Running Blind (The Visitor)

in the back corner. Shiny black lacquer. A German name inlaid in brass. A big stool was placed in front of it, handsome buttoned leather in black. The lid of the piano was up, and there was music on the stand above the keyboard, a dense mass of black notes on heavy cream paper.
    “Want to hear something?” she asked.
    “Sure,” Reacher said.
    She slid between the keyboard and the stool and sat down. Laid her hands on the keys and paused for a second and then a mournful minor-key chord filled the room. It was a warm sound, and low, and she modulated it into the start of a funeral march.
    “Got anything more cheerful?” Reacher asked.
    “I don’t feel cheerful,” she said.
    But she changed it anyway, into the start of the Moonlight Sonata.
    “Beethoven,” she said.
    The silvery arpeggios filled the air. She had her foot on the damper and the sound was dulled and quiet. Reacher gazed out of the window at the plantings, gray in the moonlight. There was an ocean ninety miles to the west, vast and silent.
    “That’s better,” he said.
    She played it through to the end of the first movement, apparently from memory, because the music open on the stand was labeled Chopin. She kept her hands on the keys until the last chord died away to silence.
    “Nice,” Reacher said. “So, you’re doing OK?”
    She turned away from the keyboard and looked him in the eye. “You mean have I recovered from being gang-raped by three guys I was supposed to trust with my life?”
    Reacher nodded. “Something like that, I guess.”
    “I thought I’d recovered,” she said. “As well as I ever expected to. But now I hear some maniac is fixing to kill me for complaining about it. That’s taken the edge off it a little bit, you know?”
    “We’ll get him,” Harper said, in the silence.
    Scimeca just looked at her.
    “So can we see the new washing machine in the basement?” Reacher asked.
    “It’s not a washing machine, though, is it?” Scimeca asked. “Not that anybody tells me anything.”
    “It’s probably paint,” Reacher said. “In cans. Camouflage green, Army issue.”
    “What for?”
    “The guy kills you, dumps you in your bathtub and pours it over you.”
    “Why?”
    Reacher shrugged. “Good question. There’s a whole bunch of pointy heads working on that right now.”
    Scimeca nodded and turned to Harper. “You a pointy head?”
    “No, ma’am, I’m just an agent,” Harper said.
    “You ever been raped?”
    Harper shook her head. “No, ma’am, I haven’t.”
    Scimeca nodded again.
    “Well, don’t be,” she said. “That’s my advice.”
    There was silence.
    “It changes your life,” Scimeca said. “It changed mine, that’s for damn sure. Gardening and music, that’s all I’ve got now.”
    “Good hobbies,” Harper said.
    “Stay-at-home hobbies,” Scimeca said back. “I’m either in this room or within sight of my front door. I don’t get out much and I don’t like meeting people. So take my advice, don’t let it happen to you.”
    Harper nodded. “I’ll try not to.”
    “Basement,” Scimeca said.
    She led the way out of the parlor to a door tucked under the stairs. It was an old door, made up of pine planks painted many times. There was a narrow staircase behind it, leading down toward cold air smelling faintly of gasoline and tire rubber.
    “We have to go through the garage,” Scimeca said.
    There was a new car filling the space, a long low Chrysler sedan, painted gold. They walked single file along its flank and Scimeca opened a door in the garage wall. The musty smell of a basement bloomed out at them. Scimeca pulled a cord and a hot yellow light came on.
    “There you are,” she said.
    The basement was warm from a furnace. It was a large square space with wide storage racks built on every wall. Fiberglass insulation showed between the ceiling joists. There were heating pipes snaking up through the floorboards. There was a carton standing alone in the middle of the floor. It was at an angle to the walls, untidy against the neat shelving surrounding it. It was the same carton. Same size, same brown board, same black printing, same picture, same manufacturer’s name. It was taped shut with shiny brown tape and it looked brand-new.
    “Got a knife?” Reacher asked.
    Scimeca nodded toward a work area. There was pegboard screwed to the wall, and it was filled with tools hanging in neat rows. Reacher took a linoleum knife off a peg, carefully, because in his experience