One Shot

the glider, the creak of the porch board.
    “Got a gun?” he asked.
    “I don’t hold with them,” she said.
    “Got a phone?” he asked.
    “Disconnected,” she said. “I owe them money. But I don’t need them. Jeb lets me use his cell if I need it.”
    “Good,” Reacher said.
    “How the hell is that good? Jeb’s not here.”
    “That’s exactly what’s good about it. I’m going to break into your barn and I don’t want you calling the cops while I’m doing it. Or shooting me.”
    “That’s Jeb’s barn. You can’t go in there.”
    “I don’t see how you can stop me.”
    He turned his back on her and continued down the track. It curved a little and led directly to the barn’s double doors. The doors, like the barn itself, were built of old planks alternately baked and rotted by a hundred summers and a hundred winters. Reacher touched them with his knuckles and felt a dry hollowness. The lock was brand new. It was a U-shaped bicycle lock like the ones city messengers used. One leg of the U ran through two black steel hasps that were bolted through the planks of the doors. Reacher touched the lock. Shook it. Heavy steel, warm from the sun. It was a pretty solid arrangement. No way of cutting it, no way of breaking it.
    But a lock was only as strong as what it was fixed to.
    Reacher grabbed the straight end of the lock at the bottom of the U. Pulled on it gently, and then harder. The doors sagged toward him and stopped. He put the flat of his palm against the wood and pushed them back. Held them closed with a straight left arm and yanked on the lock with his right. The bolts gave a little, but not much. Reacher figured that Jeb must have used washers on the back, under the nuts. Maybe big wide ones. They were spreading the load.
    He thought:
OK, more load.
    He held the straight part of the lock with both hands and leaned back like a water-skier. Pulled hard and smashed his heel into the wood under the hasps. His legs were longer than his arms, so he was cramped and the kick didn’t carry much power. But it carried enough. The old wood splintered a little and something gave half an inch. He regrouped and tried it again. Something gave a little more. Then a plank in the left-hand door split completely and two bolts pulled out. Reacher put his left hand flat on the door and got his right-hand fingers hooked in the gap with a backhand grip. He took a breath and counted to three and jerked hard. The last bolt fell out and the whole lock assembly hit the ground and the doors sagged all the way open. Reacher stepped away and folded the doors back flush with the walls and let the sunlight in.
    He guessed he was expecting to see a meth lab, maybe with workbenches and beakers and scales and propane burners and piles of new Baggies ready to receive the product. Or else a big stash, ready for onward distribution.
    He saw none of that.
    Bright light leaked in through long vertical gaps between warped planks. The barn was maybe forty feet by twenty inside. It had a bare earth floor, swept and compacted. It was completely empty except for a well-used pickup truck parked in the exact center of the space.
    The truck was a Chevy Silverado, several years old. It was light brown, like fired clay. It was a working vehicle. It had been built down to a plain specification. A base model. Vinyl seats, steel wheels, undramatic tires. The load bed was clean but scratched and dented. It had no license plates. The doors were locked and there was no sign of a key anywhere.
    “What’s that?”
    Reacher turned and saw Jeb Oliver’s mother behind him. She had her hand tight on the doorjamb, like she was unwilling to cross the threshold.
    “It’s a truck,” Reacher said.
    “I can see that.”
    “Is it Jeb’s?”
    “I never saw it before.”
    “What did he drive before that big red thing?”
    “Not this.”
    Reacher stepped closer to the truck and peered in through the driver’s-side window. Manual shift. Dirt and grime. High mileage. But no trash. The truck had been someone’s faithful servant, used but not abused.
    “I never saw it before,” the woman said again.
    It looked like it had been there for a long time. It was settled on soft tires. It didn’t smell of oil or gasoline. It was cold, inert, filmed with dust. Reacher got on his knees and checked underneath. Nothing to see. Just a frame, caked with old dirt, clipped by rocks and gravel.
    “How long has this thing been in here?” he asked from the