the files again,” Blake said.

“No, I need to get to Portland,” Reacher said. “Will you lend me the plane?”

“The plane?” Blake repeated. “What are you, crazy? Not in a million years.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

He moved to the door. Took a last look at the office and stepped into the corridor. Stood still and quiet in the center of the narrow space. Harper crowded past him.

“Why Portland?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Truth, and lies.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come with me and find out.”

27

"WHAT THE HELL’S going on?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“I can’t say it out loud,” he said. “You’d think I was completely crazy. You’d just walk away from me.”

“What’s crazy? Tell me.”

“No, I can’t. Right now, it’s just a house of cards. You’d blow it down. Anybody would blow it down. So you need to see it for yourself. Hell, I need to see it for myself. But I want you there, for the arrest.”

“What arrest? Just tell me.”

He shook his head again. “Where’s your car?”

“In the lot.”

“So let’s go.”

REVEILLE HAD BEEN 0600 the whole of Rita Scimeca’s service career, and she stuck to the habit in her new civilian life. She slept six hours out of twenty-four, midnight until six in the morning, a quarter of her life. Then she got up to face the other three quarters.

An endless procession of empty days. Late fall, there was nothing to be done in the yard. The winter temperatures were too savage for any young vegetation to make it through. So planting was restricted to the spring, and pruning and cleanup was finished by the end of the summer. Late fall and winter, the doors stayed locked and she stayed inside.

Today, she was scheduled to work on Bach. She was trying to perfect the three-part inventions. She loved them. She loved the way they moved forward, on and on, inescapably logical, until they ended up back where they started. Like Maurits Escher’s drawings of stair-cases, which went up and up and up all the way back to the bottom. Wonderful. But they were very difficult pieces to play. She played them very slowly. Her idea was to get the notes right, then the articulation, then the meaning, and then last of all to get the speed right. Nothing worse than playing Bach fast and badly.