Running Blind (The Visitor)

first measure to the last. She was note-perfect, but that was nothing. Was the meaning there? Was there emotion in the sound? Thought? On the whole, she reckoned there was. She played it again, once, then twice. She smiled to herself. Saw her face reflected back from the glossy black of the keyboard lid and smiled again. She was making progress. Now all she had to do was bring the speed up. But not too much. She preferred Bach played slowly. Too much speed trivialized it. Although it was fundamentally trivial music. But that was all part of Bach’s mind game, she thought. He deliberately wrote trivial music that just begged to be played with great ceremony.
    She stood up and stretched. Closed the keyboard lid and walked out to the hallway. Lunch was the next problem. She had to force herself to eat. Maybe everybody who lived alone had the same problem. Solo mealtimes weren’t much fun.
    There were footprints on the hallway parquet. Big muddy feet. The damn cop, ruining everything. Spoiling her musical concentration, spoiling the shine of her floors. She stared at the mess, and while she was staring, the doorbell rang. The idiot was here again . What the hell was the matter with him? Where was his bladder control? She stepped around the footprints and opened the door.
    “No,” she said.
    “What?”
    “No, you can’t use the bathroom. I’m sick of it.”
    “Lady, I need to,” he said. “That was the arrangement. ”
    “Well, the arrangement has changed,” she said. “I don’t want you coming in here anymore. It’s ridiculous. You’re driving me crazy.”
    “I have to be here.”
    “It’s ridiculous,” she said again. “I don’t need your protection. Just go away, will you?”
    She closed the door, firmly. Locked it tight and walked away to the kitchen, breathing hard.
    HE DOESN’T GO in. You watch very carefully. He just stands there on the porch, at first surprised. Then a little disgruntled. You can see it right there in his body language. He says three things, leaning fractionally backward in self-defense, and then the door must be closing in his face, because he steps back suddenly. He looks wounded. He stands still and stares and then turns around and walks back down the path, twenty seconds after walking up it. So what’s that about?
    He walks around the hood of his car and opens the door. Doesn’t get all the way in. He sits sideways with his feet still out on the road. He leaned over and picks up his radio mike. Holds it in his hand for thirty seconds, looking at it, thinking. Then he puts it back. Obviously he’s not going to call it in. He’s not going to tell his sergeant, Sir, she won’t let me pee anymore. So what’s he going to do? Is this going to change anything?
    THEY GOT TO Andrews by driving most of the way on the shoulder and pushing in and out of the inside lane when necessary. The base itself was an oasis of calm. Nothing much was happening. There was a helicopter in the air, but it was far enough away to be noiseless. Trent had left Reacher’s name at the gate. That was clear, because the guard was expecting them. He raised the barrier and told them to park at the Marine transport office and inquire within.
    Harper put the yellow car in line with four dull olive Chevrolets and killed the motor. Joined Reacher on the blacktop and followed him to the office door. A corporal stared at her and passed them to a sergeant who stared at her and passed them to a captain. The captain stared at her and told them a new transport Boeing’s flight test was being rerouted to Portland instead of San Diego. He said they could hitch a ride on it. He said they would be the only passengers. Then he said takeoff was scheduled in three hours.
    “Three hours?” Reacher repeated.
    “Portland’s a civilian airport,” the captain said. “It’s a flight plan problem.”
    Reacher was silent. The guy just shrugged.
    “Best the colonel could do,” he said.

28
    THE CAPTAIN SHOWED them to a preflight waiting room on the second floor. It was a utilitarian space, lit by fluorescent tubes, linoleum on the floor, plastic stacking chairs in untidy formation around low tables. Old coffee rings on the tables, a trash can in the corner full of discarded cups.
    “It’s not much,” the captain said. “But then it’s all we got. All kinds of top brass wait in here.”
    Reacher thought do they wait three hours ? But he said nothing. Just thanked the guy and stood at the window and stared out