JOSEPH WENT back to her lonely vigil at the window and Reacher let himself out and left her there. He walked clockwise around her block for caution's sake and came up on the Dakota from the west. It was a quarter to ten in the evening. It was warm. There was music somewhere in the Park. Music and people, far away. It was a perfect late-summer night. Probably baseball up in the Bronx or out at Shea, a thousand bars and clubs just warming up, eight million people looking back on the day or looking forward to the next.
Reacher stepped inside the building.
The lobby staff called up to the apartment and let him go ahead to the elevator. He got out and turned the corner and found Gregory in the corridor, waiting for him.
"We thought you'd quit on us," Gregory said.
"Went for a walk," Reacher said. "Any news?"
"Too early."
Reacher followed him into the apartment. It smelled sour. Chinese food, sweat, worry. Edward Lane was in the armchair next to the phone. He was staring up at the ceiling. His face was composed. Next to him at the end of a sofa was an empty place. A dented cushion. Recently occupied by Gregory, Reacher guessed. Then came Burke, sitting still. And Addison, and Perez, and Kowalski. Carter Groom was leaning on the wall, facing the door, vigilant. Like a sentry. I'm all business, he had said.
"When will they call?" Lane asked.
Good question, Reacher thought. Will they call at all? Or will you call them? And give them the OK to pull the triggers?
But he said: "They won't call before eight in the morning. Drive time and counting time, it won't be any faster than that."
Lane glanced at his watch.
"Ten hours from now," he said.
"Yes," Reacher said.
Somebody will call somebody ten hours from now. The first of the ten hours passed in silence. The phone didn't ring. Nobody said a word. Reacher sat still and felt the chance of a happy outcome receding fast. He pictured the bedroom photograph in his mind and felt Kate and Jade moving away from him. Like a comet that had come close enough to Earth to be faintly visible but had then flung itself into a new orbit and was hurtling away into the frozen wastes of space and dwindling to a faint speck of light that would surely soon vanish forever.
"I did everything they asked," Lane said, to nobody except himself.
Nobody replied.
The lone man surprised his temporary guests by moving toward the window, not the door. Then he surprised them more by using his fingernails to pick at the duct tape seam that held the cloth over the glass. He peeled the tape away from the wall until he was able to fold back a narrow rectangle of fabric and reveal a tall slim sliver of New York City at night. The famous view. A hundred thousand lit windows glittering against the darkness like tiny diamonds on a field of black velvet. Like nowhere else in the world.
He said, "I know you love it."
Then he said, "But say goodbye to it."
Then he said, "Because you're never going to see it again." Halfway through the second hour Lane looked at Reacher and said, "There's food in the kitchen, if you want some." Then he smiled a thin humourless smile and said, "Or to be technically accurate there's food in the kitchen whether you want some or not."
Reacher didn't want food. He wasn't hungry. He had eaten a hot dog not long before. But he wanted to get the hell out of the living room. That was for sure. The atmosphere was like eight men sitting around a deathbed. He stood up.
"Thanks," he said.
He walked quietly into the kitchen. Nobody followed him. There were dirty plates and a dozen open containers of Chinese food on the countertop. Half-eaten and cold and pungent and congealed. He left them alone and sat on a stool. Glanced to his right at the open office door. He could see the photographs on the desk. Anne Lane, identical to her sister Patti. Kate Lane, gazing fondly at the child that had been cut out of the picture.
He listened hard. No sound from the living room. Nobody coming. He got off
Reacher stepped inside the building.
The lobby staff called up to the apartment and let him go ahead to the elevator. He got out and turned the corner and found Gregory in the corridor, waiting for him.
"We thought you'd quit on us," Gregory said.
"Went for a walk," Reacher said. "Any news?"
"Too early."
Reacher followed him into the apartment. It smelled sour. Chinese food, sweat, worry. Edward Lane was in the armchair next to the phone. He was staring up at the ceiling. His face was composed. Next to him at the end of a sofa was an empty place. A dented cushion. Recently occupied by Gregory, Reacher guessed. Then came Burke, sitting still. And Addison, and Perez, and Kowalski. Carter Groom was leaning on the wall, facing the door, vigilant. Like a sentry. I'm all business, he had said.
"When will they call?" Lane asked.
Good question, Reacher thought. Will they call at all? Or will you call them? And give them the OK to pull the triggers?
But he said: "They won't call before eight in the morning. Drive time and counting time, it won't be any faster than that."
Lane glanced at his watch.
"Ten hours from now," he said.
"Yes," Reacher said.
Somebody will call somebody ten hours from now. The first of the ten hours passed in silence. The phone didn't ring. Nobody said a word. Reacher sat still and felt the chance of a happy outcome receding fast. He pictured the bedroom photograph in his mind and felt Kate and Jade moving away from him. Like a comet that had come close enough to Earth to be faintly visible but had then flung itself into a new orbit and was hurtling away into the frozen wastes of space and dwindling to a faint speck of light that would surely soon vanish forever.
"I did everything they asked," Lane said, to nobody except himself.
Nobody replied.
The lone man surprised his temporary guests by moving toward the window, not the door. Then he surprised them more by using his fingernails to pick at the duct tape seam that held the cloth over the glass. He peeled the tape away from the wall until he was able to fold back a narrow rectangle of fabric and reveal a tall slim sliver of New York City at night. The famous view. A hundred thousand lit windows glittering against the darkness like tiny diamonds on a field of black velvet. Like nowhere else in the world.
He said, "I know you love it."
Then he said, "But say goodbye to it."
Then he said, "Because you're never going to see it again." Halfway through the second hour Lane looked at Reacher and said, "There's food in the kitchen, if you want some." Then he smiled a thin humourless smile and said, "Or to be technically accurate there's food in the kitchen whether you want some or not."
Reacher didn't want food. He wasn't hungry. He had eaten a hot dog not long before. But he wanted to get the hell out of the living room. That was for sure. The atmosphere was like eight men sitting around a deathbed. He stood up.
"Thanks," he said.
He walked quietly into the kitchen. Nobody followed him. There were dirty plates and a dozen open containers of Chinese food on the countertop. Half-eaten and cold and pungent and congealed. He left them alone and sat on a stool. Glanced to his right at the open office door. He could see the photographs on the desk. Anne Lane, identical to her sister Patti. Kate Lane, gazing fondly at the child that had been cut out of the picture.
He listened hard. No sound from the living room. Nobody coming. He got off
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