One Shot (33 page)

So at that point Alex Rodin gave up.

'OK,' he said. 'Thank you, General Hutton.'

Helen Rodin walked thirty yards and stood on the
street for a moment outside James Barr's house. It had
police tape across the entryway and a plywood sheet
nailed over the broken front door. It looked forlorn and
empty. There was nothing to see. So she used her cell
phone to call a cab and had it take her to the county
hospital. It was after four o'clock in the afternoon when
she arrived and the sun was in the west. It lit up the
white concrete building with pale shades of orange and
pink. She rode up to the sixth floor and signed in with
the Board of Corrections and found the tired thirty-year-old doctor and asked him about James Barr's condition.

The doctor didn't really answer. He wasn't very
interested in James Barr's condition. That was clear.

So Helen just walked past him and opened Barr's door.

Barr was awake. He was still handcuffed to the cot. His
head was still clamped. His eyes were open and he was
staring at the ceiling. His breathing was low and slow
and the heart monitor was beeping less than once a
second.

His arms were trembling slightly and his handcuffs
were rattling against the bed frame. Quiet, dull, metallic
sounds. 'Who's there?' he said.

Helen stepped close and leaned into his field of view.

'Are they looking after you?' she asked.

'I have no complaints,' he said.

'Tell me about your friend Charlie.'

'Is he here?'

'No, he's not here.'

'Did Mike come?'

'I don't think they allow visitors. Just lawyers and
family.' Barr said nothing.

'Are those your only friends?' Helen said. 'Mike and
Charlie?' 'I guess,'

Barr said. 'And Mike's more of a neighbour.' 'What
about Jeb Oliver?'

'Who?'

'He works at the auto parts store.'

'I don't know him.'

'Are you sure?'

Barr's eyes moved and his lips pursed, like a man
searching his memory, trying to be helpful, desperate
for approval. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I never heard of him.'

'Do you use drugs?'

'No,' Barr said. 'Never. I wouldn't do that.' He was quiet
for a beat. 'Truth is I don't really do much of anything. I
just live. That's why this whole thing makes no sense to
me. I spent fourteen years in the world. Why would I
throw it all away now?' 'Tell me about Charlie,' Helen
said.

'We hang out,' Barr said. We do stuff.'

'With guns?'

'A little bit.'

'Where does Charlie live?'

'I don't know.'

'How long have you been friends?'

'Five years. Maybe six.'

'And you don't know where he lives?'

'He never told me.'

'He's been to your place.'

'So?'

'You never went to his place?'

'He came to mine instead.'

'Do you have his phone number?'

'He just shows up, here and there, now and then.' 'Are
you close?'

'Close enough.'

'How close exactly?'

'We get along.'

'Well enough to tell him what happened fourteen years
ago?' Barr didn't answer. Just closed his eyes. 'Did you
tell him?'

Barr said nothing.

'I think you told him,' Helen said.

Barr didn't confirm or deny it.

'I'm surprised that a man doesn't know where his
friend lives. Especially a friend as close as I think
Charlie is.' 'I didn't push it,' Barr said. 'I was lucky to
have a friend at all. I didn't want to ruin it with
questions.'

Eileen Hutton got up from Alex Rodin's deposition
table and shook hands all round. Then she stepped out
to the corridor and came face to face with a guy she
assumed was the cop called Emerson. The one Reacher
had warned her about.

He confirmed it by handing her a card with his name
on it. 'Can we talk?' he asked.

'About what?' she asked back.

'About Jack Reacher,' Emerson said.

'What about him?'

'You know him, am I right?'

'I knew him fourteen years ago.'

'When did you last see him?'

'Fourteen years ago,' she said. 'We were in Kuwait
together. Then he shipped out somewhere. Or I did. I
can't remember.' 'You didn't see him today?'

'He's in Indiana?'

'He's in town. Right here, right now.' 'Small world.'

'How did you get here?'

'I flew into Indianapolis and rented a car.' 'Staying
overnight?' 'Do I have a choice?' 'Where?' 'The Marriott.'

'Reacher killed a girl last night.' 'Are you sure?' 'He's our
only suspect' 'That would be very unlike him.' 'Call me if
you see him. The station house number is on my card.

And my direct extension. And my cell phone.' 'Why
would I see him?' 'Like you said, it's a small world.'

A police black-and-white crawled north through the
building rush hour traffic.

Past the gun store. Past the barbershop. Any Style $7.

Then it eased right and turned into the motor court. The
cop in the passenger seat got out and walked to the
office. Gave the clerk a flyer. Laid it flat on the counter
and swivelled it round and slid it across. 'Call us if this
guy shows up, OK?' the cop said.

'He's already here,' the clerk said. 'But his name's
Heffner, not Reacher. I put him in room eight, last night.'

The cop stood still. 'Is he in there now?'

'I don't know. He's come and gone a few times.'

'How long did he book for?'

'He paid one night. But he didn't give the key back yet.'

'So he's planning to be here again tonight'

'I guess.'

'Unless he's already here.'

'Unless,' the clerk said.

The cop stepped back to the office door. Signalled his
partner. His partner shut the motor down and locked the
car and walked over. 'Room eight, false name,' the first
cop said.

'In there now?' his partner asked.

We don't know.'

'So let's find out'

They took the clerk with them. They made him stand
well back. They drew their weapons and knocked on
room eight's door. No response.

They knocked again.

No response.

'Got a master key?' the first cop asked.

The clerk handed him a key. The cop put it in the lock,
gently, one-handed.

Turned it slowly. Opened the door a half inch and
paused and then smashed it all the way open and
stepped inside. His partner stepped in right behind him.

Their guns traced left and right and up and down, fast
and random and tense.

The room was empty.

Nothing in there at all, except a forlorn little sequence
of bathroom items lined up on a shelf above the sink. A
new pack of throwaway razors, open, one used. A new
can of shaving foam, with dried bubbles round the
nozzle. A new tube of toothpaste, twice squeezed. 'This
guy travels light,' the first cop said.

'But he hasn't checked out,' his partner said. 'That's
for sure. Which means he's coming back.'

TEN

REACHER WAS FALLING ASLEEP ON THE BED IN

ROOM 310 AT THE Marriott Suites. He was on his back,
like a dead man. He and Hutton had talked so long in the
coffee shop that she had almost been late for her
appointment. She had checked her watch at five to four
and had thrust her key card at him and asked him to
dump her bag in her room. Then she had run straight
out to the street. He guessed he was supposed to leave
her card at the desk afterwards. But he didn't. He didn't
have anywhere he needed to be. Not right then. So he
just parked the bag and stayed inside.

He wasn't crazy about room 310, all things considered.

It was on the third floor, which made the window a
difficult escape route. Room eight at the motor court
had been better. Much better. Ground floor, a tangled old
neighbourhood, it gave a guy a sporting chance. Open
the window, step out, look for an alley, or a door, or
another window. That was good. This was bad. He was
three floors up. A long climb. And he wasn't even sure if
the Marriott's windows opened at all. Maybe they didn't.

Maybe the main office lawyers had been worried about
liability. Maybe they had foreseen a steady deluge of
infants raining down on the parking lot blacktop. Or
maybe it was a question of economies of scale. Maybe
the cost of hinges and handles outweighed a little extra
on the air conditioning bill. Whatever, it wasn't a great
room to be in.

Not by any measure. Not for the long term. But it was
OK for the short term.

So he closed his eyes and drifted away. Sleep when
you can, because you never know when you're going to
sleep again. That was the old army rule.

Emerson's plan was pretty straightforward. He put
Donna Bianca in room seven.

Told the two patrolmen to stash their car three streets
away and walk back and wait in room nine. He put a car
two streets behind the motor court, and another four
blocks north, where the auto dealers were, and another
two blocks south. He told the clerk to stay awake and
watch through the window and call Bianca in room
seven as soon as he saw the guy he knew as Heffner
walking in.

Eileen Hutton got back to the Marriott at four thirty.

There was no key card waiting for her at the desk. No
message. So she went up in the elevator and followed
the arrows to room 310 and knocked on the door. There
was a short pause and then the door opened and
Reacher let her in. 'How's my room?' she asked.

'The bed's comfortable,' he said.

'I'm supposed to call Emerson if I see you,' she said.

'Are you going to?'

'No.'

'Perjury and harbouring a fugitive,' he said. 'All in one
day.'

She dug in her purse and came out with Emerson's
card. `You're their only suspect. He gave me three
separate phone numbers. They sound pretty serious.'

He took the card from her. Put it in his back pocket,
with the cocktail napkin that had Helen Rodin's cell
number on it. He was turning into a walking phone
book. 'How was the thing with Rodin?' he asked.

'Straightforward,' she said.

He said nothing. She moved around, checking the
suite. Bathroom, bedroom, living room, kitchenette. She
took her bag and stood it neatly against a wall.

'Want to stay?' she said.

He shook his head.

'I can't,' he said.

'OK,' she said.

'But I could come back later, if you like.'

She paused a beat.

'OK,' she said. 'Come back later.'

Alex Rodin stepped back into his office and closed the
door and called Emerson.

'Have you got him yet?' he asked.

'Just a matter of time,' Emerson said. 'We're looking for
him all over. And we're watching his room. He's at the
old motor court. Under a false name.'

'That's interesting,' Rodin said. 'It means he might
have used a false name at the Metropole too.'

'I'll check,' Emerson said. 'I'll show the clerk the
picture.'