Lee Child - Night School

The girl said, “For you, sir.”

Reacher said, “Who from?”

“The gentleman wouldn’t give his name.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see well. A normal American, I think. Quite ordinary.”

One of Orozco’s guys, Reacher thought. Not Orozco himself. Too distinctive. His sergeant, maybe. The guy who was driving the car, the first time out.

Deniability.

He took the package and said, “Thank you.”

The girl headed back down the stairs. Reacher unflapped the envelope and peeked inside. Sinclair stood at his elbow. He could smell her perfume. He riffed the top of the papers with his thumb. He saw every first line. They were all familiar. It was a duplicate copy of Wiley’s file. The same in every respect, except this time the photocopier had been short on toner. The print was pale.

Horace-none-Wiley, fading away.

Sinclair said, “Who sent it?”

“Orozco,” Reacher said. “No one else knows I’m here.”

“Why would he send you a second copy?”

“Did you order yours through the Joint Chiefs?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe somehow Orozco heard about it. Maybe he thought it was a big deal. A high level panic over a private first class might attract his attention. You had it sent to Hamburg. Maybe he’s giving me an early warning. Or a head start. Knowing I’m in Hamburg myself. Not knowing I’ve already seen the file.”

“The Joint Chiefs wouldn’t leak.”

“Then maybe Stuttgart did. Or Personnel Command. Orozco has friends everywhere. He’s a very popular guy. He has a sunny disposition.”

He dropped the envelope on the bed. Sinclair was still at his elbow. Very close to him. He could smell her perfume. The dress, the pearls, the shoes. The face and the hair.

The phone didn’t ring.

She said, “Waiting makes me nervous.”

He said nothing.

“I can’t relax.”

He said nothing.

“Do you get nervous?”

Yes, he thought. I’m nervous right now .

“No,” he said. “Doesn’t help anything.”

“You had your hair cut.”

“Where I got the idea about Wiley. The barber had a picture.”

“The barber did a nice job.”

“I hope so. He charged me five bucks.”

“That’s cheap.”

“You think?”

“You should try where I go in D.C.”

He said, “I think yours is more complicated.”

She said nothing.

Just looked at him.

He said, “May I?”

She didn’t answer. He raised his hand and brushed her forehead with his fingertips, and slid his fingers into her hair, and ran them through, the texture alternately thick and soft as the waves came and went. He swept it all back and left part of it hooked behind her ear, and part of it hanging free.

It looked good.

He took his hand away.

He said, “That’s how you comb it, right?”

She said, “Now do the other side.”

He used his other hand, the same way, barely touching her forehead, burying his fingers deep, pushing them through. This time he left his hand where it ended up, which was cupped on the back of her neck. Which was slender. And warm. She put her own hand flat on his chest. At first he thought it was a warning. Or a prohibition. A stop sign. Then it became an exploration. She moved it around, side to side, up and down, and then she slid it in behind his own neck, where the cut hair had itched. She pulled down and he pulled up and they kissed, at first tentatively, and then harder. Her tongue was cool and slow. Her eyes were open. He found the zipper tab on the back of her dress. A tiny metal teardrop. He eased it down, between her shoulder blades, past the small of her back, below her waist.

Her lips moved against his and she said, “Is this a good idea?”

“Feels pretty good to me,” he said. “So far.”

“Are you sure?”

“My rule of thumb is those kind of questions are best answered afterward. Experience beats conjecture every time.”

She smiled and shrugged forward and the dress slid off her shoulders and puddled at her feet. She was wearing a black lace bra and black pantyhose. And her shoes. She took the hem of his new T-shirt in her hands and pulled it up over his head, on tiptoe. It fell behind him. She unclipped his belt. He kicked off his shoes. She did the same. She peeled off her pantyhose. Under it was black lace underwear. Filmy and insubstantial. She pulled his pants down and he stepped out of them. They kissed again, and staggered to the bed like a four-legged creature. She pushed him down, on Orozco’s envelope. She climbed on top. He reached behind her and unhooked her bra. She rolled away and lay on her back and peeled her panties off. He did the same, arching one way, curling the other. She climbed back on and rode him like a cowgirl, hips forward, shoulders back, face up, eyes closed. He kept his eyes open. She was a sight to see. She had pale skin, with moles and freckles here and there, and small breasts, and a flat hard waist, and muscles in her bunched and moving thighs. She was still wearing the pearls. They swung and bounced. The hollow of her throat was filmed with sweat. Her arms were behind her, held out and away from her body, her wrists bent, her hands flat and open, her palms close to the bed, hovering, skimming a cushion of air, as if she was balancing. Which she was. She was balancing on a single point, driving all her weight down through it, rocking back and forth, easing side to side, as if chasing the perfect sensation, and finding it, and losing it, and finding it again, and holding on to it, all the way to the breathless end. Which was where he was headed, too. That was for damn sure. No stopping now. He pushed back hard, lifting his hips, floating her up, her feet off the bed, her knees clamping, thrust and counterthrust all in one place.

Afterward he stayed on his back and she snuggled alongside him. He traced patterns on her hip with his fingertip. She said, “So now answer the questions.”

He said, “Yes, I think it was a good idea, and yes, I’m sure.”

“No command and control issues?”

“I thought my control was pretty good.”

“I mean, I shouldn’t have. You’re my subordinate, technically.”

“Your underling, in fact.”

“I suppose.”

“And thankful for it.”

He traced a pattern on her hip.

With his fingertip.

She said, “Tell me about Sergeant Neagley.”

He said, “What about her?”

“Why isn’t she an officer? She has more than enough ability.”

“She doesn’t want to be an officer.”

“And she’s crazy about you, but she won’t sleep with you.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

“Is she OK?”

“She has haptephobia.”

“Which is what?”

“A fear of being touched. The army made her see a doctor.”

“What happened to her? Was she assaulted?”

“She says not. She says she was born like that.”

“Shame,” Sinclair said, and snuggled closer.

“You bet,” Reacher said.

He traced a pattern on her hip.

With his fingertip.

Then he said, “Wait a damn minute.”

He scrabbled under her for Orozco’s envelope. This time he pulled the copied file all the way out. Taped to the front was a smaller envelope. Griezman’s envelope. With the fingerprint in it. From the lever in the dead hooker’s car.

Sinclair said, “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

Reacher looked at the envelope and scanned through the file. No notes, no handwriting. Nothing from Orozco. Just the tape. Firmly affixed. A message.

Definitive, but deniable.

“Sometimes we have to believe in coincidence,” Reacher said. “Especially a small one. The populations are not large. Guys willing to betray their country for money, guys willing to use a prostitute, guys willing to kill a prostitute. Like a Venn diagram. Not many people where the circles meet. I guess he was celebrating. The deal was halfway done. He had financial prospects. But something got out of hand. Which has a huge silver lining. In a way. For us, right now. Tonight, and tomorrow. It’s a regular homicide now. Griezman can come out in the open. He can use federal resources. He can give that drawing to every cop in town.”