The Plan-B Bust: 3 / 5

An Altered Fates Story
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Plice took out his phone and called Larry, his right-hand man, and told him to come down to the dog-washing room. Given the location, Larry expected some kind of unpleasant mess, but he never expected to see Reagan lying lifeless on that floor.

Even so, and knowing Plice as well as he did, he controlled his reaction, kept a poker face, didn't show surprise, shock, disgust, or disapproval. He simply waited for Dan to speak.

Plice's jaw was working vigorously — a sign of some kind of strong emotion — and after a few moments he snorted, and spat a copious gob at the drain in the center of the floor. Only then, in a quiet voice, apparently calm, he gave his orders:

"First thing: the moment I'm done talking, you go back upstairs and spread the word that there’s a price on Caresse Desmesne’s head: $100,000 dead, $250,000 alive."

Larry's jaw dropped open, and he blinked several times, astounded by the figures and the target, but he wisely said nothing.

"Next, when you're done with that — and only when you're done with that, I need you to set up three meetings for me TODAY with each of my informants on the task force—"

"Face to face meetings?" Larry asked in surprise. This was a first.

"Yes, face to face." Plice had been avoiding eye contact with Larry; the words face-to-face reminded him. He lifted his face and fixed his eyeblinking gaze on Larry. "Face to face," he repeated. "I need to look each one of them in the eye when I talk to them. I need *you* to make sure the meets happen soon, but they have to be different times, different places, so there’s zero chance of their seeing each other."

"Right," said Larry.

"That's one and two: the price on that bitch's head, and the face-to-face meets. After you do those two things, and only after, get somebody to come down here to clean this crap off the floor. I want this place sparkling. Understand? But this is AFTER. I want the other two things done first, in the order I said. And I want it fast. Fast and first. One, two, and THEN the bodies. Now go."

 

---

 

Back at the safe house, Caresse was unpacking the van. The first thing she carried in, of course, was the food. The frozen items were a little softened, and the fridge needed some serious cleaning, but for the most part everything was still pretty cold. And the cleaning could wait.

The next order of business was a bit more delicate. Caresse wanted to get it done while there was still daylight but while she was still alone and unobserved. An idea had occurred to Caresse after she left Bill and Joe: she realized that one way or another, there was a strong chance that she’d end up as Caresse for the rest of her life. There was one key fact that she couldn't ignore: her only connection to the guy from WITSEC was Bill. If anything happened to Bill, she’d have no way of finding the guy who had the medallion. Joe didn't know him; that was clear. Joe could still help and protect her to some extent, and between the two of them they might be able to find the WITSEC guy, but that was only a distant maybe. if anything happened to both Bill and Joe, she’d be totally alone as Caresse, with no way to change back and no one to help her stay alive. No one would know who she really was. No one would ever believe she was actually Andy.

That huge potential mess was somewhere in the back of her mind when she grabbed Caresse’s documents. At the moment, the idea wasn’t fully articulated, but the basic feeling was there. It was all about survival: when she became Caresse, she crossed a bridge, with no way of knowing if she’d have a way back. She might never be Andy Niskin, ever again.

If she did end up alone and on her own, she’d need money: that’s why she took the cache of currency and gold that Plice had hidden in the condo. She knew that taking it was illegal, but stealing from someone like Plice hardly felt like a crime. She recalled Joe’s shouted declaration, Fuck the rules! We have to break the rules on this one! She would have liked to say that she didn’t have a choice, but of course she had a choice. There was always a choice. And given that choice, she had decided to steal. Yes, all three of them — Joe, Bill, and Andy — had broken rules, but Caresse had broken more than her colleagues: unlawful surveillance, failure to report a crime, identity theft, and now grand theft. She could even be charged with grand theft auto, since she was in possession of Andy's van. This is where we are now, Caresse told herself. To catch a criminal, we’ve become criminals.

Another reason Andy might end up as Caresse forever was something that Bill pointed out: walking. Caresse could walk. Andy could not. Caress could have a normal sex life. Andy could not. It was a pretty compelling difference; one that might convince Caresse to never go back to being Andy. Bill implied that she could make that choice. However, that choice — to being able to walk and have sex — had one huge downside. Caresse was not only the well-known, she was the well-known girlfriend of a mob kingpin, a man you could call, without exaggeration, the worst man in the state, and one of the worst in the entire country. Also, Caresse was easily recognizable, not only for her mob connection, but also for her striking beauty. Even people who had no idea who she is, or was, would notice and remember her. For that reason, the new Caresse needed a Plan C — and maybe even a Plan D — in case Bill’s "incredible Plan B" fell to pieces. Whatever the plan, she’d need money, and she’d need a place to go.

The second part, where to go, was a question that would take a lot of thinking. The first part, the money, was already resolved. She had the resources; she simply needed to package them up: she needed a go-bag.

What is a go-bag? If you have to run and you have no warning, you need a go-bag: a bag you can just grab and run away with. A go-bag ought to have everything you need. The point is, if you need to run, you don’t have time to stop, think, and consider what to take with you. The go-bag solves that problem. You do all the thinking, the choosing, and the packing well ahead of time. Once you're done, your go-bag already has your essentials, so in the critical moment there's nothing to think about. You just grab and go. The choices are already made: that’s the beauty of a go-bag.

Caresse opened her new gym bag. Into it went the money, the gold coins, and (after checking it) the gun she’d taken from Caresse’s apartment. She added all of Caresse’s documents and cards — except for her driving license. She left that out in case she needed to do some driving, placing it in a drawer of the desk, along with Andy's gun, and the USB drive that held the video of her and Henry. She smiled as she set set down the USB; it seemed to magically remind her of those moments.

As for clothes: She put three complete sets of clean clothes in a vacuum-storage bag, rolled it up small and tight, and added that to the gym bag. Then, after a look around the room, she zipped up the bag and enclosed it in a plastic trash bag. She climbed under the house into the crawlspace and quickly found a suitable spot. After a bit of DIY work with the tools in the garage — measuring, cutting, nailing — she installed a little shelf under the floor. It wasn't visible unless you were practically underneath it. She tucked the go-bag on the shelf and glued a pull-off door on the end. When she needed the bag, all she’d have to do was yank off the little door, grab the bag, and go. Until then, the bag would remain a well-hidden secret.

Once that was done, the next order of business was the bed. She brushed the cobwebs and dirt off her clothes and hair, and stood in the garage, looking into her van. She took a deep getting ready breath and assessed the situation. She didn’t relishing the thought of the next set of efforts. She needed to lug upstairs not only the box spring and mattress, but also the computer, the monitor, and the office chair. She was already tired, and considered letting it all wait until tomorrow, but that would mean sleeping either on the floor, or the iffy mattress upstairs. The couch and the cushions in the living room were also out of the question. She suspected that everything in the house that was either soft or stuffed was full of bugs, or worse. It would be fine for Bill or Joe, but her skin crawled at the very idea of touching any of mattresses or cushions.

Oh well. Thinking won't move the boxes upstairs.

She sighed, gripped the box spring, and said aloud, "Here I go!" but she didn’t go. The box spring was far heavier than it looked. It hadn’t been too hard to push *into* the van off the shopping cart, but pushing was one thing. Lifting and carrying it by herself was quite another. Looking around the garage, she idly wondered whether she'd be able rig up a rope and pulley somehow... to maybe use the ramp's motor in the van somehow... but there was no rope and there were no pulleys.

Just then, she heard a cough, and footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway. She panicked. Here she was, alone in the woods, and — stupidly — without either gun handy: her own gun, Andy's gun, was upstairs in the desk drawer. Caresse's gun (or was it Plice's gun?) lay hidden under the house in her go-bag. She took a step back and turned her head to see who it was. As it turned out, her visitor was a tall, good-looking, well-built man standing a few feet from the garage doorway. He seemed to have chosen an unthreatening distance: close enough to talk, but too far to make any aggressive grab or strike. He smiled for a brief moment. He had a nice smile. "Did you call a moving company, ma’am?" he quipped.

She opened her mouth, not sure how to respond, and when she said nothing, he told her, "Sorry — the moving-company crack was meant to be a joke. An ice-breaker. I live in the next house down that way." He pointed down the road to his left. "I saw you drive past, so I came to say welcome and see if you needed anything.

"If you don’t want any help, just say so, and I’ll walk away. Otherwise, I can carry whatever you want, set it down wherever you want, and the moment you say stop, I’ll turn away and head for home. No pressure, no obligation." Then he took a step back, a step away from her, and stood there, waiting for her answer.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t try to charm her. He was big, but he didn't seem intimidating, and he didn’t eye her up and down as if she was a fresh piece of meat.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

"Reacher," he replied.

She couldn’t help it; she scoffed. "Oh, really! Reacher? You’re not Jack Reacher, are you? Like the guy in the book?"

"No, ma’am," he said. "Just Reacher."

"Is that your real name?"

"No, ma’am," he replied. That answer surprised her. He had an absurdly obvious fake name, and he stood there and admitted it! He told her he was using a fake name. Andy had never encountered that before. It was a weird kind of honesty: to lie and admit that you were lying. It was also pretty weird for a grown man to call himself after a fictional action hero, but at least he owned it. At least he didn't say he was "Bond, James Bond." He did look strong, and he was certainly sexy — sexier by far than Henry... and again, he didn't appear to be pretending or posing. He said that he’d walk away if she told him to, and she believed him.

So she swallowed the risk and said, "Yes, thanks, I do need some help carrying these things upstairs — could you help me with this box spring and mattress? Do you mind taking the bottom end?"

In response, he picked up the box spring as if it weighed nothing. He carried it up the stairs, unwrapped it, placed it in the bed frame, and carried the plastic wrap back down. He lugged the mattress up by himself with pretty much the same ease. When he returned with the plastic wrapping from the mattress, he asked, "What next?" She pointed to the chair, the computer, and the monitor. He brought them up and opened the boxes, but didn’t unpack them.

"I’m no good at all those cables and crap," he told her. "If you’ve got other lifting and hauling to do, I’ll do it, but that’s all I can do."

She asked him to carry a few more bags upstairs — mostly her clothes, then told him that it was all the lifting and hauling she needed at the moment.

"Okay," he said. "Then I’ll be off. I’m around if you need me, but if you need me, you’ll have to come by, because I don’t have a phone. You can walk down the road that way, and watch for the first driveway on the right, but it’s faster to come by the path that starts near your back door. Remember to be careful, though, because there’s a tripwire just when you come in sight of my house."

"A tripwire? What happens if I hit it?"

"You’ll trip," he said simply. "It’s just a wire. It’s not connected to anything. At best, you’ll just fall down. At worst, you’ll get a sprained ankle or wrist, or a bump on the head, depending on how you fall."

"Okay, I’ll keep my eyes open," she said, and found herself smiling.

"And — important safety tip: don’t go into my house if I’m not there," he cautioned. "It’s booby-trapped up the wazoo."

"Got it," she said. "Booby traps. Wazoo. So how do I find you, once I get past the tripwire?"

"You can call my name once or twice, or you could wait for me. I’m not usually far from the house. Except around dawn. That’s when I go for a run. In fact, I wanted to invite you to come along tomorrow, if that appeals to you at all. I can be at the end of your driveway at six. If you’re there, we can run together. If you’re not, I’ll run alone."

"I’d like that," she replied, "but I’m not sure what my fitness level is. I don’t know how far and how fast I can go."

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "That’s fine. I’d rather run slow with company than fast by myself." With that, he smiled, turned, and walked away.

Caresse stood in silence, watching her strange neighbor as he ambled down the road. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Even with the goofy, obvious alias — or maybe in part because of it — he did seem to be one of those people who were exactly what they appeared to be. Of course, you can never tell. What was he really up to? Why was he living in the woods? Was his house really booby-trapped? He seemed to be living a little boy's fantasy. At the same time, he did save her a lot of time and effort by hauling those things upstairs. She looked around at the items remaining in her van. They could all wait until tomorrow. She closed and locked the van, then closed and locked the garage.

Caresse spread her new sheets and blanket on her bed. She wrestled her new pillow into its new pillowcase. Then, with the help of a power drill and screwdriver from the garage, she installed the lock on her bedroom door. She also serviced her side arm, and put it in a big plastic bag, which she brought with her into the shower. Thankfully, the water was good and hot, and there was plenty of it.

After her shower, she made and devoured a quick dinner (two turkey burgers, an avocado, some salad with fresh tomatoes and olive oil, and a cold beer). Then she double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, put on a pair of soft pajamas, and fell into a deep, well-deserved sleep.

 

---

 

After making sure that the word had gone out about the bounty on Caresse’s head, Handsome Dan had a meeting with the first of his moles.

"Why haven’t you told me that Caresse Desmesne is cooperating with you guys?"

The mole was surprised and puzzled. "Because she isn’t! At least, as far as I know, she’s isn’t. Where did you hear that?"

"I’m telling you that she is cooperating. I’m paying you to keep me informed, so it shouldn’t be ME telling YOU about this: you should be telling me. Okay. That's the past. We move on. Now that you DO know, what I need from you is details: Who is she talking to, when did she start talking, what has she said, and — above all else — where is she now?"

The conversation with the other two moles went pretty much the same way, except that the third mole DID remember something significant. "A month ago... six, eight weeks, maybe, somebody mentioned her name…" She thought for a moment until more of the memory surfaced. "It was about that condo you bought for her…" Plice drummed his fingers impatiently, but he waited for the rest of her memory to appear. "Okay, yeah… it was one of those guys from Major Crimes, the county unit. An asshole by the name of Bill... Bill Marazion, yeah. Asshole. He didn't say how, but Bill found out that you bought Caresse a condo somewhere downtown —" To her relief, she remembered something else: "I passed that along to Larry, right when it happened; he must have told you. It was one of my regular reports. Bill applied for a warrant; he wanted to bug the place, but we — uh, you — got it quashed. Right? I mean, I assumed it was you who did it?" She watched his face until he gave the briefest, slightest of nods. The mole searched her memory, looking up, down, in every corner, but found nothing more. "He's the only one," she concluded. "He's the only person who’s mentioned Caresse lately." She thought some more and added, "Yeah, in fact, he’s the only one who’s *ever* mentioned her."

"Good," Plice said. "Tell me about this county guy. Major Crimes, you said? What’s his name again?" He had a lot of questions about Bill: who are his colleagues, who he gets along with, what kind of cop he is, and so on. "Sound him out on the subject of Caresse," Plice said. "Find out everything you can, and tell me everything you get, whatever tiny detail you flush out, the minute you get it, you get it to me. ASAP. Don’t save it, don’t sit on it, even if it seems insignificant. On this, I need to know in real time. You call me directly. Understood? If I don't pick up, leave a message or send a text."

The mole swallowed hard. This was new. This was a whole 'nother level. This was only the second time she'd ever *met* Plice, and the first time barely counted. Now he wanted him to call her on the phone. Whenever. It was a little scary. Passing notes to Larry was one thing: it was like leaving post-its on the wall. Talking with Plice was different. It felt like walking into an atomic core. Radioactive. Harmful just to be there.

She'd need to keep her wits about her.

 

---

 

The next morning, Caresse woke at five, well before her alarm. She brushed her teeth and hair and dressed in her running clothes. She put her keys, phone, and gun into her fanny pack. It was still early, so she unloaded the dishwasher and made her to-do list for the day. Then she stepped outside and was stretching her glutes and hamstrings when she spotted Reacher jogging toward her. She met him at the road and matched his pace. They jogged in silence for about ten minutes.

"How are you doing?" he asked her.

"Good!" she replied with a smile. "This is so much fun! I’ve been cooped up for so long, it’s wonderful to be moving again!"

Wonderful was the word. Yesterday she’d been too angry and too busy to marvel at it, but the fact that she was standing and moving under her own power — and now RUNNING! After decades in a wheelchair, this was nothing short of miraculous. "I want to run a hundred miles!" she shouted.

"Uhhh, yeah," he replied, "That’s fine, as long as we do it in small increments over many days."

She laughed.

"Look," he said, "Another ten minutes and there’s a fantastic view. We can stop there and take a breather. Depending on how you feel, we can either turn back or go on."

"Great!"

From that point forward the road was a gentle incline. After five minutes, despite her enthusiasm, Caresse began to feel the effort. She fell a little behind. "Hey, Reacher," she called, "I think I need to quit. I'm going to turn around and walk back."

He left off jogging and walked back to meet her. "Are you in pain anyplace?" he asked. "Cramps? Shin splints?"

"No," she said, "Just out of breath. I've got a stitch in my side."

"Okay," he said. "Straighten up. Take deep, slow breaths. Lift up your head. Look up. Do you see that tree up there? The one with the red dot painted on it? That’s how far we need to go. Can you walk with me that far? The view is stupendous. It's really worth it. Once we get there, you can sit down and rest for as long as you need."

"Okay," she agreed, but after they'd taken two steps, she stopped again, leaning over, hands resting on her thighs, and said. "Hey! I betcha I can hit that red spot with a rock."

He glanced down the road. "From here? I don’t think so. That’s like 100 yards, uphill."

Caresse picked up a rock and weighed it in her hand. It was about the size and weight of a baseball, and fairly uniform in shape, even if it wasn’t a real sphere. "What do you want to bet?" she asked.

He looked her up and down for a moment, considering. "I don’t want to take advantage," he told her, "I know you’re going to lose, so let’s just say a kiss."

She laughed and let fly. Andy had been a decent shortstop in high school; he had a good arm and good aim. Caresse hoped there was some transference of that to her, even if it lay dormant for decades.

She was rewarded with a resounding thock! as the rock connected with the tree.

"Heh," she chuckled. "Too bad I forgot to make my side of the bet!"

"You lost, though," he told her. "You hit the tree, yes, and that was an amazing surprise, but you missed the red spot."

"No, I—" she began, but he swept her into his arms and kissed her, full on the mouth. He was a head taller than her, so her own head was bent back. One of his hands rested just below her shoulder blades, holding her up, and his other hand rested held her arm. One of her feet was off the ground; the other was tip-toe. The whole pose and position was entirely spontaneous. She felt as though she was floating in the air. Caresse surrendered to his kiss; she let her body go, all relaxed and supple. She closed her eyes and felt his heat. She let him kiss her for as long as he wanted.

After what seemed like a warm, exciting infinity of time, he let her come up for air. She licked her lips, and they looked into each other’s eyes. She saw the question in his eyes, so she asked, "Again?" and he was on her, kissing more passionately this time, pressing his open mouth on hers, kissing her cheeks and chin and throat, passing his hands over her hair and back. It seemed to last an even longer time than the first kiss, and when they came apart, he had an erection and she had a big wet spot.

He took her hand and in a husky voice said, "Come on, you have to see this view."

They walked the few remaining feet to the place where the road crested, next to the tree with the red spot. A group of boulders painted red and white blocked the end of the road, to keep cars from driving off. Beyond the boulders, the woods opened to a huge, unspoiled valley with an enormous, long, narrow lake at its bottom. "It’s the reservoir," he told her, as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"It’s beautiful," she told him. She could feel his cock, pressing hard against her derriere. She took his hands and placed them over her breasts. "Jesus," he moaned. She leaned her head back into his chest and reached behind her to feel his cock.

I’m going to have to start thinking about birth control, she told herself. And I’m going to have to stop being so damn easy. She put her hands on her waistband and slid her tight shorts down. The sensation of the cloth sliding down her ass, the exposure of her intimate skin to the air, was exhilarating. I need to quit doing this, she told herself. After this, I need to get some control over my libido.

Grunting, he pulled down his shorts and brought her hands down to rest on one of the boulders. She bent at the waist. He slid his hot hard shaft into her wet, warm pussy. The two of them went at it, standing, there at the end of the road on the crest of the hill, staring out over the vast, beautiful wooded valley, hidden in the hills. When the orgasm came, they both shouted at the top of their lungs and heard the echoes from distant hills.

After he pulled out, he knelt and kissed both of her ass cheeks. "You are so amazingly beautiful," he told her. "Every part of you is simply unbelievable." She laughed lightly and turned to face him, and — their pants still at half mast — the two kissed again, a strong, lustful kiss, their naked hips and thighs brushing against each other as they embraced. His cock knocked against her thighs. They put their hands on each other’s behinds, and looked into each other’s eyes, smiling.

"That was nice," she said.

"That was better than nice," he replied.

After a little more kissing, they pulled their shorts up, held each other in a long, silent embrace. Then they trotted back down the hill. He left her at her driveway, but not before one last kiss. And not before he stopped and said, "Hey — could you do me a favor? Don’t tell your law-enforcement friends about me. Okay?"

She looked at him warily. "How do you know I have law enforcement friends?"

He laughed. "Look — I know who you are. You wouldn’t come out here for vacation. You must be working with John Law. Besides, that funny van’s got a cop radio in it. That’s how I know you have friends in law enforcement."

"Okay," she said.

"Does okay mean you won’t tell them?"

"Yes, I will not tell my law-enforcement friends about you, if you won’t tell your friends about me."

"That’s easy," he said. "I don’t have any friends." Then, with a smile and a wave, he was gone.

 

---

 

Bill stopped in the office that morning, but very briefly. He had some paperwork to drop off. Then he ran around the city, checking in on his informants. That done, he took off for the safe house, to see Caresse. She hadn’t sent any message, so clearly she hadn’t set up her computer yet. He didn’t bother trying to call Andy’s phone — he knew there was no signal out in those woods.

After the morning run, Caresse took a shower, ate some breakfast, and threw her running clothes in the laundry. Sure, it was as very small load, but she couldn’t afford Bill finding evidence of her sexual activity, and Bill was too good a cop to not sniff it out.

That done, she went upstairs and assembled and connected her computer, monitor, and chair. The house was equipped with cable, so she had phone, internet, and TV. She didn’t bother connecting the phone — it was too insecure. Once her computer was up, she logged onto her VPN and sent emails to an encrypted account that Bill and Joe would periodically check.

She had placed the desk and the computer in a spot where she’d have a bare wall behind her. She did that because she’d be making videos, and didn’t want any visual clues as to where she located. After shutting the window and the door to keep out any auditory clues, she sat down to narrate her first video.

She jotted a few notes before she began, but mainly she spoke extemporaneously. This video was meant to be a general introduction. She began by stating her name, the place and date of her birth, and the date and time of the recording. Then she talked about how Dan Plice had gotten her the condo, and how he began having meetings there. She said it was her first glimpse into his criminal enterprise, and this glimpse had shocked her enough to make her want to cooperate with law enforcement and testify, if she could, against Dan Plice.

She named the people who usually came to the meetings, described each one physically, talked about their relationship to Plice, and what she understood of their place in Plice’s organization. She spoke about when and how often the meetings took place, how long they lasted. Usually during these meetings she had to sit in another room. Some times she’d bring them drinks. There were times when the men ordered food, and she’d have to set up a buffet or serve it up on plates.

After an hour of talking, she ran out of things to say. Now she had not only a video, but also a transcript, automatically generated by the recording software.

It was only ten AM at that point, so she took a break from the computer and spent an hour cleaning the bathroom. She went outside and walked around the house, taking a good look at the building, checking for vulnerabilities. She checked all the approaches. There were really only two: the driveway and the path to Reacher’s house. All the rest of the property was ringed by fairly dense woods.

Then she went back upstairs, where she corrected the transcript of her video, and made notes. She had three pads: one to keep track of what she’d talked about; another to list loose ends she’d left dangling, and a third for questions.

She realized as she spoke, and even more so as she read her transcript, how little she knew about Caresse: Did she have any family? How long had she known Dan Plice? When and how did they meet? How aware was she of his crimes — before the meetings in her condo? Did she have a criminal record? Had she attended college? Where did she attend high school? Once she began asking, the questions had no end.

She copied the video and transcript onto two USB drives. One for Bill to take, and the other a backup for herself.

Then she had lunch, drank a lovely cup of coffee, and played on the internet while she waited for Bill to show up.

He arrived at two in the afternoon. He seemed charmed by the house. "I haven’t been here in a while," he mused. "I used to come out here during summer when I was a kid. We’d rent a place in the area. I never stayed in this house in particular, but when it came up for sale a few years back I knew it would be a perfect safe house. Every so often I come sweep it out and check on things." He was pleased at the setup of Caresse’s office, and didn’t seem to mind the mattress on the floor in the second bedroom.

He also brought dinner: a tray of lasagna, a container of salad, a box of breadsticks and two bottles of red wine. He put the food in the fridge.

He watched the video and pocketed the USB drive. He had a few comments and suggestions for future videos, and Caresse jotted them down. One of his suggestions, which she intended to follow, was that she review Plice’s meetings on the surveillance videos, and to make a video summary of each one. That way, even though the task force could never be shown the original surveillance, they’d know exactly what happened and what was discussed each day, in a neat, chronological order.

"But how will they believe that I can remember meetings from months back?" Caresse asked.

"Say that you kept notes, like a diary," Bill replied.

It was a great idea.

It was nice having Bill there. They had never gotten along so well. He was behaving very professionally. He was very positive and supportive. Caresse would even have gone so far as to say that Bill was downright charming, for a change. He was solicitous: he asked how she was doing, if she minded being alone out there. He asked whether there was any of Andy’s business that needed taking care of.

Surprisingly, Caresse hadn’t thought about Andy’s life at all! She made a note to check Andy’s online bank account, to make sure his bills were getting paid. Bill offered to stop by Andy’s apartment every three or four days to pick up the mail and make sure everything was ship-shape.

"Do you need anything out here?" he asked.

"Not right now," she said, "but I will need food and supplies in future."

"Okay," he said. "Just send your shopping lists to that email account, and either me or Joe will bring the stuff out to you."

"Great!" she said. "There is one more thing… I’ve been realizing how little I know about Caresse Desmesne. Things like, does she have any family? How did she meet Dan Plice? Where did she grow up?"

"You don’t really need to know all that stuff," he said.

"I know that I don’t need to," she agreed, "but if I ever have to testify, or if I have to do an online meeting with the task force, they could stump me with the simplest question."

"Fair enough," he said. "I hadn’t considered that. The thing is, I don’t know anything about her. You can ask Joe. He’ll come out day after tomorrow. He’s the real expert on all things Caresse. In the meantime, I guess you can Google her. Then you’ll know what everybody else knows, or thinks they know."

 

---

 

Things went pretty well for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Bill proposed that they take a walk, and led Caresse up the road, on the same route that she’d earlier jogged with Reacher. Bill knew all the trees and birds, and he delighted in pointing them out. It was honestly quite interesting, and he showed Caresse how the history of the forest was written all around them: evidence of fires, of huge storms, new growth, old growth… He pointed out an old cabin that was completely overgrown and hardly recognizable as a human structure. Nature had reclaimed it. "My grandfather went to live in that little place when I was a kid, but look at it now: the forest is consuming it; it’s disappearing into the ground."

Every so often Caresse would pick up a baseball-sized rock and sling it at a tree. She missed a few, but her aim and the speed of her throwing arm were still pretty impressive.

Dinner went well, too. The food was surprisingly good. The lasagna reheated well. Bill talked about the task force. He told Caresse the day’s gossip, and filled her in on some of the office relationships that Andy hadn’t picked up on.

Everything was going really well. In fact, it was going perfectly well, and then Bill decided to ruin it. After the first bottle of wine was emptied, Bill opened the second, and standing, with the bottle and his glass in hand, he asked, "What do you say we take this upstairs for a little roll in the hay? We can try out your brand new bed, break it in together. We can try out that fabulous new body of yours."

"No, Bill," she said. "Can you please put that out of your mind? It's not going to happen. I am not going to have sex with either you or Joe. Ever. There’s no point in pressing it."

"Why not?"

"Why not? I don’t want to — that’s why not."

"Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" he asked in a irritated tone. He sounded genuinely puzzled. And offended.

"It’s not a big deal," she said. "It’s just out of the question."

"What’s the problem? Do I need to romance you?" he sneered. "Do I need to bring flowers and chocolates every time I come? Do I have to pretend I’m in love with you?" He gave a scoffing bark of a laugh.

"No," she said, irritated. "I don’t want any of that."

"Then what?" he asked. "It’s a simple, human thing. We should just be able to do it. Just take our clothes off and do it. Bam! Simple. Why do you need to make it complicated? What difference does it make to you? You’ve been a guy, you know that sex is just sex. It’s only women who want to turn it into something..." He waved his hand as he searched for the word... "incomprehensible. Yeah, incomprehensible. To get into a woman's pants, a guy has to pretend that he doesn't want to. Explain that to me! What the hell! You've been a guy, you can still use your brain, right? So what the hell is the problem? Now that you have breasts, do you need to play a role? Are you pretending to be hard to get? Because I have to tell you: it's not a good look."

"I’m not playing at anything!" she snapped back. "I just don’t want to. I don’t want you using my body as a toy!"

"Why not? You’re not doing anything with it! Aren't you curious what it feels like? Having sex as a woman? Let me tell you something: I've gotten good reviews on my sexual performance. I've never left a woman unsatisfied, believe you me. I've always left them with a smile on their face. So what it is, then? Are you afraid? It isn’t going to hurt you. I'll be so gentle. And think, for just a moment—" he struck his forehead with his fingers to emphasize his point "— it isn't going to cost you anything. I’m just talking about a friendly fuck. We don't need to sleep together, if that's your problem."

He took a deep breath, ragged with frustrated desire. "Think about this, for a half second — think about this: Caresse Desmense wasn't a virgin. That body you're wearing, you saw what the Gipper did with her." He pointed at her, wagging his finger. "That body... her body... your body.. it's already been used. She was no saint! She wasn't a god-damned virgin! So why should you be? God almighty! It shouldn’t matter to you! You've seen her do things — oh my God! Can you consider for a moment... just entertain the possibility that You might even LIKE it! You don't have to make any kind of effort. All you have to do is just relax and let me do all the work. You know what? You could try to look at it with a little sense of humor. Could you try that? A sense of irony, maybe? Anyway, it's a little thing, for fuck's sake! It shouldn’t matter to you."

"Of course it matters," she replied coldly. "Look: What if I told you that a friend of mine, a guy, wanted to fuck you up the ass — no romance involved, just a simple thing. In and out. Would you simply relax and do it? What if Joe asked you, as a friend, to let him give it a try?"

"Oh, you're sick! That’s not the same thing! It's not the same thing at all, and you know it!"

"It IS the same! It’s EXACTLY the same!"

"No, it isn’t!"

"What if Margaret — you know Margaret?"

"Granny Margaret? On the task force?"

"Yes. And come on, she's not that old!"

He scoffed. Caresse pressed on, "What if Margaret wanted to have sex with you? Nothing romantic; a one-time thing and forget it... just take off your clothes and bam! Would you just do it? Or would you make a big deal about it?" Joe and Bill had often made very negative and unkind comments about Margaret's lack of appeal.

Bill scowled. "Now what are you saying? That I'm ugly? Like Margaret?"

"No! I'm just saying that sex isn't as simple as you think. It has to be mutual, consensual."

"Right! I'm asking you to take off your goddam clothes and consent! What is the fucking problem?"

"The problem is that you're acting as though I don't have any choice, and that I shouldn't have any choice."

"So... what? I'm not good enough for you?"

She considered for a moment, and then said, "Yeah, okay. Let's go with that: you're not good enough for me."

"Oh my God! OH MY GOD! You know what? Do you know what? You're being a little too precious about this, Missy. You should be more humble. You should be more GRATEFUL. You have been given a great gift — BY ME — and you should be more generous with that gift. Especially to me."

"Generous?"

"Yes, generous!"

"So I should fuck you because you turned me into a girl?"

"Yes, to put it simply. Yes."

"Well, to put it simply, I won’t do it!"

"Look: you're not just a girl, you're a living, breathing sex bomb. And you're not doing anything with it!"

"I'm not obliged to do anything with it!"

"Then what's the point of your being this way?"

"Was that the point for you? Is this why you did this? So you could have sex with Caresse Demesne? Was that why you did all of this?"

"God dammit!" he shouted. "I gave you LEGS! You can walk now! You were in a frickin' wheelchair, for Christ's sake, and now you can WALK! You should be on your knees, sucking my dick in gratitude, every fucking time you see me!"

"Fuck you!" she shouted back.

"Oh, boy, oh boy, oh boy!" he fumed, as he paced up and down the room. He took a swig of wine directly from the bottle. "You know what? Do you know what?" He appeared to be wrestling with himself. He took another swig. "Oh, there’s something I could tell you, boy! And if I did, then you’d get down on your knees! If you knew, you’d be on your knees to me every chance you got!"

"There is no way," she told him coldly.

He set down the bottle and stood directly across the table from her. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward until his face was an inch away from hers. They were eye to eye, nose to nose. She didn't flinch. He fumed silently, still uncertain as to whether he ought to say... whatever it was he was threatening to tell her.

"Okay," he said, nodding vigorously. "Okay." His voice was calmer now, but still very intense. "You know that guy from Witness Protection? The one with the medallion? The weird guy with the bolo tie? The only guy who can change you back? Well, guess what! He doesn’t work for WITSEC at all. In fact, he's got nothing to do with law enforcement whatsoever. Let’s just say that he’s a friend of a friend of mine. It's actually more complicated than that. The point is: he's a hard man to find. A very hard man to find. Joe wouldn't be able to find him, and neither could you. You don't even know his name! Nobody knows him but me. So if you don’t play ball, if you don’t make nice with me, you can forget about ever being a man again. Let me tell you what's gonna happen if you want to keep your knees pressed so goddamn tight together: You’ll be stuck as Handsome Dan’s ex-girlfriend, and you know what I think? I think that if he wanted you dead once, I’m pretty sure he’ll be happy to kill you a second time, and this time he'll make damn sure you're dead. And I'll bet he'll want to make it hurt. You just think about that. Without me, you're dead. Without me, you're stuck: you got nowhere to go and no one to help you. You’ll just have to sit here, protecting your precious pussy, in the middle of the woods, all alone, until you starve to death. What do you think about that? Huh?"

She looked at him in silence for a few seconds, hanging fire. Then, just as he was about to speak again, she said, "I’ll tell you what I think: you can load the fucking dishwasher."

She left the table, went up the stairs, closed the door of her bedroom, and threw the deadbolt. She could hear him shouting in fury in the kitchen below. He stamped, he kicked things, he growled in fury and frustration. At one point it sounded like he was banging on a pot with a wooden spoon. Caresse checked her weapon and slipped it under her mattress near her head. After about thirty minutes, Bill finally quieted down, and she was able to fall asleep.