The visitor she spied through the peekhole in the front door of her condo was not, however, a member of the National Guard. She watched as Cooper lifted a thermos and two full-figured cocktail glasses so she could see them through the peephole.
It occurred to Laramie she was wearing only her panties and Lakers nightshirt. She considered ducking into her bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans, then thought what the hell and opened the door.
Cooper slid in and Laramie noticed he was wearing an oddly conformist selection of clothes-a sweater with a beefy collar-and-button arrangement, khaki slacks that actually reached below the knee, and even shoes. Laramie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Cooper out of uniform. Taking it in reverse order, it was always-always-flip-flops or sandals, almost always shorts, and usually a tropical-pattern short-sleeved silk shirt.
Cooper raised the thermos and cocktail glasses.
“Would have preferred to hold this little reunion on the beach near San Cristóbal,” he said, “but with air travel restrictions being what they are, I’m figuring genuine Cuban mojitos will serve as the next best thing.”
Laramie shut the door and stood facing him with hands on hips.
“You look different,” she said.
“You don’t,” he said.
Laramie hadn’t moved from her place near the door, and Cooper noted that Laramie, in keeping with the manners of other government employees, hadn’t suggested he make himself comfortable on one of the available surfaces that surrounded them.
Therefore he, too, stood his ground.
“Was that a compliment?” Laramie said.
“Probably,” Cooper said.
Laramie nodded this time.
“What are you doing here,” she said.
“Saying hello,” Cooper said, “and, while I’m at it, congratulating my commanding officer on her relative success in defusing the ‘bioterror’ crisis-”
“Probably there was some other business you were here to attend to,” Laramie said, “but as the human lie detector machine, I’m going to posit the theory that you’re also here in an effort to impress me.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“When was the last time you swung by my actual home?”
Cooper said, “That would be never.”
“When did you last wear clothes a normal person would wear?” Laramie said.
“Tough question,” he said.
“These almost appear as gestures of the sort that would lead one to conclude there’s no longer an ultimatum in effect,” Laramie said, “requiring that I return to the islands to hop from resort to beach to spa and back again-or incur the wrath of zero phone calls.”
Cooper said, “Well, strangely, you seem to prefer living where people bomb you with filoviruses just for living here. But eventually one comes to accept such eccentricities.”
They kept standing in their places.
“What’s in a mojito?” Laramie said.
“A lot of very good rum,” Cooper said, “a few crushed mint leaves, some sugar, and very little soda water. Over ice.”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“Celebrated yet traditional Cuban cocktail,” Cooper said. “Speaking of tradition, by the way, this would be my first booze since departing on that Central American cruise you sent me on.”
Laramie stood firm but almost cracked a smile.
“Funny,” she said.
“What’s funny about recovering from massive and lengthy liquor abuse?” he said.
“I’m a few days in on the caffeine-withdrawal headaches myself,” she said.
“Ah,” Cooper said.
After a moment, Laramie said, “We don’t get along very well.”
Cooper considered this.
“Probably about as well as an old married couple,” he said.
Laramie looked at him.
“Except,” she said, “by comparison, we’ll probably see each other once every month. Or every two months-instead of every day. And yet, we will probably still get along just as poorly.”
Cooper shrugged.
“I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” he said.
“As a grouch, you mean.”
“Yeah,” he said. “As a grouch.”
Laramie let one hand drop from her waist.
“You said you haven’t had a drink since you pulled that skydiving stunt of yours?”
Then she thought of something.
“And what happened, by the way? Did you drop your portable electronics out the window of the plane? Next time, would you care to update any of us a little faster, maybe?”
“I hit a tree,” he said, “but why don’t you come back to what you said before you started in on the interrogation.”
Laramie felt the heat pop from her shoulders into her neck.
She said, “You mean the part about your not having a drink since then?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That part.”
Cooper felt as though he were leaning forward-as if Laramie were some sort of magnet, and he, a slab of steel.
“Oh,” she said. “That.”
“Where were you going with that,” he said.
“Who’s the lie detector now?”
“Where were you going,” Cooper said.
Laramie sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “If you must know, I was going to say something in the order of, ‘Well, why start now,’ and, well…”
Great, she thought: from bold to shy in thirty seconds or less…
“If you walk in there,” Cooper said, “and I set these drinks down and follow you into your room, then you won’t have to say what it was you were going to say before you started to think a little too much about-”
“Quiet,” she said, dropped her other hand from her waist, and touched his shoulder as she walked past him and on through the darkened doorway to her bedroom.
Cooper bent down and set the thermos and glasses on the floor.
Quiet it is, he thought, and followed her in.
Acknowledgments
It is unlikely this book would exist anywhere but the hard drive on my PowerBook were it not for the efforts, generosity, and excellence of Marc H. Glick and Stephen F. Breimer, Matthew Guma and Richard Pine, Jess Taylor, Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, and Sarah Durand. I’m also grateful for the effort that Rachel Bressler, Lynn Grady, and Eryn Wade-along with the many other talented people at HarperCollins-constantly put forth on Cooper’s behalf.
I’d also like to mention my gratitude to Mark Shapiro, Ron Semiao, George Bodenheimer, Mike Antinoro, Fred Christenson, Crowley Sullivan, Ron Wechsler, and the long roster of my former and current colleagues at ESPN.
The world of fiction-writing and -selling includes some very kind souls, and for their kind words about Painkiller, I’d like to thank Michael Connelly, Clive Cussler, James Patterson, James Rollins, James Siegel, David Morrell, Christopher Reich, and last but not least, Gregg Hurwitz, who actually saw fit to introduce me to most of the people in the top paragraph above. I’m also way in debt to every bookseller-independent bookstore owners and staff, as well as everyone at the bigger stores too-willing to put Cooper and Laramie on shelves.
Finally, novels don’t get written-at least not by me-without boundless support and patience from the home front. In that sense I’m the most fortunate person on the planet. Nadine, Sophie, Brick, Mystery Kid #3-this happens because of you guys. Mom, Dad, and Bart: thanks for always being there, and for putting this stuff in me.
As before, a salute to you alclass="underline" live slow, mon.
About the Author
Will Staeger has worked for ESPN as an executive producer of original entertainment, and in Hollywood as a feature-film development executive. He lives with his wife and children in Connecticut.
www.willstaeger.com
