The Hard Way

Pauling said, “We need to take a break. We can’t force these things.”

“You got beer in the refrigerator?”

“I’ve got white wine. You want some?”

“I’m being selfish. You didn’t blow it five years ago. You did everything right. We should take a minute to celebrate that.”

Pauling was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.

“We should,” she said. “Because to be honest it feels really good.”

Reacher went with her to the kitchen and she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and he opened it with a corkscrew from a drawer. She took two glasses from a cupboard and set them side by side on the counter. He filled them. They picked them up and clinked them together.

“Living well is the best revenge,” he said.

They each took a sip and moved back to the sofa. Sat close together. He asked, “Did you quit because of A

She said, “Not directly. I mean, not right away. But ultimately, yes. You know how these things are. It’s like a naval convoy where one of the battleships gets holed below the waterline. No visible damage, but it falls a little behind, and then a little more, and it drifts a little off course, and then when the next big engagement comes along it’s completely out of sight. That was me.”

He said nothing.

She said, “But maybe I was maxed out anyway. I love the city and I didn’t want to move, and head of the New York office is an Assistant Director’s job. It was always a long shot.”

She took another sip of wine and pulled her legs up under her and turned a little sideways so she could see him better. He turned a little too, until they were more or less facing each other from a foot away.

“Why did you quit?” she asked him.

He said, “Because they told me I could.”

“You were looking to get out?”

“No, I was looking to stay in. But as soon as they said that leaving was an option it kind of broke the spell. Made me realize I wasn’t personally essential to their plans. I guess they’d have been happy enough if I stayed, but clearly it wasn’t going to break their hearts if I went.”

“You need to be needed?”

“Not really. It just broke the spell, is all. I can’t really explain it.” He stopped talking and watched her, silent. She looked great in the candlelight. Liquid eyes, soft skin. Reacher liked women as much as any guy and more than most but he was always ready to find something wrong with them. The shape of an ear, the thickness of an ankle, height, size, weight. Any random thing could ruin it for him. But there was nothing wrong with Lauren Pauling. Nothing at all. That was for sure.

“Anyway, congratulations,” he said. “Sleep well tonight.”

“Maybe I will,” she said.

Then she said, “Maybe I won’t get the chance.”

He could smell her fragrance. Subtle perfume, soap, clean skin, clean cotton. Her hair fell to her collarbones. The shoulder seams on her T-shirt stood up a little and made enticing shadowy tu

He said, “Won’t get the chance why?”

She said, “Maybe we’ll be working all night.”

He said, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“You’re not a dull boy,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. Her mouth was open a little and was cool and sweet from the wine. He slid his free hand under her hair to the back of her neck. Pulled her closer and kissed her harder. She did the same thing with her free hand. They held the clinch for a whole minute, kissing, two wine glasses held approximately level in midair. Then they parted and put their glasses down on the table and Pauling asked, “What time is it?”

“Nine fifty-one.”

“How do you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

She held the pause for another beat and then leaned in and kissed him again. Used both her hands, one behind his head, the other behind his back. He did the same thing, symmetrically. Her tongue was cool and quick. Her back was narrow. Her skin was warm. He slid his hand under her shirt. Felt her hand bunching into a tiny fist and dragging his shirt out of his waistband. Felt her nails against his skin.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, her mouth hard against his. “Not to people I work with.”

“We’re not working,” he said. “We’re taking a break.”

“We’re celebrating.”

“That’s for sure.”

She said, “We’re celebrating the fact that we’re not Hobart, aren’t we? Or Kate Lane.”

“I’m celebrating the fact that you’re you.”

She raised her arms over her head and held the pose and he pulled her shirt off. She was wearing a tiny black bra. He raised his arms in turn and she knelt up on the sofa and hauled his shirt up over his head. Then his T-shirt. She spread her hands like small starfish on the broad slab of his chest. Ran them south to his waist. Undid his belt. He unclipped her bra. Lifted her up and laid her down flat on the sofa and kissed her breasts. By the time the clock in his head was showing five past ten they were in her bed, naked under the sheet, locked together, making love with a kind of patience and tenderness he had never experienced before.

“Older women,” she said. “We’re worth it.”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled and ducked his head and kissed her neck below her ear, where her skin was damp and tasted of salt water.

Afterward they showered together and finished their wine and went back to bed. Reacher was too tired to think and too relaxed to care. He just floated, warm, spent, happy. Pauling snuggled against him and they fell asleep like that.

Much later Reacher felt Pauling stir and woke up to find her hands over his eyes. She asked him in a whisper, “What time is it?”

“Eighteen minutes to seven,” he said. “In the morning.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“It’s not a very useful talent. Saves me the price of a new watch, maybe.”

“What happened to the old one?”

“I stepped on it. I put it by the bed and I stood on it when I got up.”

“And that broke it?”

“I was wearing shoes.”

“In bed?”

“Saves time getting dressed.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I don’t do it all the time. It depends on the bed.”

“What would it mean if Gregory was wrong about the time and you were right?”

He took a breath and opened his mouth to say I don’t know.

But then he stopped.

Because suddenly he saw what it would mean.

“Wait,” he said.

He lay back on the pillow and stared up at the darkened ceiling.

“Do you like chocolate?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“You got a flashlight?”

“There’s a small Maglite in my purse.”

“Put it in your pocket,” he said. “Leave the purse home. And wear pants. The skirt is no good.”

CHAPTER 49

THEY WALKED, BECAUSE it was a beautiful city morning and Reacher was too restless to ride the subway or take a cab. Barrow, to Bleecker, then south on Sixth Avenue. It was already warm. They took it slow, to time it right. They turned east on Spring Street at seven-thirty exactly. Crossed Sullivan, crossed Thompson.

“We’re going to the abandoned building?” Pauling asked.

“Eventually,” Reacher said.

He stopped outside the chocolate shop. Cupped his hands against the glass and peered in. There was a light in the kitchen. He could see the owner moving about, small, dark, tired, her back to him. Sixteen-hour days, she had said. Regular as clockwork, seven days a week, small business, we never rest.

He knocked on the glass, loud, and the owner stopped and turned and looked exasperated until she recognized him. Then she shrugged and admitted defeat and walked through the front of the store to the door. Undid the locks and opened the door a crack and said, “Hello.”