Tripwire

what he says to you. Marilyn deceived me with the phone, and I’m not going to let that happen to me again.”
    He made her stoop down and put her face next to his. He smelled of soap. He put his hand in his pocket and came out with the tiny revolver Tony had slipped in there. He touched it to her side. She held the phone at an angle with the earpiece upward between them. She studied the console. There was a mass of buttons. A speed-dial facility for 911. She hesitated for a second and then dialed her own home number. It rang six times. Six long, soft purrs. With each one, she willed him: be there, be there. But it was her own voice that came back to her, from her machine.
    “He’s not there,” she said blankly.
    Hobie smiled.
    “That’s too bad,” he said.
    She was stooped over next to him, numb with shock.
    “He’s got my mobile,” she said suddenly. “I just remembered.”
    “OK, press nine for a line.”
    She dabbed the cradle and dialed nine and then her mobile number. It rang four times. Four loud urgent electronic squawks. Each one, she prayed: answer, answer, answer, an swer. Then there was a click in the earpiece.
    “Hello?” he said.
    She breathed out.
    “Hi, Jack,” she said.
    “Hey, Jodie,” he said. “What’s new?”
    “Where are you?”
    She realized there was urgency in her voice. It made him pause.
    “I’m in St. Louis, Missouri,” he said. “Just flew down. I had to go to the NPRC again, where we were before.”
    She gasped. St. Louis? Her mouth went dry.
    “You OK?” he asked her.
    Hobie leaned across and put his mouth next to her ear.
    “Tell him to come right back to New York,” he whispered. “Straight here, soon as he can.”
    She nodded nervously and he pressed the gun harder against her side.
    “Can you come back?” she asked. “I sort of need you here, soon as possible.”
    “I’m booked on the six o’clock,” he said. “Gets me in around eight-thirty, East Coast time. Will that do?”
    She could sense Hobie grinning next to her.
    “Can you make it anytime sooner? Like maybe right away?”
    She could hear talking in the background. Major Conrad, she guessed. She remembered his office, dark wood, worn leather, the hot Missouri sun in the window.
    “Sooner?” he said. “Well, I guess so. I could be there in a couple of hours, depending on the flights. Where are you?”
    “Come to the World Trade Center, south tower, eighty-eighth floor, OK?”
    “Traffic will be bad. Call it two and a half hours, I’ll be there.”
    “Great,” she said.
    “You OK?” he asked again.
    Hobie brought the gun around into her view.
    “I’m fine,” she said. “I love you.”
    Hobie leaned over and hit the cradle with the tip of his hook. The earpiece clicked and filled with dial tone. She put the phone down, slowly and carefully onto the console. She was shattered with shock and disappointment, numb, still stooped over the counter, one hand laid flat on the wood propping her weight, the other hand shaking in the air an inch above the phone.
    “Two and a half hours,” Hobie said to her, with exaggerated sympathy. “Well, it looks like the cavalry ain’t going to arrive in time for you, Mrs. Jacob.”
    He laughed to himself and put the gun back in his pocket. Got out of the chair and caught the arm that was supporting her weight. She stumbled and he dragged her toward the of fice door. She caught the edge of the counter and held on tight. He hit her, backhanded with the hook. The curve caught her high on the temple and she lost her grip on the counter. Her knees gave way and she fell and he dragged her to the door by the arm. Her heels scuffed and kicked. He swung her around in front of him and straight-armed her back into the office. She sprawled on the carpet and he slammed the door.
    “Back on the sofa,” he snarled.
    The sunbeams were off the desk. They were inching around the floor and creeping across the table. Marilyn Stone’s splayed fingernails were vivid in their light. Jodie crawled to her hands and knees and pulled herself up on the furniture and staggered all the way back to her place alongside Curry. She put her hands back where they had been before. There was a narrow pain in her temple. It was an angry throb, hot and alien where the metal had thumped against bone. Her shoulder was twisted. The guy with the shotgun was watching her. Tony was watching her, the automatic pistol back in his hand. Reacher was far away from her, like he had been most