Lee Child - One Shot

“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 around. 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 swiveled it around 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. Signaled 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 around 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.”

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 afterward. 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 neighborhood, 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 walk 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 harboring 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.