In Session Page 4

  His insight surprised me. So did the fact that he’d identified something about me I hadn’t even guessed at. On her own couch, no one is her own therapist.

  ____________________________

  I spent the next day and night not knowing what I was going to do. Not having any idea how I was going to ultimately deal with Michael and his threats. I vacillated between thinking I should tell Noah and then deciding that was wrong and instead I should do what Rain had suggested-–make a copy and counter-threaten Michael. But I couldn’t risk that. I didn’t have that kind of bravado. Couldn’t pull it off. Couldn’t take the chance.

  I wasn’t functioning well in sessions. Wasn’t focusing the way I needed to on my patients’ issues.

  And underneath it all was the image of Rain in the park. Of that way he’d come alive. Of the power he held.

  And of my jealousy of it.

  I wanted what he had. The ability to take charge. To forge ahead. To risk everything and feel what he felt. To be willing to make that mistake he talked about, but know that I’d risked it. Doing the wrong thing for the right reason. Wasn’t there courage in that?

  His kind of courage though. Not mine.

  And then a package arrived. By bike messenger, with no return address. I opened it. It was a small audio player. I put the ear buds on and pressed the play button. It was John Rain’s voice, clear, steady, and intimate.

  Dr. Snow, I enjoyed meeting you the other day. You gave me some things to think about. Perhaps I did the same for you.

  I think you sensed that it would be easy for me to solve your problem the way I solve most problems. And also tempting. But I think I found something better.

  If you check your security systems, you’ll discover there was a breach in your office two nights ago. You might have already discovered this, but believed it to be a mistake because nothing was missing. Indeed, nothing is missing. Something was simply copied. That copy was shown, in person, to the man who has been a problem for you. He understands if he causes you any further problems, the copy will become very public. He might have doubted your resolve had you made such a threat. I assure you, he didn’t doubt mine. Nor should he have.

  You were smart to be yourself. And I was pleased to offer you the luxury of doing so. Still, my apologies for handling this in a way you most certainly would have refused had I asked for permission. But many times, it’s better to seek forgiveness than it is to ask permission, don’t you agree? Or at least, I’m sure you’ll agree this one time. After all, regarding the copied file, I think you know you can count on my discretion, as I can count on yours. And don’t worry about your codes. They were good. I’m just a bit better.

  So your problem, I believe, is now solved. You didn’t have to decide because I decided for you. And if you’re so inclined, I’d ask that you do me a kindness in return. Tell Midori there’s good and bad in all of us. Yin and yang. Tell her … I think of her.

  I’ll think about what you observed in the park. It was an interesting place to conduct a therapy session, don’t you agree?

  My best to you and your daughter. I think she has a good mother. Don’t over-analyze her, though, all right? Save that for strangers in the park, who you’ll never hear from again.

  ______________________

  III

  KNOWING YOU’RE ALIVE

  Jack Reacher

  ______________________

  Jack Reacher heard the explosion two seconds before he saw the flash of light. Without thinking, he sprinted across 65th street and ran up to the building’s front door, tried the handle, found it locked and stepped back.

  Already the glow emanating from inside the building was bright. The heat was palpable.

  The man he’d followed here over an hour ago used at least two names. There might be more but Reacher was going by the name on the mail he’d intercepted—Ted Carlson. And he was inside.

  Till now Carlson’s day had been uneventful. He hadn’t ventured out of his Hell’s Kitchen apartment until sundown. Then it was just to walk to the subway. Reacher had followed.

  When the train had pulled in at 65th street and Carlson exited, Reacher did the same. Keeping a safe distance, he trailed his prey for two blocks, from Lexington Ave. to a limestone turn-of-the-century mansion between Madison and Park. Carlson had rung the doorbell. Less than a minute later, he disappeared inside.

  Reacher had waited five minutes, then ambled across the street and read the name on the brass plaque. The Butterfield Institute.

  For almost an hour Reacher had watched the building’s entrance. He didn’t like staying put, but it was a pleasant spring night and pedestrians hadn’t taken much notice. Just a guy in khakis and a white shirt sitting on the steps of a brownstone and reading a paperback. Checking his watch every few minutes as if he were waiting for someone to come home and let him in.

  No effort was required to keep the Institute’s entrance in sight. But he had been looking down the moment the bomb had gone off.

  Now Reacher needed to get inside. He hadn’t spent this much time on Carlson to lose him like this.

  A wisteria vine the thickness of a man’s arm climbed up the side of the building and wrapped around the small balcony’s railing. The only problem was, the terrace wasn’t completely secured to the façade anymore. Rocked loose by the explosion, it was hanging at an angle. Too much movement or weight might send it crashing. There was no way of telling.

  But it was that way or no way.

  Without hesitating, Reacher grabbed hold and hoisted himself up. Being 6’5” had its advantages and his long legs made the 15-foot climb less arduous. As he shimmied up, gracefully putting one hand above the other, he listened for the sound of fire engines and police cars. It had been maybe two minutes since the explosion. Someone must have called them by now, but there was only the hum of uptown traffic—light, steady and uneventful.

  As he grabbed the rail of the terrace above, Reacher felt the balcony shift and heard it groan against his weight.

  He swung his long legs over the railing. Glass crunched as his feet landed on the slanting floor. The French doors were shattered so badly they looked like a pair of serrated scissors.

  If he’d had the time, Reacher would have wrapped his hand in his shirt before trying doors. Instead he grabbed the handle with his bare hand and jumped into the room before the pain had a chance to register.

  The mangled terrace behind him creaked and crashed. Pushing ahead, he tried to see through the fog of smoke. There was a gaping hole in the south wall. The smoke was billowing from there. Sniffing the air, he didn’t smell fire. Destruction, plaster, and spent explosives—but no fresh flames. At least not yet.

  He sensed something. A movement.

  “Anyone here?”

  “Yes, I am.” A woman. Only a few feet away.

  “Keep talking so I can find you. I can’t see though this smoke.”

  “I’m over here.”

  Reacher followed the sound. “What’s your name?” he asked

  “Morgan. Morgan Snow.”

  He climbed over a pile of plaster. Had to keep her talking—it was still too smoky to see much.

  “Are you hurt? Are you alone?”

  Reacher stepped around a piece of chair, onto a pile of books.

  “No,” she said. “I mean–-yes—I’m alone. I’m not hurt too bad.”

  Reacher fanned smoke away, saw the woman lying on the floor.

  Inside a cave of debris. A couch had partially collapsed on top of her; a wooden beam lay on top of the couch. There were books and papers and bits of plaster everywhere. She’d used her arms to push as much debris away as she could. Despite her efforts, her face was all of her he could see. Her eyes were wild and frightened. Dust coated her lips, was in her hair.

  Reacher saw her hand. Put his fingers on her wrist to feel her pulse but she grabbed his hand, hard. Panic and relief in her touch.

  ____________________________

  I thought I was hallucinat
ing. A mind under extreme circumstances can manufacture all sorts of comforting images. I believed I had conjured this man. Someone to come to my rescue. Pain was clouding my head. Smoke was making my eyes tear. He was hazy in the light.

  He had to be real—I was holding fast to his hand.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “My name’s Jack Reacher. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Very specific. He had to be existent. “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “I was walking down the street. Heard the explosion. Looked up. Saw your lights on.” He was on his knees next to me, was taking my pulse. Blue eyes searching my face. “So what hurts?” he asked.

  A broken laugh escaped from my throat. “Everything.”

  He smiled. It looked like he wasn’t used to moving his mouth that way. It occurred to me that he was smiling for my sake, to reassure me.

  “Okay let’s see what we can find out. We know you can move your arms and head. Go slow, tell me, what else moves?”

  I tried to connect to my body—to find the motor skills to make the effort. It took a few seconds but I thought the words and the body parts responded. Neck. Hands. Arms. Breathe, I told myself. Deep breathing can stave off panic. Breathe.

  He must have known what I was doing.

  “Good girl. Take a good long couple of breaths. How are you doing? Everything moving?”

  “Yes. I think I’m basically okay except for my . . .“ I had to focus—left or right? “Left foot,” I said. “I can move it but …” I broke off. The pain made me nauseous.

  “Okay. Keep still now. Let me—”

  A sudden heaving sound interrupted. Like the room was crying out. Then a crack. Behind Reacher, in the smoky mess, I saw a chunk of the ceiling fall. Then the area around the door caved in.

  “How are we going to get out of here?” I heard how shaky my voice sounded.

  “Impatient aren’t you? Just take a little more time now but we’ll get out.”

  “What’s on top of me? Why can’t I move?”

  “You’re under a couch. And the couch has all kinds of crap on top of it. Stuff from upstairs that fell through the ceiling. The ceiling itself. You’re pretty lucky. Except for your foot—your couch took the brunt of it.”

  “I have to get to Dulcie!” I said urgently.

  “There’s someone else in the building?”

  “No. She’s my daughter. I need to call her. Make sure she knows I’m okay … we have this connection … when one of us is hurt … the other one knows . . .she’ll know … she’ll worry …”

  He was nodding. “Okay we’ll do that but first you need to tell me—is there is anyone else in the building?”

  “No one else, no. Nina and her last patient left together.”

  “You sure?”

  “I saw them go.”

  He was frowning.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Are there two exits to the building?”

  “Yes. Front door. Back that goes through to the garage next door.”

  He nodded. Looked annoyed. I wasn’t sure why and he didn’t offer any explanation.

  “Okay, Morgan. Let’s see about getting you out of here.”

  For the next few minutes he made several attempts to unbury me—but the ceiling beams were too heavy for him.

  “Doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to do much on my own. And to tell you the truth—I’m not too keen on upsetting the balance of this mess. I can’t be sure about the building’s stability. We’d better just sit tight. The police and fire department should be on their way.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “The explosion?”

  I nodded.

  “Has all the hallmarks of a bomb.”

  “A bomb?”

  “Yes. What is this place?”

  “A sex therapy clinic,” I told him.

  “And you’re a …”

  “I’m a sex therapist.”

  He didn’t react. Or if he did, didn’t show it. Watching him, trying to figure out who this stranger was, paying attention to something other than my pain was a relief. Analyzing people, gauging and guessing what goes on behind the façade of the persona they present to the world, is an occupational hazard.

  “I need to call Dulcie,” I said.

  “You have a cell?” he asked.

  “In my bag,” I said.

  He looked around. “Any idea where that could be?”

  “Used to be in a drawer in my desk but…”

  Didn’t he have a cell phone? Or didn’t he want to use his own cell. And if he didn’t—why not?

  “The desk is pretty much demolished. The drawers are crushed. But the police should be any second.”

  He stood up and sudden panic rose in me. “Are you going?”

  “No, Morgan. I’m staying right here with you. Just going to the door to see if I hear anything.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said with more bravado than I felt.

  He laughed. I heard irony. “Doc, even if I wanted to—there’s nowhere I could go. We’re trapped.”

  “But you got in.”

  “Before the balcony fell off and the rest of the ceiling came down and blocked the door.”

  He’d found some pillows, dusted them off and brought them over. With one hand he held my shoulders up, with the other he pushed a cushion under my head. I must have winced.

  “Something else hurt?”

  “No. I moved my foot.”

  He sat down beside me on the floor. “Don’t do that.”

  I smiled. “I know enough about what I’m going through from a clinical point of view to think that it would be good for me if you stayed close by for a while. Maybe held my hand.”

  “Damn weird. You just shrinked yourself. You do that a lot?” He took my hand. His skin was cool and dry and a little rough. His fingers were long and strong.

  My panic lowered a notch.

  “Any idea why any one would want to blow up this building?” he asked.

  “At least a hundred and twenty reasons.”

  He was already there. “Patients’ secrets.”

  “Our only inventory.”

  “All the keys to personal destruction were in your office files.”

  “That about covers it,” I said.

  “You know anything about your partner’s last patient?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know who was in there with her.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Not his face. I saw him from the back, so I know it was a man … but that’s not much help, is it?”

  “We’ll get there,” he said.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. You’re the shrink. Isn’t that your natural default?”

  “Why do I think you know something about what happened here tonight?”

  He said nothing.

  “Come on. You’re not the average passerby,” I said. “I mean this isn’t even the ground floor. What did you do? Climb up a vine? Come into a building that might crumble at any movement. That means you’ve had experience with disasters, crime scenes. And no panic when you found me here. You acted as if this was standard operating procedure. The way someone would who’d seen and done far worse. “

  Again he said nothing.

  “Your reactions are totally professional. Nothing personal except one reassuring smile.”

  “You’re good,” he said at last.

  “None of us is ever good enough, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking about Nina. She didn’t suspect her client was this desperate. It comes down to ego. A therapist’s worst enemy—we think we’re doing such a good job and making progress and then it blows up in our face.”

  “Literally.”