Running Blind (36 page)

"Except kill themselves," Harper said.

Stavely nodded. "Suicide in bathtubs is pretty much limited to drowning while drunk or drugged, or opening your veins into warm water. Obviously, this isn't suicide."

"And they weren't drowned," Blake said.

Stavely nodded again. "The first three weren't. No fluid of any kind in the lungs. We'll know about this one soon as she's opened up, but I would bet against it."

"So how the hell did he do it?" Blake said.

Stavely stared down at the body, something like compassion in his face.

"Right now, I have no idea," he said. "Give me a couple of hours, maybe three, I might find something."

"No idea at all?"

"Well, I had a theory," Stavely said. "Based on what I read about the other three. Problem is, now I think the theory is absurd."

"What theory?"

Stavely shook his head. "Later, OK? And you need to leave now. I'm going to cut her up, and I don't want you here for that. She needs privacy, time like this."

They left their gowns and overshoes in a tangle by the door and turned left and right through walkways and corridors to the pathology building's front exit. They took the long way around through the parking lots to the main building, as if brisk motion through chill fall air would rid them of the stink of paint and death. They rode the elevator four floors underground in silence. Walked through the narrow corridor and spilled into the seminar room and found Julia Lamarr sitting alone at the table, looking up at the silent television screen.

"You're supposed to be out of here," Blake said to her.

"Any conclusions?" she asked quietly. "From Stavely?"

Blake shook his head. "Later. You should have gone home."

She shrugged. "I told you. I can't go home. I need to be on top of this."

"But you're exhausted."

"You saying I'm not effective?"

Blake sighed. "Julia, give me a break. I've got to organize. You collapse with exhaustion, you're no good to me."

"Not going to happen."

"It was an order, you realize that?"

Lamarr waved a hand, like a gesture of refusal. Harper stared at her.

"It was an order," Blake said again.

"And I ignored it," Lamarr said. "So what are you going to do? We need to work. We've got three weeks to catch this guy. That's not a lot of time."

Reacher shook his head. "That's plenty of time."

Harper turned her stare on him.

"If we talk about his motive, right now," he said.

There was silence. Lamarr stiffened in her seat.

"I think his motive is clear," she said.

There was ice in her voice. Reacher turned to face her, softening his expression, trying to defer to the fact that her family had been wiped out in the space of two days.

"It isn't to me," he said.

Lamarr turned to Blake, appealing.

"We can't start arguing this all over again," she said. "Not now."

"We have to," Reacher said.

"We've done this work already," she snapped.

"Relax, people," Blake called. "Just relax. We've got three weeks, and we're not going to waste any of it arguing."

"You're going to waste all of it, if you keep on like this," Reacher said.

There was suddenly tension in the air. Lamarr stared down at the table. Blake was silent. Then he nodded.

"You've got three minutes, Reacher," he said. "Tell us what's on your mind."

"You're wrong about his motive," Reacher said. "That's what's on my mind. It's keeping you away from looking in the right places."

"We've done this work already," Lamarr said again.

"Well, we need to do it over," Reacher said, gently. "Because we won't find the guy if we're looking in the wrong places. That stands to reason, right?"

"Do we need this?" Lamarr said.

"Two minutes and thirty seconds," Blake said. "Give us what you've got, Reacher."

Reacher took a breath. "This is a very smart guy, right? Very, very smart. Smart in a very particular way. He's committed four homicides, bizarre, elaborate scenarios, and he hasn't left the slightest shred of evidence behind. He's only made one mistake, by leaving one box open. And that was a fairly trivial mistake, because it's not getting us anywhere. So we've got a guy who's successfully handled a thousand decisions, a thousand details, under urgent and stressful conditions. He's killed four women and so far we don't even know how."

"So?" Blake said. "What's your point?"

"His intelligence," Reacher said. "It's a specific type. It's practical, efficient, real-world. He's got his feet on the ground. He's a planner, and he's pragmatic. He's a problem solver. He's intensely rational. He deals with reality."

"So?" Blake said again.

"So let me ask you a question. You got a problem with black people?"

"What?"

"Just answer the question."

"No, I don't."

"Good or bad as anybody, right?"

"Sure. Good or bad."

"What about women? Good or bad as anybody, right?"

Blake nodded. "Sure."

"So what if some guy is saying to you that black people are no good, or women are no good?"

"I'd say he's wrong."

"You'd say he's wrong, and you'd know he's wrong, because deep down you know what the truth of the matter is."

Blake nodded again. "Sure. So?"

"So that's my experience, too. Racists are fundamentally wrong. Sexists, too. No room for argument about it. Fundamentally, it's a completely irrational position to hold. So think about it. Any guy who gets in a big tantrum about this harassment issue is a guy who's wrong. Any guy who blames the victims is wrong. And any guy who goes around looking for revenge against the victims is very wrong. He's got a screw loose. His brain doesn't function right. He's not rational. He's not dealing with reality. He can't be. Deep down, he's some kind of an idiot."

"So?"

"But our guy isn't an idiot. We just agreed he's very smart. Not eccentric smart, not lunatic smart, but real-world smart, rational and pragmatic and practical. He's dealing with reality. We just agreed on that."

"So?"

"So he's not motivated by anger at these women. He can't be. It's not possible. You can't be real-world smart and real-world dumb, all at the same time. You can't be rational and irrational. You can't deal with reality and simultaneously not deal with it."

There was silence again.

"We know what his motive is," Lamarr said. "What else could it be? The target group is too exact for it to be anything else."

Reacher shook his head. "Like it or not, the way you're describing his motive, you're calling him deranged. But a deranged guy couldn't commit these crimes."

Lamarr clamped her teeth. Reacher heard them click and grind. He watched her. She shook her head. Her thin hair moved with it, stiff, like it was full of lacquer.

"So what's his real motive, smart guy?" she asked, her voice low and quiet.

"I don't know," Reacher said.

"You don't know? You better be kidding. You question my expertise and you don't know?'

"It'll be something simple. It always is, right? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the simple thing is the correct thing. Maybe doesn't work like that for you guys down here, but that's how it works out there in the real world."

Nobody said a word. Then the door opened and Poulton walked into the silence, small and sandy with a faint smile hanging there under his mustache. The smile disappeared as soon as the atmosphere hit him. He sat down quietly next to Lamarr and pulled a stack of paper in front of him, defensively.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Blake nodded toward Reacher. "Smart guy here is challenging Julia's reading of the motive."

"So what's wrong about the motive?"

"Smart guy is about to tell us. You're just in time for the expert seminar."

"What about the screwdriver?" Reacher asked. "Any conclusions?"

Poulton's smile came back. "Either that screwdriver or an identical one was used to lever the lids off. The marks match perfectly. But what's all this about the motive?"

Reacher took a breath and looked around the faces opposite him. Blake, hostile. Lamarr, white and tense. Harper, curious. Poulton, blank.

"OK, smart guy, we're listening," Blake said.

"It'll be something simple," Reacher said again. "Something simple and obvious. And common. And lucrative enough to be worth protecting."

"He's protecting something?"

Reacher nodded. "That's my guess. I think maybe he's eliminating witnesses to something."

"Witnesses to what?"

"Some kind of a racket, I suppose."

"What kind of a racket?"

Reacher shrugged. "Something big, something systematic, I guess."

There was silence.

"Inside the Army?" Lamarr asked.

"Obviously," Reacher said.

Blake nodded.

"OK," he said. "A big systematic racket, inside the Army. What is it?"

"I don't know," Reacher said.

There was silence again. Then Lamarr buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders started moving. She started rocking back and forward in her chair. Reacher stared at her. She was sobbing, like her heart was breaking. He realized it a moment later than he should have, because she was doing it absolutely silently.

"Julia?" Blake called. "You OK?"

She took her hands away from her face. Gestured helplessly with her hands, yes, no, wait. Her face was white and contorted and anguished. Her eyes were closed. The room was silent. Just the rasp of her breathing.

"I'm sorry," she gasped.

"Don't be sorry," Blake said. "It's the stress."

She shook her head, wildly. "No, I made a terrible mistake. Because I think Reacher's right. He's got to be. So I was wrong, all along. I screwed up. I missed it. I should have seen it before."

"Don't worry about it now," Blake said.

She lifted her head and stared at him. "Don't worry about it? Don't you see? All the time we wasted?"

"Doesn't matter," Blake said, limply.

She stared on at him. "Of course it matters. Don't you see? My sister died because I wasted all this time. It's my fault. I killed her. Because I was wrong."

Silence again. Blake stared at her, helplessly.

"You need to take time out," he said.

She shook her head. Wiped her eyes. "No, no, I need to work. I already wasted too much time. So now I need to think. I need to play catch-up."

"You should go home. Take a couple of days."

Reacher watched her. She was collapsed in her chair like she had taken a savage beating. Her face was blotched red and white. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes were blank and vacant.

"You need rest," Blake said.

She stirred and shook her head.

"Maybe later," she said.

There was silence again. Then she hauled herself upright in her chair and fought to breathe.

"Maybe later I'll rest," she said. "But first I work. First, we all work. We've got to think. We've got to think about the Army. What's the racket?"

"I don't know," Reacher said again.

"Well think, for God's sake," she snapped. "What racket is he protecting?"

"Give us what you've got, Reacher," Blake said. "You didn't go this far without something on your mind."