Tripwire (15 page)

He looked at her, worried. “What do I need?”

“Clothes,” she said. “You can’t go visiting with those old folks looking like a cross between a beach bum and the wild man of Borneo, can you?”

Then she leaned sideways and touched the mark on his shirt with her fingertip.

“And we should find a pharmacy. You need something to put on that burn.”

“WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” the finance director screamed.

He was in Chester Stone’s office doorway, two floors above his own, gripping the frame with both hands, panting with exertion and fury. He hadn’t waited for the elevator. He had raced up the fire stairs. Stone was staring at him, blankly.

“You idiot,” he screamed. “I told you not to do this.”

“Do what?” Stone said back.

“Put stock in the market,” the finance guy yelled. “I told you not to do that.”

“I didn’t,” Stone said. “There’s no stock in the market.”

“There damn well is,” the guy said. “A great big slice, sitting there doing absolutely nothing at all. You got people shying away from it like it’s radioactive or something.”

“What?”

The finance guy breathed in. Stared at his employer. Saw a small, crumpled man in a ridiculous British suit sitting at a desk that alone was now worth a hundred times the corporation’s entire net assets.

“You asshole, I told you not to do this. Why not just take a page in
The Wall Street Journal
and say, ‘Hey people, my company’s worth exactly less than jack shit’?”

“What are you talking about?” Stone asked.

“I’ve got the banks on the phone,” the guy said. “They’re watching the ticker. Stone stock popped up an hour ago, and the price is unwinding faster than the damn computers can track it. It’s unsalable. You’ve sent them a message, for God’s sake. You’ve told them you’re insolvent. You’ve told them you owe them sixteen million dollars against security that isn’t worth sixteen damn cents.”

“I didn’t put stock in the market,” Stone said again.

The finance guy nodded sarcastically.

“So who the hell did? The tooth fairy?”

“Hobie,” Stone said. “Has to be. Jesus, why?”

“Hobie?” the guy repeated.

Stone nodded.

“Hobie?” the guy said again, incredulous. “Shit, you gave him stock?”

“I had to,” Stone said. “No other way.”

“Shit,” the guy said again, panting. “You see what he’s doing here?”

Stone looked blank, and then he nodded, scared. “What can we do?”

The finance director dropped his hands off the doorframe and turned his back. “Forget
we.
There’s no we here anymore. I’m resigning. I’m out of here. You can fix it yourself.”

“But you recommended the guy,” Stone yelled.

“I didn’t recommend giving him stock, you asshole,” the guy yelled back. “What are you? A moron? If I recommended you visit the aquarium to see the piranha fish, would you stick your damn finger in the tank?”

“You’ve got to help me,” Stone said.

The guy just shook his head. “You’re on your own. I’m resigning. Right now my recommendation is you go down to what was my office and get started. There’s a line of phones on what was my desk, all ringing. My recommendation is you start with whichever one is ringing the loudest.”

“Wait up,” Stone yelled. “I need your help here.”

“Against Hobie?” the guy yelled back. “Dream on, pal.”

Then he was gone. He just turned and strode out through the secretarial pen and disappeared. Stone came out from behind his desk and stood in the doorway and watched him go. The suite was silent. His secretary had left. Earlier than she should have. He walked out into the corridor. The sales department on the right was deserted. The marketing suite on the left was empty. The photocopiers were silent. He called the elevator and the mechanism sounded very loud in the hush. He rode down two floors, alone. The finance director’s suite was empty. Drawers were standing open. Personal belongings had been taken away. He wandered through to the inner office. The Italian desk light was glowing. The computer was turned off. The phones were off their hooks, lying on the rosewood desktop. He picked one of them up.

“Hello?” he said into it. “This is Chester Stone.”

He repeated it twice into the electronic silence. Then a woman came on and asked him to hold. There were clicks and buzzes. A moment of soothing music.

“Mr. Stone?” a new voice said. “This is the Insolvency Unit.”

Stone closed his eyes and gripped the phone.

“Please hold for the director,” the voice said.

There was more music. Fierce baroque violins, scraping away, relentlessly.

“Mr. Stone?” a deep voice said. “This is the director.”

“Hello,” Stone said. It was all he could think of to say.

“We’re taking steps,” the voice said. “I’m sure you understand our position.”

“OK,” Stone said. He was thinking what steps? Lawsuits? Prison?

“We should be out of the woods, start of business tomorrow,” the voice said.

“Out of the woods? How?”

“We’re selling the debt, obviously.”

“Selling it?” Stone repeated. “I don’t understand.”

“We don’t want it anymore,” the voice said. “I’m sure you can understand that. It’s moved itself way outside of the parameters that we feel happy with. So we’re selling it. That’s what people do, right? They got something they don’t want anymore, they sell it, best price they can get.”

“Who are you selling it to?” Stone asked, dazed.

“A trust company in the Caymans. They made an offer.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Us?” the voice repeated, puzzled. “It leaves us nowhere. Your obligation to us is terminated. There is no
us.
Our relationship is over. My only advice is that you never try to resurrect it. We would tend to regard that as insult added to injury.”

“So who do I owe now?”

“The trust company in the Caymans,” the voice said patiently. “I’m sure whoever’s behind it will be contacting you very soon, with their repayment proposals.”

JODIE DROVE. REACHER got out and walked around the hood and got back in on the passenger side. She slid over the center console and buzzed the seat forward. Cruised south through the sunny Croton reservoirs, down toward the city of White Plains. Reacher was twisting around, scanning behind them. No pursuers. Nothing suspicious. Just a perfect lazy June afternoon in the suburbs. He had to touch the blister through his shirt to remind himself that anything had happened at all.

She headed for a big mall. It was a serious building the size of a stadium, crowding proudly against office towers its own height, standing inside a knot of busy roads. She drifted left and right across the traffic lanes and followed a curved ramp underground to the parking garage. It was dark down there, dusty oil-stained concrete, but there was a brass-and-glass doorway in the distance, leading directly into a store and blazing with white light like a promise. Jodie found a slot fifty yards from it. She eased in and went away to do something with a machine. Came back and laid a small ticket on the dash, where it could be read through the windshield.

“OK,” she said. “Where to first?”

Reacher shrugged. This was not his area of expertise. He had bought plenty of clothes in the last two years, because he had developed a habit of buying new stuff instead of washing the old stuff. It was a defensive habit. It defended him against carrying any kind of a big valise, and it defended him against having to learn the exact techniques of laundering. He knew about laundromats and dry cleaners, but he was vaguely worried about being alone in a laundromat and finding himself unsure of the correct procedures. And giving stuff to a dry cleaner implied a commitment to be back in the same physical location at some future time, which was a commitment he was reluctant to make. The most straightforward practice was to buy new and junk the old. So he had bought clothes, but exactly where he had bought them was hard for him to pin down. Generally he just saw clothes in a store window, went in and bought them, and came out again without really being sure of the identity of the establishment he had visited.

“There was a place I went in Chicago,” he said. “I think it was a chain store, short little name. Hole? Gap? Something like that. They had the right sizes.”

Jodie laughed. Linked her arm through his.

“The Gap,” she said. “There’s one right in here.”

The brass-and-glass doorway led straight into a department store. The air was cold and stank of soap and perfume. They passed through the cosmetics into an area with tables piled high with summer clothes in pastel cottons. Then out into the main thoroughfare of the mall. It was oval like a racetrack, ringed with small stores, the whole arrangement repeated on two more levels above them. The walks were carpeted and music was playing and people were swarming everywhere.

“I think the Gap’s upstairs,” Jodie said.

Reacher smelled coffee. One of the units opposite was done out as a coffee bar, like a street place in Italy. The inside walls were painted like outside walls, and the ceiling was flat black, so it would disappear like the sky. An inside place looking like an outside place, in an inside mall that was trying to look like an outside shopping street, except it had carpets.

“You want to get coffee?” he asked.

Jodie smiled and shook her head. “First we shop, then we get coffee.”

She led him toward an escalator. He smiled. He knew how she was feeling. He had felt the same, fifteen years before. She had come with him, nervous and tentative, on a routine visit to the glass house in Manila. Familiar territory to him, just routine, really nothing at all. But new and strange to her. He had felt busy and happy, and somehow educational. It had been fun being with her, showing her around. Now she was feeling the same thing. All this mall stuff was nothing to her. She had come home to America a long time ago and learned its details. Now he was the stranger in her territory.

“What about this place?” she called to him.

It wasn’t the Gap. It was some one-off store, heavily designed with weathered shingles and timbers rescued from some old barn. The clothes were made from heavy cottons and dyed in subdued colors, and they were artfully displayed in the beds of old farm carts with iron-banded wheels.

He shrugged. “Looks OK to me.”

She took his hand. Her palm felt cool and slim against his. She led him inside and put her hair behind her ears and bent and started looking through the displays. She did it the way he’d seen other women do it. She used little flicks of her wrist to put together assemblages of different items. A pair of pants, still folded, laid over the bottom half of a shirt. A jacket laid sideways over both of them, with the shirt peeping out at the top, and the pants showing at the bottom. Half-closed eyes, pursed lips. A shake of the head. A different shirt. A nod. Real shopping.

“What do you think?” she asked.

She had put together a pair of pants, khaki, but a little darker than most chinos. A shirt in a quiet check, greens and browns. A thin jacket in dark brown which seemed to match the rest pretty well. He nodded.

“Looks OK to me,” he said again.

The prices were handwritten on small tickets attached to the garments with string. He flicked one over with his fingernail.

“Christ,” he said. “Forget about it.”

“It’s worth it,” she said. “Quality’s good.”

“I can’t afford it, Jodie.”

The shirt on its own was twice what he had ever paid for a whole outfit. To dress in that stuff was going to cost him what he had earned in a day, digging pools. Ten hours, four tons of sand and rock and earth.

“I’ll buy them for you.”

He stood there with the shirt in his hands, uncertain.

“Remember the necklace?” she asked.

He nodded. He remembered. She had developed a passion for a particular necklace in a Manila jeweler’s. It was a plain gold thing, like a rope, vaguely Egyptian. Not really expensive, but out of her league. Leon was into some self-discipline thing with her and wouldn’t spring for it. So Reacher had bought it for her. Not for her birthday or anything, just because he liked her and she liked it.

“I was so happy,” she said. “I thought I was going to burst. I’ve still got it, I still wear it. So let me pay you back, OK?”

He thought about it. Nodded.

“OK,” he said.

She could afford it. She was a lawyer. Probably made a fortune. And it was a fair trade, looking at it in proportion, cost-versus-income, fifteen years of inflation.

“OK,” he said again. “Thanks, Jodie.”

“You need socks and things, right?”

They picked out a pair of khaki socks and a pair of white boxers. She went to a till and used a gold card. He took the stuff into a changing cubicle and tore off the price tickets and put everything on. He transferred his cash from his pants pocket and left the old clothes in the trash can. The new stuff felt stiff, but it looked pretty good in the mirror, against his tan. He came back out.

“Nice,” Jodie said. “Pharmacy next.”

“Then coffee,” he said.

He bought a razor and a can of foam and a toothbrush and toothpaste. And a small tube of burn ointment. Paid for it all himself and carried it in a brown paper bag. The walk to the pharmacy had taken them near a food court. He could see a rib place that smelled good.

“Let’s have dinner,” he said. “Not just coffee. My treat.”

“OK,” she said, and linked her arm through his again.

The dinner for two cost him the price of the new shirt, which he thought was not outrageous. They had dessert and coffee, and then some of the smaller stores were closing up for the day.

“OK, home,” he said. “And we play it real cautious from here.”

They walked through the department store, through the displays in reverse, first the pastel summer cottons and then the fierce smell of the cosmetics. He stopped her inside the brass-and-glass doors and scanned ahead out in the garage, where the air was warm and damp. A million-to-one possibility, but worth taking into account. Nobody there, just people hustling back to their cars with bulging bags. They walked together to the Bravada and she slid into the driver’s seat. He got in beside her.