{"product_id":"one-shot-isbn-9780440246077","title":"One Shot","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • \u003cb\u003eDon’t miss the hit streaming series \u003ci\u003eReacher\u003c\/i\u003e! \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pure, escapist gold . . . Mr. Child’s tough talk and thoughtful plotting make an ingenious combination.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSix shots. Five dead. One heartland city thrown into a state of terror. But within  hours the cops have it solved: a slam-dunk case. Except for one thing. The accused  man says: You got the wrong guy. Then he says: Get Reacher for me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And sure enough,  ex—military investigator Jack Reacher is coming. He knows this shooter–a trained  military sniper who never should have missed a shot. Reacher is certain something  is not right–and soon the slam-dunk case explodes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now Reacher is teamed with a  beautiful young defense lawyer, moving closer to the unseen enemy who is pulling  the strings. Reacher knows that no two opponents are created equal. This one has  come to the heartland from his own kind of hell. And Reacher knows that the only  way to take him down is to match his ruthlessness and cunning–and then beat him shot  for shot. | “Reacher's back . . . gonzo action . . . canny plotting, tight prose, swift tempo.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus  Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \"Nothing is what it seems in the riveting puzzle, as vivid set pieces and  rapid-fire dialogue culminate in a slam-bang showdown in the villains' lair.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers  Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \"Child has a gift for throwing you a curve just when you think you've seen  it all.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sparse prose and fast pacing—[\u003ci\u003eOne Shot\u003c\/i\u003e] is sure to  be found in many hammocks this summer.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If you're looking for a  new series, this [the Jack Reacher novels] is one of the best in the thriller genre.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSalt  Lake Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Electrifying . . . This series is utterly addictive.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Explosive.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMiami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e | \u003cb\u003eLee Child \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of nineteen \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling Jack Reacher thrillers, ten of which have reached the #1 position. All have been optioned for major motion pictures; the first, \u003ci\u003eJack Reacher,\u003c\/i\u003e was based on \u003ci\u003eOne Shot\u003c\/i\u003e. Foreign rights in the Reacher series have sold in almost a hundred territories. A native of England and a former television director, Lee Child lives in New York City. | \u003cb\u003eC H A P T E R   2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Reacher was on his way to them because of a woman. He had spent  Friday night in South Beach, Miami, in a salsa club, with a dancer from a cruise  ship. The boat was Norwegian, and so was the girl.  Reacher guessed she was too tall  for ballet, but she was the right size for everything else. They met on the beach  in the afternoon. Reacher was working on his tan. He felt better brown. He didn’t  know what she was working on. But he felt her shadow fall across his face and opened  his eyes to find her staring at him. Or maybe at his scars. The browner he got, the  more they stood out, white and wicked and obvious. She was pale, in a black bikini.  A \u003ci\u003esmall \u003c\/i\u003eblack bikini. He pegged her for a dancer long before she told him. It was  in the way she held herself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They ended up having a late dinner together and then  going out to the club. South Beach salsa wouldn’t have been Reacher’s first choice,  but her company made it worthwhile. She was fun to be with. And she was a great dancer,  obviously. Full of energy. She wore him out. At four in the morning she took him  back to her hotel, eager to wear him out some more. Her hotel was a small Art Deco  place near the ocean. Clearly the cruise line treated its people well. Certainly  it was a much more romantic destination than Reacher’s own motel. And much closer.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And it had cable television, which Reacher’s place didn’t. He woke at eight on  Saturday morning when he heard the dancer in the shower. He turned on the TV and  went looking for ESPN. He wanted Friday night’s American League highlights. He never  found them. He clicked his way through successive channels and then stopped dead  on CNN because he heard the chief of an Indiana police department say a name he knew:  \u003ci\u003eJames Barr. \u003c\/i\u003eThe picture was of a press conference. Small room, harsh light. Top of  the screen was a caption that said: \u003ci\u003eCourtesy NBC. \u003c\/i\u003eThere was a banner across the bottom  that said: \u003ci\u003eFriday Night Massacre. \u003c\/i\u003eThe police chief said the name again, \u003ci\u003eJames Barr, \u003c\/i\u003eand then he introduced a homicide detective called Emerson. Emerson looked tired.  Emerson said the name for a third time: \u003ci\u003eJames Barr. \u003c\/i\u003eThen, like he anticipated the  exact question in Reacher’s mind, he ran through a brief biography: \u003ci\u003eForty-one years  old, local Indiana resident, U.S. Army infantry specialist from 1985 to 1991, Gulf  War veteran, never married, currently unemployed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher watched the screen. Emerson  seemed like a concise type of a guy. He was brief. No bullshit. He finished his statement  and in response to a reporter’s question declined to specify what if anything James  Barr had said during interrogation. Then he introduced a District Attorney. This  guy’s name was Rodin, and he wasn’t concise. Wasn’t brief. He used plenty of bullshit.  He spent ten minutes claiming Emerson’s credit for himself. Reacher knew how \u003ci\u003ethat \u003c\/i\u003eworked. He had been a cop of sorts for thirteen years. Cops bust their tails, and  prosecutors bask in the glory. Rodin said \u003ci\u003eJames Barr \u003c\/i\u003ea few more times and then said  the state was maybe looking to fry him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher waited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A local anchor  called Ann Yanni came on. She recapped the events of the night before. Sniper slaying.  Senseless slaughter. An automatic weapon. A parking garage. A public plaza. Commuters  on their way home after a long workweek. Five dead. A suspect in custody, but a city  still grieving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher thought it was Yanni who was grieving. Emerson’s success  had cut her story short. She signed off and CNN went to political news. Reacher turned  the TV off. The dancer came out of the bathroom. She was pink and fragrant. And naked.  She had left her towels inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What shall we do today?” she said, with a wide  Norwegian smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m going to Indiana,” Reacher said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He walked north in the  heat to the Miami bus depot. Then he leafed through a greasy timetable and planned  a route. It wasn’t going to be an easy trip. Miami to Jacksonville would be the first  leg. Then Jacksonville to New Orleans. Then New Orleans to St. Louis. Then St. Louis  to Indianapolis. Then a local bus, presumably, south into the heartland. Five separate  destinations. Arrival and departure times were not well integrated. Beginning to  end, it was going to take more than forty-eight hours. He was tempted to fly or rent  a car, but he was short of money and he liked buses better and he figured nothing  much was going to happen on the weekend anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What happened on the weekend was  that Rosemary Barr called her firm’s investigator back. She figured Franklin would  have a semiindependent point of view. She got him at home, ten o’clock in the morning  on the Sunday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I think I should hire different lawyers,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Franklin said  nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “David Chapman thinks he’s guilty,” Rosemary said. “Doesn’t he?\u003cbr\u003e So he’s  already given up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’t comment,” Franklin said. “He’s one of my employers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now Rosemary Barr said nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How was the hospital?” Franklin asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Awful.  He’s in intensive care with a bunch of prison deadbeats. They’ve got him handcuffed  to the bed. He’s in a \u003ci\u003ecoma, \u003c\/i\u003efor God’s sake. How do they think he’s going to escape?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s the legal position?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He was arrested but not arraigned. He’s in a kind  of limbo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They’re assuming he wouldn’t have gotten bail.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “They’re probably right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So they claim under the circumstances it’s like he actually \u003ci\u003edidn’t \u003c\/i\u003eget bail. So  he’s \u003ci\u003etheirs. \u003c\/i\u003eHe’s in the system. Like a twilight zone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What would you like to  happen?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He shouldn’t be in handcuffs. And he should be in a VA hospital at least.  But that won’t happen until I find a lawyer who’s prepared to help him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Franklin  paused. “How do you explain all the evidence?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I know my brother.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You moved  out, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “For other reasons. Not because he’s a homicidal maniac.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He blocked  off a parking space,” Franklin said. “He premeditated this thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You think he’ s guilty, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I work with what I’ve got. And what I’ve got doesn’t look good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rosemary Barr said nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m sorry,” Franklin said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Can you recommend another  lawyer?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Can you make that decision? Do you have a power of attorney?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I think  it’s implied. He’s in a coma. I’m his next of kin.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How much money have you got?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Not much.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How much has \u003ci\u003ehe \u003c\/i\u003egot?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “There’s some equity in his house.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It won’ t look good. It’ll be like a kick in the teeth for the firm you work for.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I can’ t worry about that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You could lose everything, including your job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ll lose  it anyway, unless I help James. If he’s convicted, they’ll let me go. I’ll be notorious.  By association. An embarrassment.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He had your sleeping pills,” Franklin said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I gave them to him. He doesn’t have insurance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Why did he need them?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He has  trouble sleeping.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Franklin said nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You think he’s guilty,” Rosemary said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The evidence is overwhelming,” Franklin said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “David Chapman isn’t really trying,  is he?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You have to consider the possibility that David Chapman is right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Who  should I call?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Franklin paused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Try Helen Rodin,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Rodin?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “She’s  the DA’s daughter.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t know her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “She’s downtown. She just hung out her  shingle. She’s new and she’s keen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is it ethical?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No law against it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It  would be father against daughter.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It was going to be Chapman, and Chapman knows  Rodin a lot better than his daughter does, probably. She’s been away for a long time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Where?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “College, law school, clerking for a judge in D.C.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is she any good?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I think she’s going to be.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Rosemary Barr called Helen Rodin on her office  number. It was like a test. Someone new and keen should be at the office on a Sunday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen Rodin was at the office on a Sunday. She answered the call sitting at her  desk. Her desk was secondhand and it sat proudly in a mostly empty two-room suite  in the same black glass tower that had NBC as the second-floor tenant. The suite  was rented cheap through one of the business subsidies that the city was throwing  around like confetti. The idea was to kick-start the rejuvenated downtown area and  clean up later with healthy tax revenues.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rosemary Barr didn’t have to tell Helen  Rodin about the case because the whole thing had happened right outside Helen Rodin’ s new office window. Helen had seen some of it for herself, and she had followed  the rest on the news afterward. She had caught all of Ann Yanni’s TV appearances.  She recognized her from the building’s lobby, and the elevator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Will you help my  brother?” Rosemary Barr asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen Rodin paused. The smart answer would be \u003ci\u003eNo  way. \u003c\/i\u003eShe knew that. Like \u003ci\u003eNo way, forget about it, are you out of your mind? \u003c\/i\u003eTwo reasons.  One, she knew a major clash with her father was inevitable at some point, but did  she need it \u003ci\u003enow\u003c\/i\u003e? And two, she knew that a new lawyer’s early cases defined her. Paths  were taken that led down fixed routes. To end up as a when-all-else-fails criminal-defense  attorney would be OK, she guessed, all things considered. But to start out by taking  a case that had offended the whole city would be a marketing disaster. The shootings  weren’t being seen as a \u003ci\u003ecrime. \u003c\/i\u003eThey were being seen as an \u003ci\u003eatrocity. \u003c\/i\u003eAgainst humanity,  against the whole community, against the rejuvenation efforts downtown, against the  whole idea of being from Indiana. It was like LA or New York or Baltimore had come  to the heartland, and to be the person who tried to excuse it or explain it away  would be a fatal mistake. Like a mark of Cain. It would follow her the rest of her  life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Can we sue the jail?” Rosemary Barr asked. “For letting him get hurt?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen  Rodin paused again. Another good reason to say no. \u003ci\u003eAn unrealistic client.\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Maybe  later,” she said. “Right now he wouldn’t generate much sympathy as a plaintiff. And  it’s hard to prove damages, if he’s heading for death row anyway.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Then I can’t  pay you much,” Rosemary Barr said. “I don’t have money.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen Rodin paused for  a third time. \u003ci\u003eAnother \u003c\/i\u003egood reason to say no. It was a little early in her career  to be contemplating pro bono work.\u003cbr\u003e But. But. But.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The accused deserved representation.  The Bill of Rights said so. And he was innocent until proven guilty. And if the evidence  was as bad as her father said it was, then the whole thing would be little more than  a supervisory process. She would verify the case against him independently. Then  she would advise him to plead guilty. Then she would watch his back as her father  fed him through the machine. That was all. It could be seen as honest dues-paying.  A constitutional chore. She hoped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “OK,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He’s innocent,” Rosemary Barr  said. “I’m sure of it.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They always are, \u003c\/i\u003eHelen Rodin thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “OK,” she said again.  Then she told her new client to meet her in her office at seven the next morning.  It was like a test. A sister who really believed in her brother’s innocence would  show up for an early appointment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Rosemary Barr showed up right on time, at seven  o’clock on Monday morning. Franklin was there, too. He believed in Helen Rodin and  was prepared to defer his bills until he saw which way the wind was blowing. Helen  Rodin herself had already been at her desk for an hour. She had informed David Chapman  of the change in representation on Sunday afternoon and had obtained the audiotape  of his initial interview with James Barr. Chapman had been happy to hand it over  and wash his hands. She had played the tape to herself a dozen times Sunday night  and a dozen more that morning. It was all anyone had of James Barr. Maybe all anyone  was ever going to get. So she had listened to it carefully, and she had drawn some  early conclusions from it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Listen,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had the tape cued up and ready  in an old-fashioned machine the size of a shoe box. She pressed \u003ci\u003ePlay \u003c\/i\u003eand they all  heard a hiss and breathing and room sounds and then David Chapman’s voice: \u003ci\u003eI can’ t help you if you won’t help yourself. \u003c\/i\u003eThere was a long pause, full of more hiss,  and then James Barr spoke: \u003ci\u003eThey got the wrong guy. . . . They got the wrong guy, \u003c\/i\u003ehe said again. Then Helen watched the tape counter numbers and spooled forward to  Chapman saying: \u003ci\u003eDenying it is not an option. \u003c\/i\u003eThen Barr’s voice came through: \u003ci\u003eGet  Jack Reacher for me. \u003c\/i\u003eHelen spooled onward to Chapman’s question: \u003ci\u003eIs he a doctor? \u003c\/i\u003eThen there was nothing on the tape except the sound of Barr beating on the interview  room door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “OK,” Helen said. “I think he really believes he didn’t do it. He claims  as much, and then he gets frustrated and terminates the interview when Chapman doesn’ t take him seriously. That’s clear, isn’t it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He \u003ci\u003edidn’t \u003c\/i\u003edo it,” Rosemary Barr  said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I spoke with my father yesterday,” Helen Rodin said. “The evidence is all  there, Ms. Barr. He did it, I’m afraid. You need to accept that a sister maybe can’ t know her brother as well as she’d like. Or if she once did, that he changed for  some reason.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a long silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is your father telling you the truth about  the evidence?” Rosemary asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He has to,” Helen said. “We’re going to see it all  anyway. There’s the discovery process. We’re going to take depositions. There would  be no sense in him bluffing at this point.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nobody spoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But we can still help  your brother,” Helen said in the silence. “He believes he didn’t do it. I’m sure  of that, after listening to the tape.\u003cbr\u003e Therefore he’s delusional now. Or at least  he was on Saturday.\u003cbr\u003e Therefore perhaps he was delusional on Friday, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How does  that help him?” Rosemary Barr asked. “It’s still admitting he did it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The consequences  will be different. If he recovers. Time and treatment in an institution will be a  lot better than time and \u003ci\u003eno \u003c\/i\u003etreatment in a maximum security prison.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You want to  have James declared insane?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen nodded. “A medical defense is our best shot.  And if we establish it right now, it might improve the way they handle him before  the trial.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He might die. That’s what the doctors said. I don’t want him to die  a criminal. I want to clear his name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He hasn’t been tried yet. He hasn’t been  convicted. He’s still an innocent man in the eyes of the law.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s not the same.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No,” Helen said. “I guess it isn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was another long silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Let’s meet  back here at ten-thirty,” Helen said. “We’ll thrash out a strategy. If we’re aiming  for a change of hospitals, we should try for it sooner rather than later.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We need  to find this Jack Reacher person,” Rosemary Barr said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen nodded. “I gave his  name to Emerson and my father.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Why?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Because Emerson’s people cleared your brother’ s house out.\u003cbr\u003e They might have found an address or a phone number. And my father needed  to know because we want this guy on our witness list, not the prosecution’s. Because  he might be able to help us.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He might be an alibi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Maybe an old army buddy,  at best.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t see how,” Franklin said. “They were different ranks and different  branches.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We need to find him,” Rosemary Barr said. “James asked for him, didn’ t he? That has to mean something.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Helen nodded again. “I’d certainly like to find  him. He might have something for us. Some exculpatory information, possibly. Or at  least he might be a link to something we can use.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He’s out of circulation,” Franklin  said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e He was two hours away, in the back of a bus out of Indianapolis. The trip  had been slow, but pleasant enough. He had spent Saturday night in New Orleans, in  a motel near the bus depot. He had spent Sunday night in Indianapolis. So he had  slept and fed himself and showered. But mostly he had rocked and swayed and dozed  on buses, watching the passing scenes, observing the chaos of America, and surfing  along on the memory of the Norwegian. His life was like that. It was a mosaic of  fragments. Details and contexts would fade and be inaccurately recalled, but the  feelings and the experiences would weave over time into a tapestry equally full of  good times and bad. He didn’t know yet exactly where the Norwegian would fall. At  that point he thought of her as a missed opportunity. But she would have sailed away  soon anyway. Or he would have. CNN’s intervention had shortened things, but maybe  only by a fraction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The bus was doing 55 on Route 37, heading south. It stopped  in Bloomington. Six people got out. One of them left the Indianapolis paper behind.  Reacher picked it up and checked the sports. The\u003cbr\u003e Yankees were still ahead in the  East. Then he flipped to the front and checked the news. He saw the headline: \u003ci\u003eSniper  Suspect Hurt in Jail Attack. \u003c\/i\u003eHe read the first three paragraphs: \u003ci\u003eBrain injury. Coma.\u003cbr\u003e Uncertain prognosis. \u003c\/i\u003eThe journalist seemed torn between condemning the Indiana Board  of Corrections for its lawless prisons and applauding Barr’s attackers for doing  their civic duty.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This might complicate things, \u003c\/i\u003eReacher thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The later paragraphs  carried a reprise of the original crime story, plus updated background, plus new  facts. Reacher read them all.\u003cbr\u003e Barr’s sister had moved out of his house some months  before the incident. The journalist seemed to think that was either a cause or an  effect of Barr’s evident instability. Or both. The bus moved out of Bloomington.  Reacher folded the paper and propped his head against the window and watched the  road. It was a black ribbon, wet with recent rain, and it unspooled beside him with  the center line flashing by like an urgent Morse code message. Reacher wasn’t sure  what it was saying to him. He couldn’t read it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The bus pulled into a covered  depot and Reacher came out into the daylight and found himself five blocks west of  where a raised highway curled around behind an old stone building. Indiana limestone,  he guessed. The real thing. It would be a bank, he thought, or a courthouse, or maybe  a library. There was a black glass tower beyond it. The air was OK. It was colder  than Miami but he was still far enough south that winter felt safely distant. He  wasn’t going to have to refresh his wardrobe because of weather. He was in white  chino pants and a bright yellow canvas shirt. Both were three days old. He figured  he would get another day out of them. Then he would buy replacements, cheap. He had  brown boat shoes on his feet. No socks. He felt he was dressed for the boardwalk  and thought he must look a little out of place in the city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He checked his watch.  Nine-twenty in the morning. He stood on the sidewalk in the diesel fumes and stretched  and looked around. The city was one of those heartland places that are neither large  nor small, neither new nor old. It wasn’t booming and it wasn’t decrepit.\u003cbr\u003e There was  probably some history. Probably some corn and soybean trading. Maybe tobacco. Maybe  livestock. There was probably a river, or a railhead. Maybe some manufacturing. There  was a small downtown area. He could see it ahead of him, east of where he stood.  Taller structures, some stone, some brick, some billboards. He figured the black  glass tower would be the flagship building. No reason to build it anyplace else than  the heart of downtown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He walked toward it. There was a lot of construction under  way.\u003cbr\u003e Repairs, renewals, holes in the road, gravel piles, fresh concrete, heavy trucks  moving slow. He crossed in front of one and hit a side street and came out along  the north side of a half-finished parking garage extension. He recalled Ann Yanni’ s fevered breaking-news recap and glanced up at it and then away from it to a public  square. There was an empty ornamental pool with a fountain spout sticking up forlornly  in the center. There was a narrow walkway between the pool itself and a low wall.  The walkway was decorated with makeshift funeral tributes. There were flowers, with  their stems wrapped in aluminum foil. Photographs under plastic, and small stuffed  animals, and candles. There was a dusting of leftover sand. The sand had soaked up  the blood, he guessed. Fire engines carry boxes of sand for accidents and crime scenes.  And stainless steel shovels for removal of body parts. He glanced back at the parking  garage. Less than thirty-five yards, he thought. Very close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stood still. The  plaza was silent. The whole city was quiet. It felt stunned, like a limb briefly  paralyzed after a massive bruising blow. The plaza was the epicenter. It was where  the blow had landed. It was like a black hole, with emotion compressed into it too  tight to escape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He walked on. The old limestone building was a library. \u003ci\u003eThat’s  OK, \u003c\/i\u003ehe thought. \u003ci\u003eLibrarians are nice people. They tell you things, if you ask them. \u003c\/i\u003eHe asked for the DA’s office. A sad and subdued woman at the checkout desk gave him  directions. It wasn’t a long walk. It wasn’t a big city. He walked east past a new  office building that had signs for the DMV and a military recruitment center. Behind  it was a block of off-brand stores and then a new courthouse building. It was a plain  flat-roof off-the-shelf design dressed up with mahogany doors and etched glass. It  could have been a church from some weird denomination with a generous but strapped  congregation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He avoided the main public entrance. He circled the block until he  came to the office wing. He found a door labeled \u003ci\u003eDistrict Attorney.\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eBelow it on a  separate brass plate he found Rodin’s name. \u003ci\u003eAn elected official, \u003c\/i\u003ehe thought. \u003ci\u003eThey  use a separate plate to make it cheaper when the guy changes every few Novembers. \u003c\/i\u003eRodin’s initials were \u003ci\u003eA. A. \u003c\/i\u003eHe had a law degree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher went in through the door  and spoke to a receptionist at a counter. Asked to see A. A. Rodin himself. “About  what?” the receptionist asked, quietly but politely. She was middle-aged, well cared  for, well turned out, wearing a clean white blouse. She looked like she had worked  behind a desk all her life. A practiced bureaucrat. But stressed. She looked like  she was carrying all the town’s recent troubles on her shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “About James Barr,”  Reacher said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Are you a reporter?” the receptionist asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No,” Reacher said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “May I tell Mr. Rodin’s office your connection to the case?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I knew James Barr  in the army.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That must have been some time ago.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A long time ago,” Reacher said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “May I have your name?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Jack Reacher.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The receptionist dialed a phone and spoke.  Reacher guessed she was speaking to a secretary, because both he and Rodin were referred  to in the third person, like abstractions. \u003ci\u003eCan he see a Mr. Reacher about the case? \u003c\/i\u003eNot the Barr case. Just \u003ci\u003ethe \u003c\/i\u003ecase. The conversation continued. Then the receptionist  covered the phone by clamping it to her chest, below her collarbone, above her left  breast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do you have information?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The secretary upstairs can hear your  heart beating, \u003c\/i\u003eReacher thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes,” he said. “Information.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “From the army?”  she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher nodded. The receptionist put the phone back to her face and continued  the conversation. It was a long one. Mr. A. A. Rodin had an efficient pair of gatekeepers.  That was clear. No way of getting past them without some kind of an urgent and legitimate  reason. That was clear, too. Reacher checked his watch. Nine-forty in the morning.  But there was no rush, under the circumstances. Barr was in a coma. Tomorrow would  do it. Or the next day. Or maybe he could get to Rodin through the cop, if need be.  What was his name? Emerson?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The receptionist hung up the phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Please go straight  up,” she said. “Mr. Rodin is on the third floor.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m honored, \u003c\/i\u003eReacher thought.  The receptionist wrote his name on a visitor pass and slipped it into a plastic sleeve.  He clipped it on his shirt and headed for the elevator. Rode it to the third floor.  The third floor had low ceilings and internal corridors lit by fluorescent tubes.  There were three doors made of painted fiberboard that were closed and one set of  double doors made of polished wood that were open. Behind those was a secretary at  a desk. The second gatekeeper. She was younger than the downstairs lady but presumably  more senior.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mr. Reacher?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He nodded and she came out from behind her  desk and led him to where the windowed offices started. The third door they came  to was labeled \u003ci\u003eA. A. Rodin.\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s the \u003ci\u003eA. A. \u003c\/i\u003efor?” Reacher asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m sure Mr.  Rodin will tell you if he wants to,” the secretary said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She knocked on the door  and Reacher heard a baritone reply from inside. Then she opened the door and stood  aside for Reacher to go in past her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thanks,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You’re most welcome,”  she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher went in. Rodin was already on his feet behind his desk, ready  to welcome his visitor, full of reflexive courtesy. Reacher recognized him from the  TV. He was a guy of about fifty, fairly lean, fairly fit, gray hair cut short. In  person he looked smaller. He was maybe an inch under six feet and a pound under two  hundred. He was dressed in a summer-weight suit, dark blue. He had a blue shirt on,  and a blue tie. His eyes were blue. Blue was his color, no doubt about it. He was  immaculately shaved and wearing cologne. He was a very squared-away guy, no question.  \u003ci\u003eAs opposed to me, \u003c\/i\u003eReacher thought. It was like a study in contrasts. Next to Rodin,  Reacher was an unkempt giant. He was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier.  His hair was two inches longer and his clothes were a thousand dollars cheaper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mr. Reacher?” Rodin said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reacher nodded. The office was government-basic, but  neat. It was cool and quiet. No real view from the window. Just the flat roofs of  the off-brand stores and the DMV office, with all the ductwork showing. The black  glass tower was visible in the distance. There was a weak sun in the sky. At a right  angle to the window there was a trophy wall behind the desk, with college degree  certificates and photographs of Rodin with politicians. There were framed newspaper  headlines reporting guilty verdicts in seven different cases. On another wall was  a photograph of a blonde girl wearing a mortarboard and a gown and holding a degree  scroll. She was pretty. Reacher looked at her for a moment longer than he needed  to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s my daughter,” Rodin said. “She’s a lawyer, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is she?” Reacher  said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “She just opened her","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338546655461,"sku":"NP9780440246077","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440246077.jpg?v=1769572631","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/one-shot-isbn-9780440246077","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}