One Shot (41 page)

No backward glances. The end of a long day. 'Keep
very quiet,' Reacher said again, as a reminder. 'Then
we'll be OK.' Yanni glanced left, glanced right.

Tension in her body.

'Don't do it,' Reacher said. 'Don't do anything. Or I'll
pull the trigger. Gut shot. Or thigh. You'll take twenty
minutes to bleed out. Lots of pain.' What do you want?'

Yanni asked.

'I want you to be quiet and sit still. Just for a few more
minutes.'

She clamped her teeth and went quiet and sat still. The
last car drove away.

The white Taurus. The guy with the hair. The weather
man, or the sportscaster.

There was tyre squeal as he turned and engine noise
as he gunned up the ramp.

Then those sounds faded out and the garage went
completely silent. 'What do you want?' Yanni asked
again. Her voice was faint. Her eyes were huge. She was
trembling. She was thinking rape, murder, torture,
dismemberment. Reacher turned on the dome light.

'I want you to win the Pulitzer Prize,' he said.

"What?1 'Or the Emmy or whatever it is you guys get.'

'What?'

'I want you to listen to a story,' he said.

'What story?'

'Watch,' Reacher said.

He lifted his shirt. Showed her the tyre iron resting
against his stomach. She stared at it. Or at his shrapnel
scar. Or both. He wasn't sure. He balanced the tyre iron
in his palm. Held it up in the light. 'From your trunk,' he
said. 'Not a gun.'

He clicked the button on the door and unlocked the
car.

You're free to go,' he said. Whenever you want.'

She put her hand on the handle.

'But if you go, I go,' Reacher said. 'You won't see me
again. You'll miss the story. Someone else will get it.'

'We've been running your picture all night,' she said.

'And the cops have got wanted posters all over town.

You killed the girl.'

Reacher shook his head. 'Actually I didn't, and that's
part of the story.'

'What story?' she said again.

'Last Friday,' Reacher said. 'It wasn't what it seemed.'

'I'm going to get out of the car now,' Yanni said.

'No,' Reacher said. 'I'll get out. I apologize if I upset
you. But I need your help and you need mine. So I'll get
out. You lock the doors, start the car, keep your foot on
the brake, and open your window an inch. We'll talk
through the window. You can drive off any time you
want.'

She said nothing. Just stared straight ahead as if she
could make him vanish by not looking at him. He
opened his door. Slid out and turned and laid the tyre
iron gently on the seat. Then he closed the door and
just stood there. He tucked his shirt in. He heard the
thunk of her door locks. She started her engine. Her
brake lights flared red. He saw her reach up and switch
off the dome light. Her face disappeared into shadow.

He heard the transmission move out of Park. Her
reversing lights flashed white as she moved the selector
through Reverse into Drive. Then her brake lights went
out and the engine roared and she drove off in a fast
wide circle through the empty garage. Her tyres
squealed. Grippy rubber on smooth concrete. The
squeals echoed. She lined up for the exit ramp and
accelerated hard.

Then she jammed on the brakes.

The Mustang came to rest with its front wheels on the
base of the ramp.

Reacher walked towards it, crouching a little so he
could see through the small rear window. No cell phone.

She was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, hands
on the wheel. The brake lights blazed red, so bright they
hurt.

The exhaust pipes burbled. White fumes kicked
backwards. Drops of water dripped out and made tiny
twin pools on the floor.

Reacher walked round to her window and stayed three
feet away. She buzzed the glass down an inch and a
half. He dropped into a crouch, so he could see her
face. 'Why do I need your help?' she asked.

'Because Friday was over too soon for you,' he said.

'But you can get it back.

There's another layer. It's a big story. You'll win prizes.

You'll get a better job. CNN will beat a path to your door.'

You think I'm that ambitious?'

'I think you're a journalist.'

What does that mean?'

'That in the end journalists like stories. They like the
truth.'

She paused, almost a whole minute. Stared straight
ahead. The car ticked and clicked as it warmed up.

Reacher could sense the idle speed straining against
the brakes. Then he saw her glance down and move her
arm and shove the selector into Park. The Mustang
rolled back six inches and stopped. Reacher shuffled
sideways to stay level with the window. Yanni turned her
head and looked straight at him. 'So tell me the story,'

she said. 'Tell me the truth.'

He told her the story, and the truth. He sat cross-

legged on the concrete floor, so as to appear immobile
and unthreatening. He left nothing out. He ran through
all the events, all the inferences, all the theories, all the
guesses.

At the end he just stopped talking and waited for her
reaction. 'Where were you when the girl was killed?' she
asked.

'Asleep in the motor court.'

'Alone?'

'All night. Room eight. I slept very well.'

'No alibi.'

You never have an alibi when you need one. That's a
universal law of nature.'

She looked at him for a long moment.

What do you want me to do?' she said.

'I want you to research the victims.'

She paused.

We could do that,' she said. We have researchers.'

'Not good enough,' Reacher said. 'I want you to hire a
guy called Franklin.

Helen Rodin can tell you about him. She's in this
building, two floors above you.'

'Why hasn't she hired this Franklin guy herself?'

'Because she can't afford him. You can. I assume
you've got a budget. A week of Franklin's time probably
costs less than one of your weather guy's haircuts.'

'And then what?'

'Then we put it all together.'

'How big is this?'

'Pulitzer-sized. Emmy-sized. New-job-sized.'

'How would you know? You're not in the business.'

'I was in the army. I would guess this is worth a Bronze
Star. That's probably a rough equivalent. Better than a
poke in the eye with a sharp stick.' 'I don't know,' she
said. 'I should turn you in.'

'You can't,' he said. 'You pull out a phone and I'll take
off up the ramp.

They won't find me. They've been trying all day.' 'I
don't really care about prizes,' she said.

'So do it for fun,' he said. 'Do it for professional
satisfaction.'

He rocked sideways and took out the napkin with
Helen Rodin's number on it.

Held it edge-on at the crack of the window. Yanni took
it from him, delicately, trying to avoid touching his
fingers with hers. 'Call Helen,'

Reacher said. 'Right now. She'll vouch for me.'

Yanni took a cell phone out of her purse and turned it
on. Watched the screen and waited until it was ready
and then dialled the number. She passed the napkin
back. Listened to the phone. 'Helen Rodin?' she said.

Then she buzzed the window all the way up and
Reacher didn't hear any of the conversation. He
gambled that it was really Helen she was speaking to. It
was possible that she had looked at the napkin and
dialled another number entirely. Not 911, because she
had dialled ten digits. But she might have called the
cops' main desk. A reporter might know that number by
heart. But it was Helen on the line. Yanni buzzed the
window down again and passed him her phone through
the gap. 'Is this for real?' Helen asked him.

'I don't think she's decided yet,' Reacher said. 'But it
might work out.'

'Is it a good idea?'

'She's got resources. And having the media watching
our backs might help us.'

'Put her back on.'

Reacher passed the phone through the window. This
time Yanni kept the glass down so that Reacher heard
her end of the rest of the conversation. Initially she
sounded sceptical, and then neutral, and then
somewhat convinced. She arranged to meet on the
fourth floor first thing in the morning. Then she clicked
the phone off. "There's a cop outside her door,' Reacher
said.

'She told me that,' Yanni said. 'But they're looking for
you, not me.' 'What exactly are you going to do?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

Reacher said nothing.

'I guess I need to understand where you're coming
from first,' Yanni said.

'Obviously you don't care anything about James Barr
himself. So is this all for the sister? Rosemary?'

Reacher watched her watching him. A woman, a
journalist.

'Partly for Rosemary,' he said.

'But?'

'Mostly for the puppet master. He's sitting there
thinking he's as smart as a whip. I don't like that. Never
have. Makes me want to show him what smart really is.'

'Like a challenge?'

'He had the girl killed, Yanni. She was just a dumb
sweet kid looking for a little fun. He pushed open the
wrong door there. So he deserves to have something
come out at him. That's the challenge.' "You hardly
knew her.'

'That doesn't make her any less innocent.'

'OK.'

'OK what?'

'NBC will spring for Franklin. Then we'll see where that
takes us.' 'Thanks,'

Reacher said. 'I appreciate it.'

'You should.'

'I apologize again. For scaring you.'

'I nearly died of fright.'

'I'm very sorry.'

'Anything else?'

'Yes,' Reacher said. 'I need to borrow your car.' 'My
car?'

'Your car.'

'What for?'

'To sleep in and then to go to Kentucky in.' 'What's in
Kentucky?'

'Part of the puzzle.'

Yanni shook her head. 'This is nuts.'

'I'm a careful driver.'

'I'd be aiding and abetting a fugitive criminal.' 'I'm not a
criminal,'

Reacher said. 'A criminal is someone who has been
convicted of a crime after a trial. Therefore I'm not a
fugitive, either. I haven't been arrested or charged. I'm a
suspect, that's all.' 'I can't lend you my car after running
your picture all night.' "You could say you didn't
recognize me. It's a sketch, not a photograph. Maybe it
isn't totally accurate.' 'Your hair is different.'

'There you go. I had it cut this morning.'

'But I would recognize your name. I wouldn't lend my
car to a stranger without at least knowing his name,
would I?' 'Maybe I gave you a false name. You met a guy
with a different name who didn't look much like the
sketch, that's all.'

'What name?'

'Joe Gordon,' Reacher said.

'Who's he?'

Yankees' second baseman in 1940. They finished third.

Not Joe's fault. He had a decent career. He played
exactly one thousand games and had exactly one
thousand hits.' 'You know a lot.'