Lee Child - One Shot

“But she didn’t give you details?” Ann Yanni asked.

“She was a very private person,” the woman said.

“It’s important.”

“She would get kind of distracted. That wasn’t like her. About a week before she was killed she was gone most of one afternoon. That wasn’t like her, either.”

“Do you know what she was doing?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Anything you remember about her husband would help us.”

The woman shook her head. “His name is Ted. That’s all I can say for sure.”

“OK, thanks,” Helen said.

She turned and headed back to her car. Yanni and Reacher followed her. The woman on the stoop stared after them, disappointed, like she had failed an audition.

Ann Yanni said, “Strike one. But don’t worry. It always happens that way. Sometimes I think we should just skip the first person on the list. They never know anything.”

Reacher was uncomfortable in the back of the car. His pants pocket had gotten underneath him and a coin was digging edge-on into his thigh. He squirmed around and pulled it out. It was a quarter, new and shiny. He looked at it for a minute and then he put it in the other pocket.

“I agree,” he said. “We should have skipped her. My fault. Stands to reason a co-worker wouldn’t know much. People are cagy around co-workers. Especially rich people fallen on hard times.”

“The neighbor will know more,” Yanni said.

“We hope,” Helen said.

They were caught in crosstown traffic. They were headed from the eastern suburbs to the western, and it was a slow, slow ride. Reacher was glancing between his watch and the windows again. The sun was low on the horizon ahead of them. Behind them it was already twilight.

Time ticking away.

Rosemary Barr moved in her chair and struggled against the tape binding her wrists.

“We know it was Charlie who did it,” she said.

“Charlie?” the Zec repeated.

“My brother’s so-called friend .”

“Chenko,” the Zec said. “His name is Chenko. And yes, he did it. Tactically it was his plan. He did well. Of course, his physique helped. He was able to wear his own shoes inside your brother’s. He had to roll the pants and the raincoat sleeves.”

“But we know ,” Rosemary said.

“But who knows? And what exactly do they bring to the party?”

“Helen Rodin knows.”

“You’ll dismiss her as your lawyer. You’ll terminate the representation. Ms. Rodin will be unable to repeat anything she learned while your relationship was privileged. Linsky, am I right?”

Linsky nodded. He was six feet away, on the sofa, propped at an odd angle to rest his back.

“That’s the law,” he said. “Here in America.”

“Franklin knows,” Rosemary said. “And Ann Yanni.”

“Hearsay,” the Zec said. “Theories, speculation, and innuendo. Those two have no persuasive evidence. And no credibility, either. Private detectives and television journalists are exactly the kind of people who peddle ridiculous and alternative explanations for events like these. It’s to be expected. Its absence would be unusual. Apparently a president was killed in this country more than forty years ago and people like them still claim that the real truth has not yet been uncovered.”

Rosemary said nothing.

“Your deposition will be definitive,” the Zec said. “You’ll go to Rodin and you’ll give sworn testimony about how your brother plotted and planned. About how he told you what he was intending. In detail. The time, the place, everything. You’ll say that to your sincere and everlasting regret you didn’t take him seriously. Then some poor excuse for a public defender will take one look at your evidence and plead your brother guilty and the whole thing will be over.”

“I won’t do it,” Rosemary said.

The Zec looked straight at her.

“You will do it,” he said. “I promise you that. Twenty-four hours from now you’ll be begging to do it. You’ll be insane with fear that we might change our minds and not let you do it.”

The room went quiet. Rosemary glanced at the Zec as if she had something to say. Then she glanced away. But the Zec answered her anyway. He had heard her message loud and clear.

“No, we won’t be there with you at the deposition,” he said. “But we will know what you tell them. Within minutes. And don’t think about a little detour to the bus depot. For one thing, we’ll have your brother killed. For another, there’s no country in the world we can’t find you in.”

Rosemary said nothing.

“Anyway,” the Zec said. “Let’s not argue. It’s unproductive. And pointless. You’ll tell them what we tell you to tell them. You will, you know. You’ll see. You’ll be desperate to. You’ll be wishing we had arranged an earlier appointment for you. At the courthouse. You’ll spend the waiting time on your knees pleading for a chance to show us how word-perfect you are. That’s how it usually happens. We’re very good at what we do. We learned at the feet of masters.”

“My brother has Parkinson’s disease,” Rosemary said.

“Diagnosed when?” the Zec asked, because he knew the answer.

“It’s been developing.”

The Zec shook his head. “Too subjective to be helpful. Who’s to say it’s not a similar condition brought on suddenly by his recent injury? If not, then who’s to say such a condition is a true handicap anyway? When shooting from such a close range? If the public defender brings in an expert, then Rodin will bring in three. He’ll find doctors who will swear that Little Annie Oakley was racked with Parkinson’s disease from the very day she was born.”

“Reacher knows,” Rosemary said.

“The soldier? The soldier will be dead by morning. Dead, or a runaway.”

“He won’t run away.”

“Therefore he’ll be dead. He’ll come for you tonight. We’ll be ready for him.”

Rosemary said nothing.

“Men have come for us before in the night,” the Zec said. “Many times, in many places. And yet we’re still here. Da , Linsky?”

Linsky nodded again.

“We’re still here,” he said.

“When will he come?” the Zec asked.

“I don’t know,” Rosemary said.

“Four o’clock in the morning,” Linsky said. “He’s an American. They’re trained that four o’clock in the morning is the best time for a surprise attack.”

“Direction?”

“From the north would make the most sense. The stone-crushing plant would conceal his staging area and leave him only two hundred yards of open ground to cover. But I think he’ll double-bluff us there. He’ll avoid the north, because he knows it’s best.”

“Not from the west,” the Zec said.

Linsky shook his head. “I agree. Not down the driveway. Too straight and open. He’ll come from the south or the east.”

“Put Vladimir in with Sokolov,” the Zec said to him. “Tell them to watch the south and the east very carefully. But tell them to keep an eye out north and west, too. All four directions must be monitored continuously, just in case. Then put Chenko in the upstairs hallway with his rifle. He can be ready to deploy to whichever window is appropriate. With Chenko, one shot will be enough.”

Then he turned to Rosemary Barr.

“Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.”

The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure.