Lee Child - Tripwire

“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 pinned her against the door and forced the tip of his hook under the waistband of her skirt.

“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.

“OK, now we’re having fun,” Hobie said. “Aren’t we?”

“You bet,” Tony said. “But not as much fun as we’re going to have.”

Hobie laughed and Stone stirred. Marilyn ducked down and helped him to a sitting position on the kitchen floor. Hobie stepped over and picked up the severed hand from the countertop.

“This came off the last guy who annoyed me,” he said.

Stone was opening and closing his eyes like he could make the scene change by wiping it away. Then he stared out at Sheryl. Marilyn realized he had never met her before. He didn’t know who she was.

“Into the bathroom,” Hobie said.

Tony pulled Sheryl to her feet and Marilyn helped Chester. Hobie walked behind them. They filed into the big office and crossed to the bathroom door.

“Inside,” Hobie said.

Stone led the way. The women followed him. Hobie watched them go and stood at the door. Nodded in at Stone. “Tony’s going to sleep the night out here, on the sofa. So don’t come out again. And spend your time fruitfully. Talk things over with your wife. We’re going to do the stock transfer tomorrow. Much better for her if we do it in an atmosphere of mutual agreement. Much better. Any other way, there could be bad consequences. You get my meaning?”

Stone just stared at him. Hobie let his glance linger on the women and then he waved the severed hand in farewell and pulled the door closed.

JODIE’S WHITE BEDROOM was flooded with light. For five minutes every evening in June, the sun dropped away to the west and found a slim straight path through Manhattan’s tall buildings and hit her window with its full force. The blind burned like it was incandescent and the walls picked it up and bounced it around until the whole place was glowing like a soft white explosion. Reacher thought it was entirely appropriate. He was lying on his back, happier than he could ever remember getting.

If he’d thought about it, he might have worried. He could remember mean little proverbs that said things like pity the man who gets what he wants. And it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive. To get something you want after fifteen years of wanting it could have felt strange. But it didn’t. It had felt like a blissful rocket trip to somewhere he had no idea existed. It had been everything he had dreamed it would be, multiplied by a million. She wasn’t a myth. She was a living breathing creature, hard and strong and sinewy and perfumed, warm and shy and giving.

She lay nestled in the crook of his arm, with her hair over his face. It was in his mouth as he breathed. His hand was resting on her back. He was rocking it back and forth over her ribs. Her backbone was in a cleft formed by long, shallow muscle. He traced his finger down the groove. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. He knew that. He had felt the scrape of her lashes on his neck, and his shoulder could feel the shape of her mouth. It could decode the feel of the muscles in her face. She was smiling. He moved his hand. Her skin was cool and soft.

“I should be crying now,” she said, quietly. “I always thought I would be. I used to think, if this ever, ever happens, I’ll cry afterward.”

He squeezed her tighter. “Why should we cry?”

“Because of all those wasted years,” she said.

“Better late than never,” he said.

She came up on her elbows. Climbed half on top of him, her breasts crushed into his chest. “That stuff you said to me, I could have said to you, exactly word for word. I wish I had, a long time ago. But I couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t, either,” he said. “It felt like a guilty secret.”

“Yes,” she said. “My guilty secret.”

She climbed up all the way and sat astride him, back straight, smiling.

“But now it’s not a secret,” she said.

“No,” he said.

She stretched her arms up high and started a yawn that ended in a contented smile. He put his hands on her tiny waist. Traced them upward to her breasts. Her smile broadened to a grin. “Again?”

He nudged her sideways with his hips and rolled her over and laid her down gently on the bed. “We’re playing catch-up, right? All those wasted years.”

She nodded. Just a tiny motion, smiling, rubbing her hair against the pillow.

MARILYN TOOK charge She felt she was the strong one. Chester and Sheryl were dazed, which she felt was understandable, because they were the two who had suffered the abuse. She could guess how vulnerable they must be feeling, half-dressed. She felt half-dressed herself, but she wasn’t going to worry about that now. She pulled the tape off Sheryl’s mouth and held her while she cried. Then she ducked behind her and worked the binding free from her wrists and unwound it up to her elbows. She balled up the sticky mass and dropped it in the trash and went back to help massage some feeling back into her shoulders. Then she found a washcloth and ran hot water into the sink and sponged the crusted blood off Sheryl’s face. Her nose was swollen and going black. She started worrying about getting her to a doctor. She started rehearsing things in her head. She had seen movies where hostages get taken. Somebody always elects herself spokesman and says no police and gets the sick released to the hospital. But how exactly do they do it?

She took the towels from the bar and gave Sheryl a bath sheet to use as a skirt. Then she divided up the remainder into three piles and laid them on the floor. She could see the tiles were going to be cold. Thermal insulation was going to be important. She slid the three piles into a row against the wall. She sat with her back against the door, and put Chester on her left and Sheryl on her right. She took their hands and squeezed them hard. Chester squeezed back.