One Shot

Therefore we can assume he’s staying in town. My guess is he checked into the Metropole Palace. There’s nothing else in that direction.”
    The Zec made no reply.
    “Should we do anything?” Linsky asked.
    “How long is he here for?”
    “That depends. Clearly he’s on a mission of mercy.”
    The Zec said nothing.
    “Should we do anything?” Linsky asked again.
    There was a pause. Cellular static, and an old man breathing.
    “We should maybe distract him,” the Zec said. “Or discourage him. I’m told he was a soldier. Therefore he will probably maintain a predictable pattern of behavior. If he’s at the Metropole, he won’t stay in tonight. Not there. No fun for a soldier. He’ll go out somewhere. Probably alone. So there could be an incident. Use your imagination. Make it a big scenario. Don’t use our own people. And make it look natural.”
    “Damage?”
    “Broken bones, at least. Maybe he gets a head injury. Maybe he winds up in the coma ward along with his buddy James Barr.”
    “What about the lawyer?”
    “Leave her alone. For now. We’ll open that can of worms later. If we need to.”

    Helen Rodin spent an hour at her desk. She took three calls. The first was from Franklin. He was bailing out.
    “I’m sorry, but you’re going to lose,” the investigator said. “And I’ve got a business to run. I can’t put in unbilled hours on this anymore.”
    “Nobody likes hopeless cases,” Helen said diplomatically. She was going to need him again in the future. No point in holding his feet to the fire.
    “Not pro bono hopeless cases,” Franklin said.
    “If I get a budget, will you come back on board?”
    “Sure,” Franklin said. “Just call me.”
    Then they hung up, all proprieties observed, their relationship preserved. The next call came ten minutes later. It was from her father, who sounded full of concern.
    “You shouldn’t have taken this case, you know,” he said.
    “It wasn’t like I was spoiled for choice,” Helen said.
    “Losing might be winning, if you know what I mean.”
    “Winning might be winning, too.”
    “No, winning will be losing. You need to understand that.”
    “Did you ever set out to lose a case?” she asked.
    Her father said nothing. Then he went fishing.
    “Did Jack Reacher find you?” he asked, meaning:
Should I be worried?
    “He found me,” she said, keeping her voice light.
    “Was he interesting?” Meaning:
Should I be very worried?
    “He’s certainly given me something to think about.”
    “Well, should we discuss it?” Meaning:
Please tell me
.
    “I’m sure we will soon. When the time is right.”
    They small-talked for a minute more and arranged to meet for dinner. He tried again:
Please tell me.
She didn’t. Then they hung up. Helen smiled. She hadn’t lied. Hadn’t even really bluffed. But she felt she had participated. The law was a game, and like any game it had a psychological component.
    The third call was from Rosemary Barr at the hospital.
    “James is waking up,” she said. “He coughed up his breathing tube. He’s coming out of the coma.”
    “Is he talking?”
    “The doctors say he might be tomorrow.”
    “Will he remember anything?”
    “The doctors say it’s possible.”

    An hour later Reacher left the Metropole. He stayed east of First Street and headed north toward the off-brand stores he had seen near the courthouse. He wanted clothes. Something local. Maybe not a set of bib overalls, but certainly something more generic than his Miami gear. Because he figured he might head to Seattle next. For the coffee. And he couldn’t walk around Seattle in a bright yellow shirt.
    He found a store and bought a pair of pants that the label called taupe and he called olive drab. He found a flannel shirt almost the same color. Plus underwear. And he invested in a pair of socks. He changed in the cubicle and threw his old stuff away in the store’s own trash bin. Forty bucks, for what he hoped would be four days’ wear. Extravagant, but it was worth ten bucks a day to him not to carry a bag.
    He came out and walked west toward the afternoon sun. The shirt was too thick for the weather, but he could regulate it by rolling up the sleeves and opening a second button. It was OK. It would be fine for Seattle.
    He came out into the plaza and saw that the fountain had been restarted. It was refilling the pool, very slowly. The mud on the bottom was an inch deep and moving in slow swirls. Some people were standing and