The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  James Barr’s friend Mike called Helen Rodin back at three o’clock in the afternoon. She asked for his address and got him to agree to a face-to-face interview. He said he was home for the rest of the day. So she called a cab and headed out. Mike lived on James Barr’s street, twenty minutes from downtown. Barr’s house was visible from Mike’s front yard. Both houses were similar. All the houses on the street were similar. They were 1950s ranches, long and low. Helen guessed they had all started out identical. But a half-century’s worth of adding on and reroofing and re-siding and ongoing landscaping had made them diverge in appearance. Some looked upmarket and some still looked basic. Barr’s place looked worn. Mike’s place looked manicured.

  Mike himself was a tired fifty-something who worked the morning shift at a paint wholesaler. His wife arrived home while Helen was still introducing herself. She was also a tired fifty-something. Her name was Tammy, which didn’t suit her. She was a part-time dental nurse. She worked two mornings a week for a downtown dentist. She ushered Helen and Mike into the living room and then went away to make coffee. Helen and Mike sat down and started out with an awkward initial silence that lasted minutes.

  “So, what can I tell you?” Mike asked eventually.

  “You were Mr. Barr’s friend,” Helen said.

  Mike glanced at the living room door. It was open.

  “Just a neighbor,” he said.

  “His sister called you a friend.”

  “We were neighborly. Some folks might call that friendly.”

  “Did you spend time together?”

  “We would chat a little if he walked by with his dog.”

  “About what kind of thing?”

  “Our yards,” Mike said. “If he was decorating he would ask me about paint. I asked him who fixed his driveway. Things like that.”

  “Baseball?”

  Mike nodded. “We would talk about that.”

  Tammy came in with three cups of coffee on a tray. There was cream and sugar and a small plate of cookies with them, and three paper napkins. She put the tray on a low table and sat down next to her husband.

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Helen said. “Thank you very much.”

  They all served themselves and there was silence in the room.

  “Were you ever in Mr. Barr’s house?” Helen asked.

  Mike glanced at his wife.

  “Once or twice,” he said.

  “They weren’t friends,” Tammy said.

  “Was it a surprise?” Helen asked. “That he did what he did?”

  “Yes,” Tammy said. “It was.”

  “So you don’t need to feel bad about mixing with him before. It wasn’t something that anyone could have predicted. These things are always a surprise. Neighbors never know.”

  “You’re trying to get him off.”

  “Actually I’m not,” Helen said. “But there’s a new theory that he didn’t act alone. I’m just trying to make sure that the other man gets punished, too.”

  “It wasn’t Mike,” Tammy said.

  “I don’t think it was,” Helen said. “Really. Not for a moment. Not now that I’ve met him. But whoever the other man is, you or Mike might know him or have heard about him or even seen him coming and going.”

  “Barr didn’t really have friends,” Mike said.

  “Nobody?”

  “Not that he spoke about to me. He lived with his sister until she moved out. I guess that was enough for him.”

  “Does the name Charlie mean anything to you?”

  Mike just shook his head.

  “What did Mr. Barr do when he had a job?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said. “He hasn’t worked for years.”

  “I’ve seen a man over there,” Tammy said.

  “When?”

  “Now and then. Occasionally. He comes and goes. All times of the day and night, like a friend would.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ever since we moved here. I spend more time at home than Mike does. So I notice more.”

  “When was the last time you saw this man?”

  “Last week, I think. A couple of times.”

  “Friday?”

  “No, earlier. Tuesday and Wednesday, maybe.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s small. He’s got funny hair. Black, like hog bristles.”

  Charlie, Helen thought.

  Eileen Hutton walked three fast blocks south from the Marriott and arrived at the courthouse at one minute to four exactly. Alex Rodin’s secretary came down to escort her up to the third floor. Depositions were taken in a large conference room because most witnesses brought their own lawyers and court reporters with them. But Hutton was on her own. She sat down alone on one long side of a large table and smiled as a microphone was placed in front of her and a video camera was focused on her face. Then Rodin came in and introduced himself. He brought a small team with him. An assistant, his secretary, a court reporter with her machine.

  “Would you state your full name and title for the record?” he asked.

  Hutton looked at the camera.

  “Eileen Ann Hutton,” she said. “Brigadier General, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, United States Army.”

  “I hope this won’t take long,” Rodin said.

  “It won’t,” Hutton said.

  And it didn’t. Rodin was trawling in a sea he hadn’t charted. He was like a man in a darkened room. All he could do was dart around randomly and hope he bumped into something. After six questions he realized he was never going to.

  He asked, “How would you characterize James Barr’s military service?”

  “Exemplary without being exceptional,” Hutton said.

  He asked, “Was he ever in trouble?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.

  He asked, “Did he ever commit a crime?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.

  He asked, “Are you aware of recent events in this city?”

  “Yes, I am,” Hutton said.

  He asked, “Is there anything in James Barr’s past that might shed light on the likelihood or otherwise of his having been involved in those events?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.

  Finally he asked, “Is there any reason why the Pentagon might be more aware of James Barr than any other veteran?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.

  So at that point Alex Rodin gave up.

  “OK,” he said. “Thank you, General Hutton.”

  Helen Rodin walked thirty yards and stood on the street for a moment outside James Barr’s house. It had police tape across the entryway and a plywood sheet nailed over the broken front door. It looked forlorn and empty. There was nothing to see. So she used her cell phone to call a cab and had it take her to the county hospital. It was after four o’clock in the afternoon when she arrived and the sun was in the west. It lit up the white concrete building with pale shades of orange and pink.

  She rode up to the sixth floor and signed in with the Board of Corrections and found the tired thirty-year-old doctor and asked him about James Barr’s condition. The doctor didn’t really answer. He wasn’t very interested in James Barr’s condition. That was clear. So Helen just walked past him and opened Barr’s door.

  Barr was awake. He was still handcuffed to the cot. His head was still clamped. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. His breathing was low and slow and the heart monitor was beeping less than once a second. His arms were trembling slightly and his handcuffs were rattling against the bed frame. Quiet, dull, metallic sounds.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  Helen stepped close and leaned into his field of view.

  “Are they looking after you?” she asked.

  “I have no complaints,” he said.

  “Tell me about your friend Charlie.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No, he’s not here.�
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  “Did Mike come?”

  “I don’t think they allow visitors. Just lawyers and family.”

  Barr said nothing.

  “Are those your only friends?” Helen said. “Mike and Charlie?”

  “I guess,” Barr said. “And Mike’s more of a neighbor.”

  “What about Jeb Oliver?”

  “Who?”

  “He works at the auto parts store.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Barr’s eyes moved and his lips pursed, like a man searching his memory, trying to be helpful, desperate for approval.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never heard of him.”

  “Do you use drugs?”

  “No,” Barr said. “Never. I wouldn’t do that.” He was quiet for a beat. “Truth is I don’t really do much of anything. I just live. That’s why this whole thing makes no sense to me. I spent fourteen years in the world. Why would I throw it all away now?”

  “Tell me about Charlie,” Helen said.

  “We hang out,” Barr said. “We do stuff.”

  “With guns?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Where does Charlie live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long have you been friends?”

  “Five years. Maybe six.”

  “And you don’t know where he lives?”

  “He never told me.”

  “He’s been to your place.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 10

  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.

  “OK,” she said. “Come back later.”

  Alex Rodin stepped back into his office and closed the door and called Emerson.

  “Have you got him yet?” he asked.

  “Just a matter of time,” Emerson said. “We’re looking for him all over. And we’re watching his room. He’s at the old motor court. Under a false name.”

  “That’s interesting,” Rodin said. “It means he might have used a false name at the Metropole, too.”

  “I’ll check,” Emerson said. “I’ll show the clerk the picture.”