Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

living room. She was a foot shorter than me and her feet were off the ground.
    We tore each other’s clothes off like they were on fire. She was gorgeous. Firm and strong and a shape like a dream. Skin like silk. She pulled me to the floor through bars of hot sunlight from the window. It was frantic. We were rolling and nothing could have stopped us. It was like the end of the world. We shuddered to a stop and lay gasping. We were bathed in sweat. Totally spent.
    We lay there clasped and caressing. Then she got off me and pulled me up. We kissed again as we staggered through to her bedroom. She pulled back the covers on the bed and we collapsed in. Held each other and fell into a deep afterglow stupor. I was wrecked. I felt like all my bones and sinews were rubber. I lay in the unfamiliar bed and drifted away to a place far beyond relaxation. I was floating. Roscoe’s warm heft was snuggled beside me. I was breathing through her hair. Our hands were lazily caressing unfamiliar contours.
    She asked me if I wanted to go find a motel. Or to stay there with her. I laughed and told her the only way to get rid of me now would be to go fetch a shotgun from the station house and chase me away. I told her even that might not work. She giggled and pressed even closer.
    “I wouldn’t fetch a shotgun,” she whispered. “I’d fetch some handcuffs. I’d chain you to the bed and keep you here forever.”
    We dozed through the afternoon. I called the Hubble place at seven in the evening. He still wasn’t back. I left Roscoe’s number with Charlie and told her to have Hubble call me as soon as he got in. Then we drifted on through the rest of the evening. Fell fast asleep at midnight. Hubble never called.

    MONDAY MORNING I WAS VAGUELY AWARE OF ROSCOE GETTING up for work. I heard the shower and I know she kissed me tenderly and then the house was hot and quiet and still. I slept on until after nine. The phone didn’t ring. That was OK. I needed some quiet thinking time. I had decisions to make. I stretched out in Roscoe’s warm bed and started answering the question the tiny voice in my head was asking me again.
    What was I going to do about Joe? My answer came very easily. I knew it would. I knew it had been waiting there since I first stood next to Joe’s broken body in the morgue. It was a very simple answer. I was going to stand up for him. I was going to finish his business. Whatever it was. Whatever it took.
    I didn’t foresee any major difficulties. Hubble was the only link I had, but Hubble was the only link I needed. He would cooperate. He’d depended on Joe to help him out. Now he’d depend on me. He’d give me what I needed. His masters were vulnerable for a week. What had he said? A window of exposure wide open until Sunday? I’d use it to tear them apart. My mind was made up. I couldn’t do it any other way. I couldn’t leave it to Finlay. Finlay wouldn’t understand all those years of history. Finlay wouldn’t sanction the sort of punishments that were going to be necessary. Finlay couldn’t understand the simple truth I’d learned at the age of four: you don’t mess with my brother. So this was my business. It was between me and Joe. It was duty.
    I lay there in Roscoe’s warm bed and scoped it out. It was going to be a simple process. About as simple as you could get. Getting hold of Hubble wasn’t going to be difficult. I knew where he lived. I knew his phone number. I stretched and smiled and filled with restless energy. Got out of bed and found coffee. There was a note propped against the pot. The note said: Early lunch at Eno’s? Eleven o’clock? Leave Hubble to Finlay, OK? The note was signed with lots of kisses and a little drawing of a pair of handcuffs. I read it and smiled at the drawing, but I wasn’t going to leave Hubble to Finlay. No way. Hubble was my business. So I looked up the number again and called Beckman Drive. There was nobody home.
    I poured a big mug of coffee and wandered through to the living room. The sun was blinding outside. It was another hot day. I walked through the house. It was a small place. A living room, an eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms, one and a half baths. Very new, very clean. Decorated in a cool, simple way. What I would expect from Roscoe. A cool simple style. Some nice Navajo art, some bold rugs, white walls. She must have been to New Mexico and liked it.
    It was still and quiet. She had a stereo, a few records and tapes, more sweet and melodic