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Reacher paused. Then he nodded. "The shrink should think about the parking meter. I mean, who pays for ten minutes even if they’re not shooting people? It strikes me as weird. It’s so law-abiding, isn’t it? It kind of puts the whole event into a law-abiding envelope. Maybe he really was nuts this time. You know, confused about what he was doing."

Helen Rodin made a note. "I’ll be sure to mention it."

"You want to get some dinner?"

"We’re on opposite sides."

"We had lunch."

"Only because I wanted something from you."

"We can still be civilized."

She shook her head. "I’m having dinner with my father."

"He’s on the opposite side."

"He’s my father."

Reacher said nothing.

"Were the cops OK?" she asked.

Reacher nodded. "They were courteous enough."

"They can’t have been very pleased to see you. They don’t understand why you’re really here."

"They don’t need to worry. They’ve got a great case."

"It’s not over until the fat lady sings."

"She’s been singing since Friday at five. Pretty loud."

"Maybe we could have a drink after dinner," she said. "If I can get away in time. There’s a sports bar six blocks north of here. Monday night, it’s about the only place in town. I’ll drop by and see if you’re there. But I can’t promise anything."

"Neither can I," Reacher said. "Maybe I’ll be at the hospital, unplugging James Barr’s life support."

He rode down in the elevator and found Rosemary Barr waiting for him in the lobby. He guessed she had just gotten back from the hospital and had called upstairs and Helen Rodin had told her he was on his way down. So she had waited. She was pacing nervously, side to side, crossing and recrossing the route between the elevator bank and the street door.

"Can we talk?" she asked.

"Outside," he said.

He led her through the door and across the plaza to the south wall of the pool. It was still filling slowly. The fountain splashed and tinkled. He sat where he had sat before, with the funeral tributes at his feet. Rosemary Barr stood in front of him, facing him, very close, her eyes on his, not looking down at the flowers and the candles and the photographs.

"You need to keep an open mind," she said.

"Do I?" he said.

"James wanted you here, therefore he can’t be guilty."

"That’s a leap."

"It’s logical," she said.

"I just saw the evidence," he said. "More than enough for anyone."

"I’m not going to argue about fourteen years ago."

"You can’t."

"But he’s innocent now."

Reacher said nothing.

"I understand how you feel," Rosemary said. "You think he let you down."

"He did."

"But suppose he didn’t? Suppose he met your conditions and this is all a mistake? How would you feel then? What would you do for him? If you’re ready to stand up against him, don’t you think you should be equally ready to stand up for him?"

"That’s too hypothetical for me."

"It’s not hypothetical. I’m just asking, if you’re proved wrong, if he didn’t do it, will you put the same energy into helping him?"

"If I’m proved wrong, he won’t need my help."

"Will you?"

"Yes," Reacher said, because it was an easy promise to make.

"So you need to keep an open mind."

"Why did you move out?"

She paused. "He was angry all the time. It was no fun living with him."

"Angry at what?"

"At everything."

"So maybe it’s you who should keep an open mind."

"I could have made up a reason. But I didn’t. I told you the truth. I don’t want to hide anything. I need you to trust me. I need to make you believe. My brother’s an unhappy man, maybe even disturbed. But he didn’t do this."

Reacher said nothing.

"Will you keep an open mind?" she asked.

Reacher didn’t answer. Just shrugged and walked away.

He didn’t go to the hospital. Didn’t unplug James Barr’s machines. He went to the sports bar instead, after a shower back at the Metropole Palace. The six blocks north of the black glass tower took him under the highway again and out into a hinterland. Gentrification had a boundary to the south, as he had seen, and now he saw it had a boundary to the north, too. The bar was a little ways beyond it. It was in a plain square building that could have started out as anything. Maybe a feed store, maybe an automobile showroom, maybe a pool hall. It had a flat roof and bricked-up windows and moss growing where blocked rainwater gutters had spilled.

Inside it was better, but generic. It was like every other sports bar he had ever been in. It was one tall room with black-painted air-conditioning ducts pinned to the ceiling. It had three dozen TV screens hanging from the walls and the ceiling. It had all the usual sports-bar stuff all over the place. Signed uniform jerseys framed under glass, football helmets displayed on shelves, hockey sticks, basketballs, baseballs, old game-day programs. The waitstaff was all female, all of them in cheerleader-style uniforms. The bar staff was male and dressed in striped umpire uniforms.

The TVs were all tuned to football. Inevitable, Reacher guessed, on a Monday night. Some of the screens were regular TVs, and some were plasmas, and some were projectors. The same event was displayed dozens of times, all with slightly different color and focus, some big, some small, some bright, some dim. There were plenty of people in there, but Reacher got a table to himself. In a corner, which he liked. A hard-worked waitress ran over to him and he ordered beer and a cheeseburger. He didn’t look at the menu. Sports bars always had beer and cheeseburgers.

He ate his meal and drank his beer and watched the game. Time passed and the place filled up and got more and more crowded and noisy, but nobody came to share his table. Reacher had that kind of an effect on people. He sat there alone, in a bubble of quiet, with a message plainly displayed: Stay away from me.

Then someone ignored the message and came to join him. It was partly his own fault. He looked away from the screen and saw a girl hovering nearby. She was juggling a bottle of beer and a full plate of tacos. She was quite a sight. She had waved red hair and a red gingham shirt open at the neck and tied off at the navel. She had tight pants on that looked like denim but had to be spandex. She had the whole hourglass thing going, big-time. And she was in shiny lizard-skin boots. Open the encyclopedia to C for Country Girl and her picture was going to be right there staring back at you. She looked too young for the beer. But she was past puberty. That was for damn sure. Her shirt buttons were straining. And there was no visible panty line under the spandex. Reacher looked at her for a second too long, and she took it as an invitation.

"Can I share your table?" she asked from a yard away.

"Help yourself," he said.

She sat down. Not opposite him, but in the chair next to him.

"Thanks," she said.

She drank from her bottle and kept her eyes on him. Green eyes, bright, wide open. She half-turned toward him and arched the small of her back. Her shirt was open three buttons. Maybe a 34D, Reacher figured, in a push-up bra. He could see the edge of it. White lace.

She leaned close because of the noise.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Like what?" he said.

"Football," she said.

"A bit," he said.

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