FIFTY-ONE


They spent the night at Abby’s place. In the living room, with its muted colours, and its worn and comfortable furniture, and its cosy textures. In the kitchen, with its coffee machine, and its white china mugs, and its tiny table in the window. But mostly in the bedroom. First they took long hot showers, obviously and overtly symbolic, but also warming and comforting and necessary and practical. They got out smelling clean and fresh and fragrant. Innocent. Like flowers. So far Reacher hadn’t said either way, not for sure, but Abby seemed to take it as their last night together. She seemed to have no regrets. I guess not for ever. She was bold. She was funny. She was lithe, and experimental, and artful. Between times she snuggled, but she sought no security. Instead from time to time she stretched out like a cat. She smiled, wide and unabashed. A great feeling. You’re alive, and they ain’t.

In the morning they were woken early by a phone call from the Shevicks. Abby put it on speaker. First Maria came on and said the scan showed total success. The improvement was remarkable. Their little girl was getting better. The doctors were dancing a jig. Then Aaron came on and said he was shocked by the wire. Nearly had a heart attack. Reacher told him what he had told him before. Give the rest away. To people in the same condition. Some to the lawyers. After buying back the house from the bank. Maybe Meg could move in, while she recovered. Maybe they could get a new TV. Maybe a new car also. Or an old car. Something interesting. Something fun. Maybe a Jaguar. A satisfying machine. Reacher said he had it on good authority.

Then he left. He tracked around the downtown blocks, and he crossed Center Street, and he kept a polite distance from the high-rent districts. Half a mile later he arrived at the bus depot. He went in the door. He checked the board and bought a ticket. He still had five grand in his pocket. From the pawn shop. He was glad of it. He liked the heft, and the deadness. It would pay his way. Two or three weeks, at least. Maybe more, if he was careful.

Ten days later he was drifting north with the summer. By chance on a bus he found a copy of the Washington Post. There was a long feature story inside. It said organized crime had been cleaned out of a certain notorious city. A longstanding problem, finally solved. Two rival gangs, both gone. No more extortion. Drugs gone, vice gone. No more random violence. No more reign of terror. The new police commissioner was taking all the credit. He called himself a new broom, with new ideas, and new energy. There was talk he might run for office one day. Mayor possibly, or maybe even governor. No reason why not. So far his record was sparkling.

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