Tripwire

“Let’s split it,” she said.

She balanced the box on her arm and carried it back to the table. Pulled the slices off each other while the box canted and wobbled. Shared them between the plates. He sat and sipped the water and watched her. She was slender and energetic and could make any mundane activity look like a graceful ballet. She turned away and dumped the greasy box and turned back. The dress twisted and flowed with her. She sat down. He heard the whisper of linen on skin and her foot hit his knee under the table.

“Sorry,” she said.

She wiped her fingers on the napkin and tossed her hair behind her shoulders and held her head at an angle for the first bite. She ate left-handed, rolling the wedge into a point, attacking it hungrily.

“No lunch,” she said. “You told me not to leave the building.”

She darted her tongue out and caught a thread of cheese. Smiled self-consciously as she hooked it back between her lips. They shone with the oil. She took a long drink of water. “Anchovies, my favorite. How did you know? But they make you thirsty later, don’t they? So salty.”

Her dress was sleeveless and he could see her arms, all the way down from the little knob of bone at the top of the shoulder. They were slim and brown and narrow. Almost no muscle there at all, just tiny biceps like tendons. She was gorgeous and she took his breath away, but she was a puzzle, physically. She was tall, but she was so tiny he didn’t see how there was room for all the essential organs inside her. She was as thin as a stick, but looked vibrant and firm and strong. A puzzle. He remembered the feel of her arm around his waist, fifteen years before. Like somebody was tightening a thick rope around his middle.

“I can’t stay here tonight,” he said.

She looked across at him. “Why not? You got something to do, I’ll come do it, too. Like I said, I’m with you on this.”

“No, I just can’t stay,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked again.

He took a deep breath and held it. Her hair was shimmering in the light.

“It’s not appropriate that 1 should stay here,” he said.

“But why not?”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “Just because, Jodie. Because you’re thinking of me like a brother or an uncle or something, because of Leon, but I’m not that, am I?”

She was staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Her eyes were wide. “What?”

“This is not right,” he said gently. “You’re not my sister or my niece. That’s just an illusion because I was close to your dad. To me, you’re a beautiful woman, and I can’t be here alone with you.”

“Why not?” she asked again, breathless.

“Christ, Jodie, why not? Because it’s not appropriate, that’s why not. You don’t need to hear all the details. You’re not my sister or my niece, and I can’t keep on pretending you are. It’s driving me crazy, pretending.”

She was very still. Staring at him. Still breathless.

“How long have you felt this way?” she asked.

He shrugged, embarrassed again. “Always, I guess. Since I first met you. Give me a break, Jodie, you weren’t a kid. I was nearer your age than Leon’s.”

She was silent. He held his breath, waiting for the tears. The outrage. The trauma. She was just staring at him. He was already regretting having spoken. He should have just kept his damn mouth shut. Bitten his damn lip and gotten through it. He had been through worse, although he couldn’t exactly remember where or when.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Her face was blank. Wide blue eyes, staring at him. Her elbows were on the table. The dress fabric was bunching at the front and cupping forward. He could see the strap of her bra, thin and white against the skin of her shoulder. He stared at her anguished face and closed his eyes and sighed in despair. Honesty was the best policy? Forget about it.

Then she did a curious thing. She stood up slowly, and turned and hauled her chair out of the way. Stepped forward and gripped the table edge, both hands, slim muscles standing out like cords. She dragged the table off to one side. Then she changed position and turned and butted it with her thighs until it was hard back against the counter. Reacher was left sitting on his chair, suddenly isolated in the middle of the room. She stepped back and stood in front of him. His breath froze in his chest.

“You’re thinking about me like just a woman?” she asked, slowly.

He nodded.

“Not like a kid sister? Not like your niece?”

He shook his head. She paused.

“Sexually?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, still embarrassed, resigned. “Of course sexually. What do you think? Look at yourself. I could hardly sleep last night.”

She just stood there.

“I had to tell you,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Jodie.”

She closed her eyes. Screwed them tight shut. Then he saw a smile. It spread across her whole face. Her hands clenched at her side. She exploded forward and hurled herself at him. She landed on his lap and her arms clamped tight behind his head and she kissed him like she would die if she stopped.

IT WAS SHERYL’S car, but he made Marilyn drive it. He sat in back, behind Marilyn, with Sheryl next to him with her arms crushed behind her. The tape was still on her mouth, and she was breathing hard. He kept the hook resting on her lap, with the point dug in against the skin of her thigh. His left hand held the gun. He touched it to the back of Marilyn’s neck often enough that she never forgot it was there.

Tony met them in the underground garage. Office hours were over and the place was quiet. Tony handled Sheryl and Hobie took Marilyn and the four of them rode up in the freight elevator. Hobie unlocked the door from the corridor and stepped into the reception area. The kitchen light was on. Stone was sprawled on the floor, in his underwear. Marilyn gasped and ran to him. Hobie watched the sway of her body under the thin dress and smiled. Turned back and locked the door. Pocketed the keys and the gun. Marilyn had stopped short and was staring into the kitchen, hands up at her mouth again, eyes wide, horror in her face. Hobie followed her gaze. The hand was lying on the counter, palm up, fingers curled like a beggar’s. Then Marilyn was looking downward in terror.

“Don’t worry,” Hobie said. “It’s not one of his. But it’s a thought, isn’t it? I could cut his hand off if he doesn’t do what I want.”

Marilyn stared at him.

“Or I could cut yours off,” he said to her. “I could make him watch. Maybe I could make him do it for me.”

“You’re insane,” Marilyn said.

“He would, you know,” Hobie said. “He’d do anything. He’s pathetic. Look at him, in his underwear. You think he looks good in his underwear?”

She said nothing.

“What about you?” Hobie asked. “Do you look good in your underwear? You want to take that dress off and show me?”

She stared at him in panic.

“No?” he said. “OK, maybe later. But what about your real-estate agent? You think she’d look good in her underwear?”

He turned to Sheryl. She was backing away against the door, leaning hard on her taped arms. She stiffened.

“What about it?” he said to her. “You look good in your underwear?”

She stared and shook her head wildly. Her breathing whistled through the hole in the tape. Hobie stepped nearer and pi

“Let’s check it out.”

He wrenched with the hook and Sheryl staggered off-balance and the fabric tore open. Buttons scattered and she fell to her knees. He raised his foot and used the flat of his sole to push her all the way over. He nodded to Tony. Tony ducked down and pulled the torn skirt down off her thrashing legs.

“Panty hose,” Hobie said. “God, I hate panty hose. So unromantic.”

He stooped and used the tip of the hook to tear the nylon to shreds. Her shoes came off. Tony balled the skirt and the shoes and the torn nylon and carried it to the kitchen. Dropped it into the trash. Sheryl scrabbled her bare legs under her and sat there gasping through the tape. She was wearing tiny white panties and was trying to make the tails of her blouse fall down over them. Marilyn was watching her, openmouthed in horror.