One Shot (34 page)

'We might really be able to nail him,' Rodin said. He
clicked off, thinking about two new framed headlines for
his office wall. First Barr, and then Reacher.

Reacher let himself out of Hutton's suite and used the
stairs instead of the elevator. On the ground floor he
turned away from the lobby and found a back corridor
with a fire door at the end of it. He pushed the fire door
open and held it ajar with his foot. Took Emerson's card
out of his pocket and tore it in half lengthwise and
folded the half with the name on it four times. He
pressed the tongue into the fire door's lock with the ball
of his thumb and wedged it there with the folded
cardboard. He closed the door gently and pushed it
flush with the frame with the flat of his hand. Then he
walked away, past a Dumpster, through the staff lot, out
to the street, heading north. The sidewalks were busy
and the traffic lanes were starting to clog. He walked at a
normal pace and used his height to scan the middle
distance for patrol cars or cops on corners. The day
was still warm. There was a weather system somewhere
out there. Somewhere near. There was high pressure in
the sky, clamping down, trapping the smell of damp
earth and nitrogen fertilizer in the air.

He reached the raised highway and turned west in its
shadow. The roadbed strode along on pillars forty feet
high. Underneath it were untidy lots, some vacant and
full of trash, some with old brick buildings with dark
skylights in their roofs, some with new metal sheds
housing body shops and spray paint operations. He
passed the back of the black glass tower and stayed in
the highway's shadow and turned south, ready to pass
behind the library. He stopped suddenly and crouched
and fiddled with his shoe. Like he had a stone.

Glanced back under his arm and saw nobody behind
him. No tail.

He moved on. After the library he was exposed for forty
yards. The plaza was east of him. He stopped
momentarily on a spot he judged was directly below
where Helen Rodin had parked the day before and
where James Barr should have parked on Friday. Forty
feet lower down the view was different but the geometry
was the same. He could see the wilted tributes propped
against the pool's southern wall. They were small
splashes of faded colour in the distance. Beyond them
was the DMV's door. People were coming out in ones
and twos. He checked his watch. Ten to five.

He moved on, in the open, and made it across to First
Street's northernmost block. He looped one block south
and three blocks east and came up on the parking
garage from the west. He walked up the entrance ramp
and found the security camera's lens. It was a small
circle of dirty glass mounted on a plain black box that
was bolted high up in the angle of two concrete beams.

He waved at it. It was too high, ideally. It should have
been lower, at licence plate level. But all the pillars
below waist height were scuffed and scraped.

A rainbow of different colours. Drivers were careless.

Mounted lower, the camera would have lasted a day and
a half. Maybe less.

He walked up the ramps to the second level. Headed
north and east, to the far back corner. The garage was
still and quiet, but full. The space that James Barr had
used was occupied. No room for sentiment in the
scramble for downtown parking. No room for reverence.

The border between the old garage and the new
construction was marked by a triple barrier of tape
strung between pillars. There was standard yellow and
black contractor's Caution Do Not Enter tape and above
it and below it were new lengths of blue and white
Police Line Do Not Cross tape. He used his forearm and
stretched all three lines higher and just ducked
underneath. No need to drop to one knee. No need to
scuff a pair of jeans. No need to leave a mess of fibres.

Not even for a guy six inches taller than Barr, and not
even with a new line of tape six inches lower than the
one Barr had encountered. He was literally going out of
his way to leave every last piece of evidence he could.

Reacher walked on into the gloom. The new
construction was rectangular in shape. Maybe forty
yards south to north, maybe two hundred east to west.

Which meant Reacher arrived at the new northeast
corner after thirty-five paces. He stood six feet back
from the perimeter wall and looked down and right. He
had a perfectly good view. No need to press up against
a pillar. No need to squirm around like a horse on its
back in a summer meadow.

He stood there and watched. People were coming out
of the government office in increasing numbers. There
was quite a flow. Some paused and lit cigarettes as
soon as they were out in the air. Others moved on
directly west, some fast, some slow. All of them turned
and tracked round the north end of the pool.

None of them walked where Barr's victims had walked.

The funeral tributes were a disincentive. A reminder.

Therefore it was hard to judge what Friday's scene had
looked like. Hard, but not impossible. Reacher watched
the walking people and in his mind made them forgo
their respectful right turns. He made them continue
straight on. They would be slow entering the bottleneck.

But not too slow. And they would be close. The
combination of moderate speed and proximity would
exaggerate the deflection angles. It would make the job
harder. It was a basic principle of long gun use. A bird
traversing the sky a hundred yards away was an easy
target. The same bird at the same speed flying six feet in
front of your face was an impossible target.

He pictured the people streaming right to left. He
closed one eye and extended his arm and pointed his
finger. Click, click-click, click-click-click. Six aimed
shots. Four seconds. Fast. Tough geometry. Tension,
exposure, vulnerability.

Six hits, including the deliberate miss.

Exceptional shooting.

They don't forget.

He dropped his arm to his side. It was cold in the
gloom. He shivered. The air was clammy and damp and
full of the smell of lime. It had been hot in Kuwait City.

The air had been shimmering and full of the smell of
baked dust and desert sand. Reacher had stood in the
parking garage and sweated. The street below him had
been blinding. Murderous. Like a blast furnace. Hot in
Kuwait City.

Four shots there.

Six shots here.

He stood and watched the people coming out the DMV

door. There were plenty of them. Ten, twelve, fifteen,
twenty. They turned and looped north and then turned
again and walked west between the pool and the NBC

peacock. They gave each other space. But if they had
been in the bottleneck they would have bunched up
tight. Plenty of them.

Six shots, in four seconds.

He looked for anyone not moving. Didn't see anybody.

No cops, no old men in boxy suits. He turned round and
retraced his steps. Lifted the tape again and ducked
under it and walked back down the ramps. Slipped out
to the street and turned west, heading for the shadows
under the highway. Heading for the library. He crossed
the forty yards of open ground and hugged the library's
side wall and went in through a handicapped entrance.

He had to walk close to the desk, but he wasn't worried
about that. If Emerson started circulating wanted
notices he would hit the post offices and bars and
hotels first. It would be a long time before he started
canvassing librarians. He made it to the lobby OK and
stepped over to the pay phones. Took the cocktail
napkin out of his pocket and dialled Helen Rodin's cell.

She picked up on the fifth ring.

He pictured her rooting through her purse, squinting at
the screen, fumbling with the buttons. 'Are you alone?'

he asked.

'Reacher?'

'Yes,' he said. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes,' she said. 'But you're in trouble.'

'Who called you?'

'My father.'

'You believe him?'

'No.'

'I'm coming to see you.'

'There's a cop in the lobby.'

'I figured. I'll come in through the garage.'

He hung up and walked back past the desk and out
the side entrance. Back under the highway. He stayed in
its shelter until he was opposite the back of the black
glass tower. Opposite the vehicle ramp. He checked left,
checked right, and walked straight down. Past the NBC

trucks, past the Mustang he figured for Ann Yanni's, to
the elevator. He pressed the call button and waited.

Checked his watch. Five thirty. Most people would be
leaving the building. A down elevator was certain to
stop at the lobby level. An up elevator, maybe not. He
hoped. The car arrived in the garage and let three
people out. They walked away. Reacher stepped in.

Pressed four. Stood back. The car rose one floor and
stopped. In the lobby. The doors slid back like a theatre
curtain. The cop was right there, four feet from the
elevator, facing away. He had his feet apart and his
hands on his hips. He was almost close enough to
touch. A man stepped into the elevator. He didn't speak.

Just nodded a two-guys-in-an-elevator greeting.

Reacher nodded back. The guy pressed seven. The
doors stayed open.

The cop watched the street. The new guy jiggled the
button. The cop moved. He swiped his cap off his head
and ran his fingers through his hair. The doors closed.

The elevator moved up. Reacher got out on four and
walked through a small knot of people on their way
home. Helen Rodin had her door open and ready. He
stepped inside her suite and she closed up after him.

She was wearing a short black skirt and a white blouse.

She looked young. Like a schoolgirl. And she looked
worried. Like a conflicted person. 'I should turn you in,'

she said.

'But you won't,' Reacher said.

'No,' she said. 'I should, but I won't.'

'Truth is I liked that girl,' Reacher said. 'She was a
sweet kid.'

'She set you up.'

'I wasn't offended.'

'Someone didn't like her.'

We can't tell. Affection didn't come into it. She was
disposable, that's all.

A means to an end.' 'The puppet master really doesn't
want you around.'

Reacher nodded. 'That's for damn sure. But he's shit
out of luck there, because I'm not leaving now. He just
guaranteed that for himself.' 'Is it safe to stay?'

'It's safe enough. But this thing with the girl is going to
slow me down. So you're going to have to do most of
the work.' She led him into the inner office. She sat
down at her desk. He stayed well away from the
window. He sat on the floor and propped his back
against the wall. 'I already started the work,' Helen said.

'I spoke to Rosemary and talked to Barr's neighbours.

Then I went back to the hospital. I think we're looking for
a guy called Charlie.

Small guy, bristly black hair. Interested in guns. I got
the impression he's kind of furtive. I think he's going to
be hard to find.' 'How long has he been on the scene?'

'Five or six years, apparently. He's the only long-term
friend anyone could name. And he's the only one Barr
owns up to.' Reacher nodded again. 'That works for
me.'