One Shot

twenty-four hours in a small heartland city.
    He decided to go see if there was a river.

    There was a river. It was a broad, slow body of water that moved west to east through an area south of downtown. Some tributary that fed the mighty Ohio, he guessed. Its north bank was straightened and strengthened with massive stone blocks along a three-hundred-yard stretch. The blocks might have weighed fifty tons each. They were immaculately chiseled and expertly fitted. They made a quayside. A wharf. They had tall fat iron mushrooms set into them, to tie off ropes. Stone paving slabs made the wharf thirty feet deep. All along its length were tall wooden sheds, open on the river side, open on the street side. The street was made of cobbles. A hundred years ago there would have been huge river barges tied up and unloading. There would have been swarms of men at work. There would have been horses and carts clattering on the cobbles. But now there was nothing. Just absolute stillness, and the slow drift of the water. Scabs of rust on the iron mushrooms, clumps of weeds between the stones.
    Some of the sheds still had faded names on them.
McGinty Dry Goods. Allentown Seed Company. Parker Supply.
Reacher strolled the three hundred yards and looked at all of them. They were still standing, strong and square. Ripe for renovation, he guessed. A city that put an ornamental pool with a fountain in a public plaza would spruce up the waterfront. It was inevitable. There was construction all over town. It would move south. They would give someone tax breaks to open a riverside café. Maybe a bar. Maybe with live music, Thursday through Saturday. Maybe with a little museum laying out the history of the river trade.
    He turned to walk back and came face-to-face with Helen Rodin.
    “You’re not such a hard man to find,” she said.
    “Evidently,” he said.
    “Tourists always come to the docks.”
    She was carrying a lawyer-size briefcase.
    “Can I buy you lunch?” she said.

    She walked him back north to the edge of the new gentrification. In the space of a single dug-up block the city changed from old and worn to new and repainted. Stores changed from dusty mom-and-pop places with displays of vacuum cleaner bags and washing machine hoses to new establishments showing off spotlit hundred-dollar dresses. And shoes, and four-dollar lattes, and things made of titanium. They walked past a few such places and then Helen Rodin led him into an eatery. It was the kind of place he had seen before. It was the kind of place he usually avoided. White walls, some exposed brick, engine-turned aluminum tables and chairs, weird salad combinations. Random ingredients thrown together and called inventive.
    She led him to a table in the far back corner. An energetic kid came by with menus. Helen Rodin ordered something with oranges and walnuts and Gorgonzola cheese. With a cup of herbal tea. Reacher gave up on reading his menu and ordered the same thing, but with coffee, regular, black.
    “This is my favorite place in town,” Helen said.
    He nodded. He believed her. She looked right at home. The long straight hair, the black clothes. The youthful glow. He was older and came from a different time and a different place.
    “I need you to explain something,” she said.
    She bent down and opened her briefcase. Came out with the old tape player. Placed it carefully on the table. Pressed
Play.
Reacher heard James Barr’s first lawyer say:
Denying it is not an option.
Then he heard Barr say:
Get Jack Reacher for me.
    “You already played that for me,” he said.
    “But why would he say it?” Helen asked.
    “That’s what you want me to explain?”
    She nodded.
    “I can’t,” he said.
    “Logically you’re the last person he should have asked for.”
    “I agree.”
    “Could he have been in any doubt about how you felt? Fourteen years ago?”
    “I don’t think so. I made myself pretty clear.”
    “Then why would he ask for you now?”
    Reacher didn’t answer. The food came, and they started eating. Oranges, walnuts, Gorgonzola cheese, all kinds of leaves and lettuces, and a raspberry vinaigrette. It wasn’t too bad. And the coffee was OK.
    “Play me the whole tape,” he said.
    She put her fork down and pressed the
Rewind
key. Kept her hand there, one fingertip on each key, like a pianist. She had long fingers. No rings. Polished nails, neatly trimmed. She pressed
Play
and picked up her fork again. Reacher heard no sound for a moment until