Running Blind (The Visitor)

next one a little more interesting. Maybe a lot more interesting. You need to think about that, too.
    So what’s it to be? A shorter interval? Or more drama at the scene? Or both? How about both? Think, think, think.
    LISA HARPER TOOK Reacher up to ground level and outside into the chill air just after six in the evening. She led him down an immaculate concrete walkway toward the next building in line. There were knee-high lights set on both sides of the path, a yard apart, already turned on against the gloom of evening. Harper walked with an exaggerated long stride. Reacher wasn’t sure if she was trying to match his, or if it was something she’d learned in deportment class. Whatever, it made her look pretty good. He found himself wondering what she’d look like if she was running. Or lying down, with nothing on.
    “Cafeteria’s in here,” she said.
    She was ahead of him at another double set of glass doors. She pulled one open and waited until he went inside in front of her.
    “To the left,” she said.
    There was a long corridor with the clattering sound and the vegetable smell of a communal dining room at the end of it. He walked ahead of her. It was warm inside the building. He could sense her at his shoulder.
    “OK, help yourself,” she said. “Bureau’s paying.”
    The cafeteria was a big double-height room, brightly lit, with molded-plywood chairs at plain tables. There was a service counter along one side. A line of personnel, waiting with trays in their hands. Big groups of trainees in dark blue sweats, separated by senior agents in suits standing in ones and twos. Reacher joined the end of the line, with Harper at his side.
    The line shuffled up and he was served a filet mignon the size of a paperback book by a cheerful Spanish guy with ID around his neck. He moved on and got vegetables and fries from the next server in line. He filled a cup with coffee from an urn. He took silverware and a napkin and looked around for a table.
    “By the window,” Harper said.
    She led him to a table for four, standing empty by the glass. The bright light in the room made it full dark outside. She put her tray on the table and took her jacket off. Draped it on the back of her chair. She wasn’t thin, but her height made her very slender. Her shirt was fine cotton, and she wore nothing underneath it. That was pretty clear. She undid her cuffs and rolled her sleeves to the elbow, one by one. Her forearms were smooth and brown.
    “Nice tan,” Reacher said.
    She sighed.
    "FAQs again?” she said. “Yes, it’s all over, and no, I don’t especially want to prove it.”
    He smiled.
    “Just making conversation,” he said.
    She looked straight at him.
    “I’ll talk about the case,” she said. “If you want conversation. ”
    “I don’t know much about the case. Do you?”
    She nodded. “I know I want this guy caught. Those women were pretty brave, making a stand like that.”
    “Sounds like the voice of experience.”
    He cut into his steak and tasted it. It was pretty good. He’d paid forty bucks for worse in city restaurants.
    “It’s the voice of cowardice,” she said. “I haven’t made a stand. Not yet anyway.”
    “You getting harassed?”
    She smiled. “Are you kidding?” Then she blushed. “I mean, can I say that without sounding big-headed or anything?”
    He smiled back. “Yes, in your case I think you can.”
    “It’s nothing real serious,” she said. “Just talk, you know, just comments. Loaded questions, and innuendo. Nobody’s said I should sleep with them to get promotion or anything. But it still gets to me. That’s why I dress like this now. I’m trying to make the point, you know, I’m just the same as them, really.”
    He smiled again. “But it’s gotten worse, right?”
    She nodded, “Right. Much worse.”
    He made no reply.
    “I don’t know why,” she said.
    He looked at her over the rim of his cup. Egyptian cotton button-down, pure white, maybe a thirteen-inch collar, a blue tie knotted neatly in place and rising gently over her small mobile breasts, men’s trousers with big darts taken out of them to curve in around her tiny waist. Tanned face, white teeth, great cheekbones, blue eyes, the long blond hair.
    “Is there a camera in my room?” he asked.
    “A what?”
    “A camera,” he said again. “You know, video surveillance. ”
    “Why?”
    “I’m just wondering if this is a backup plan. In case Petrosian doesn’t pan out.”
    “What do you