One Shot

about Jeb Oliver,” Reacher said. “He isn’t a dope dealer. There was nothing in his barn except an old pickup truck.”
    “I’m glad you can be wrong about something,” Helen said.
    “Jeb Oliver isn’t Russian,” Franklin said.
    “Apple pie,” Reacher said.
    “Therefore these guys can work with Americans. That’s what I’m saying. It could be Emerson. Doesn’t have to be the DA.”
    “Fifty percent chance,” Reacher said. “I’m not accusing anybody yet.”
    “If you’re right in the first place.”
    “The bad guys were all over me very fast.”
    “Doesn’t sound like either Emerson or the DA to me, and I know them both.”
    “You can say his name,” Helen said. “His name is Alex Rodin.”
    “I don’t think it’s either one of them,” Franklin said.
    “I’m going back to work,” Helen said.
    “Give me a ride?” Reacher asked. “Let me out under the highway?”
    “No,” Helen said. “I really don’t feel like doing that.”
    She picked up her purse and her briefcase and walked out of the office alone.

    Reacher sat still and listened to the sounds out on the street. He heard a car door opening and closing. An engine starting. A car driving away. He sipped his coffee and said, “I guess I upset her.”
    Franklin nodded. “I guess you did.”
    “These guys have got someone on the inside. That’s clear, right? That’s a fact. So we should be able to discuss it.”
    “A cop makes more sense than a DA.”
    “I don’t agree. A cop controls only his own cases. Ultimately a prosecutor controls everything.”
    “I’d prefer it that way. I
was
a cop.”
    “So was I,” Reacher said.
    “And I have to say, Alex Rodin kills a lot of cases. People say it’s caution, but it could be something else.”
    “You should analyze what kind of cases he kills.”
    “Like I don’t have enough to do already.”
    Reacher nodded. Put his mug down. Stood up.
    “Start with Oline Archer,” he said. “The victim. She’s what’s important now.”
    Then he stepped to the window and checked the street. Saw nothing. So he nodded to Franklin and walked down the hallway and out the door to the top of the outside staircase.

    He paused on the top step and stretched in the warmth. Rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, took a deep breath of air. He was cramped from driving and sitting all day. And oppressed by hiding out. It felt good just to stand still and do nothing, high up and exposed. Out in the open, in the daylight. Below him to his left the cars were gone except for the black Suburban. The street was quiet. He glanced to his right. There was traffic building up on the north-south drag. To his left, there was less. He figured he would dodge west first. But a long way west, because the police station must be near. He would need to loop around it. Then he would head north. North of downtown was a warren. North of downtown was where he felt best.
    He started down the stairs. As he stepped off onto the sidewalk at the bottom he heard a footfall fifteen feet behind him. A side step. Thin soles on limestone grit. Quiet. Then the unmistakable
crunch-crunch
of a pump-action shotgun racking a round.
    Then a voice.
    It said: “Stop right there.”
    An American accent. Quiet, but distinct.
From somewhere way north.
Reacher stopped. Stood still and stared straight ahead at a blank brick wall across the street.
    The voice said: “Step to your right.”
    Reacher stepped to his right. A long sideways shuffle.
    The voice said: “Now turn around real slow.”
    Reacher turned around, real slow. He kept his hands away from his body, palms out. Saw a small figure fifteen feet away. The same guy he had seen the night before, from the shadows. Not more than five-four, not more than a hundred and thirty pounds, slight, pale, with cropped black hair that stuck up crazily. Chenko. Or Charlie. In his right hand, rock-steady, was a sawn-off with a pistol grip. In his left hand was some kind of a black thing.
    “Catch,” Charlie said.
    He tossed the black thing underhand. Reacher watched it tumble and sparkle through the air straight at him and his subconscious said:
Not a grenade.
So he caught it. Two-handed. It was a shoe. A woman’s patent-leather dress shoe, black, with a heel. It was still slightly warm.
    “Now toss it back,” Charlie said. “Just like I did.”
    Reacher paused.
Whose shoe was it?
He stared down at it.
    Low heel.
    Rosemary Barr’s?
    “Toss it back,” Charlie called. “Nice and