One Shot

Helen Rodin called Rosemary Barr at work. She wasn’t there. The receptionist sounded a little embarrassed about it. So Helen tried Rosemary’s home number, and got her after the second ring.

"Did they let you go?" she asked.

"Unpaid leave," Rosemary said. "I volunteered for it. Everyone was acting awkward around me."

"That’s awful."

"It’s human nature. I need to make a plan. I might have to move."

"I need a list of your brother’s friends," Helen said.

"He doesn’t have any. The true test of friendship is adversity, isn’t it? And nobody’s visited him. Nobody’s even tried. Nobody’s called me to ask how he is."

"I meant before," Helen said. "I need to know who he saw, who he hung out with, who knew him well. Especially anyone new."

"There wasn’t anyone new," Rosemary said. "Not that I’m aware of."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"What about old?"

"Have you got a big piece of paper?"

"I’ve got a whole yellow pad."

"Well, you aren’t going to need it. A matchbook cover would do it. James is a very self-sufficient person."

"He must have buddies."

"A couple, I guess," Rosemary said. "There’s a guy called Mike from the neighborhood. They talk about lawns and baseball, you know, guy stuff."

Mike, Helen wrote. Guy stuff. "Anyone else?"

There was a long pause.

"Someone called Charlie," Rosemary said.

"Tell me about Charlie," Helen said.

"I don’t know much about him. I never really met him."

"How long has James known him?"

"Years."

"Including the time you lived there?"

"He never came around when I was in. I only ever saw him once. He was leaving as I was coming in. I said, Who was that? James said, That was Charlie, like he was an old pal."

"What does he look like?"

"He’s small. He’s got weird hair. Like a black toilet brush."

"Is he local?"

"I guess so."

"What was their point of contact?"

Another long pause.

"Guns," Rosemary said. "They shared an interest."

Charlie, Helen wrote. Guns.

Donna Bianca spent some time on her cell phone and mapped out the flight schedules between D.C. and Indianapolis. She knew the onward connecting flights left on the hour and took thirty-five minutes. She figured a person with a courthouse appointment at four o’clock wouldn’t aim to arrive on anything later than the two thirty-five. Which meant leaving Indianapolis at two, which meant getting in there at about one-thirty, latest, to allow for the walk between gates. Which meant leaving Washington National at eleven-thirty or twelve, latest. Which wasn’t possible. The last direct flight from National to Indianapolis was at nine-thirty. There was a morning cluster and an evening cluster. Nothing in between.

"She’ll come in on the twelve thirty-five," she said.

Emerson checked his watch. Quarter to twelve.

"Which means Reacher will be here soon," he said.

At ten to twelve a courier arrived at Helen Rodin’s building with six large cardboard cartons containing the defense’s copies of the prosecution’s evidence. The discovery process, mandated by the rules of due process. By the Bill of Rights, as interpreted. The courier called from the lobby and Helen told him to come on up. He had to make two trips with his handcart. He stacked the boxes in the empty secretarial pen. Helen signed for them and he left. Then she opened them. There was a mass of paperwork and dozens of photographs. And eleven new VHS cassettes. They had labels with numbers neatly printed on them that referred to a notarized sheet that described them as faithful and complete copies of the parking garage’s security tapes, made by an independent third-party contractor. Helen took them all out and stacked them separately. She would have to take them home and use her own VCR to look at them. She didn’t have a VCR in the office. Or a television set.

There was a television set in the Marriott’s coffee shop. It was mounted high in the corner, on a black articulated bracket bolted to the wall. The sound was off. Reacher watched an advertisement that featured a young woman in a filmy summer dress romping through a field of wildflowers. He wasn’t sure what product was being advertised. The dress, maybe, or makeup, or shampoo, or allergy medicine. Then a news banner popped up. Noon Report. Reacher checked his watch. Twelve exactly. He glanced toward the reception desk in the lobby. He had a clear view. No sign of Hutton. Not yet. So he glanced back at the television. Ann Yanni was on. She seemed to be live on location, downtown, out on the street. In front of the Metropole Palace Hotel. She talked silently but earnestly for a moment and then the picture cut to tape of dawn twilight. An alley. Police barriers. A shapeless form under a white sheet. Then the picture cut again. To a driver’s license photograph. Pale skin. Green eyes. Red hair. Just under the chin a caption was superimposed: Alexandra Dupree.

Alexandra. Sandy.

Now they’ve gone too far, Reacher thought.

He shivered.

Way too far.

He stared at the screen. Sandy’s face was still there. Then the picture cut again, back to tape of the early hours, to a head-and-shoulders shot of Emerson. A recorded interview. Yanni had her microphone shoved up under Emerson’s nose. He was talking. Yanni pulled the microphone back and asked a question. Emerson talked some more. His eyes were flat and empty and tired and hooded against the bright light on the camera. Even without the sound Reacher knew what he was saying. He was promising a full and complete investigation. We’ll get this guy, he was saying.

"I saw you from the desk," a voice said.

Then it said, "And I thought to myself, don’t I know that guy?"

Reacher looked away from the TV.

Eileen Hutton was standing right there in front of him.

Her hair was shorter. She had no tan. There were fine lines around her eyes. But otherwise she looked just the same as she had fourteen years ago. And just as good. Medium height, slim, poised. Groomed. Fragrant. Feminine as hell. She hadn’t put on a pound. She was wearing civvies. Khaki chino pants, a white T, a blue oxford shirt open over it. Penny loafers, no socks, no makeup, no jewelry.

No wedding band.

"Remember me?" she said.

Reacher nodded.

"Hello, Hutton," he said. "I remember you. Of course I do. And it’s good to see you again."

She had a purse and a key card in her hand. A rolling carry-on with a long handle at her feet.

"It’s good to see you again, too," she said. "But please tell me it’s a coincidence that you’re here. Please tell me that."

Feminine as hell, except she was still a woman in a man’s world, and you could still see the steel if you knew where to look. Which was into her eyes. They ran like a stock ticker, warm, warm, welcome, welcome, with a periodic bright flash: Mess with me and I’ll rip your lungs out.

"Sit down," Reacher said. "Let’s have lunch."

"Lunch?"

"It’s what people do at lunch time."

"You were expecting me. You’ve been waiting for me."

Reacher nodded. Glanced back up at the TV set. Sandy’s driver’s license picture was on the screen again. Hutton followed his gaze.

"Is that the dead girl?" she asked. "I heard it on the radio, driving down. Sounds like a person should get combat pay, coming here."

"What did the radio say? There’s no sound in here."