One Shot

corridor and went into the room Rosemary had come out of. Reacher watched her until he heard the door close. Then he turned back to Niebuhr.
    “Seen this kind of thing before?” he asked him.
    “Coercion? Have
you
seen it before?”
    Reacher smiled. Every psychiatrist he had ever met liked to answer questions with questions. Maybe they were taught to, day one at psychiatry school.
    “I’ve seen it a lot,” he said.
    “But?”
    “Usually there was more evidence of a dire threat.”
    “A threat against the sister isn’t dire? You came up with that hypothesis yourself, I believe.”
    “His sister hasn’t been kidnapped. She’s not a prisoner somewhere. He could have arranged to have her safeguarded. Or told her to get out of town.”
    “Exactly,” Niebuhr said. “We can only conclude that he was instructed not to do any such thing. Evidently he was told to leave her open, and ignorant, and vulnerable. That demonstrates to us how powerful the coercion must have been. And it demonstrated to
him
how powerful it was. And it demonstrated to him how powerless he was in comparison. Every day. He must have been living with deep dread, and helplessness, and guilt for his obedience.”
    “Ever seen a rational man afraid enough to do what he did?”
    “Yes,” Niebuhr said.
    “Me too,” Reacher said. “Once or twice.”
    “The threatener must be a real monster. Although I’d expect to see other factors present, as enhancers, or multipliers. Very likely a recent relationship, some kind of dependency, an infatuation, a desire to please, to impress, to be valued, to be loved.”
    “A woman?”
    “No, you don’t kill people to impress women. That usually has the opposite effect. This will be a man. Seductive, but not in a sexual way. Compelling, somehow.”
    “An alpha male and a beta male.”
    “Exactly,” Niebuhr said again. “With any final reluctance resolved by the threat to the sister. Possibly Mr. Barr was never entirely sure whether the threat was a joke or for real. But he chose not to test it. Human motivation is very complex. Most people don’t really know why they do things.”
    “That’s for sure.”
    “Do you know why you do things?”
    “Sometimes,” Reacher said. “Other times I don’t have the faintest idea. Maybe you could tell me.”
    “I’m normally very expensive. That’s why I can afford to do things like this for nothing.”
    “Maybe I could pay you five bucks a week, like rent.”
    Niebuhr smiled uncertainly.
    “Uh, no,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
    Then the waiting area went quiet again and stayed quiet for ten long minutes. Danuta stretched his legs way out and worked on papers inside an open briefcase that he kept balanced on his knees. Mason had her eyes closed and might have been asleep. Niebuhr stared into space. The three of them were clearly accustomed to waiting. As was Reacher himself. He had been a military cop for thirteen years, and
Hurry Up and Wait
was the real MP motto. Not
Assist, Protect, Defend
. He focused on the distant electronic heartbeat, and passed the time.

    Grigor Linsky turned his car around and watched the hospital doors in his mirror. Made a bet with himself that nothing would happen for at least sixty minutes. At least sixty, but not more than ninety. Then he rehearsed an order of priority in case they didn’t all come out together. Who should he ignore and who should he tail? In the end he decided to stick with whoever acted alone. He figured that was most likely to be the soldier. His guess was the lawyers and the doctors would head back to the office. They were predictable. The soldier wasn’t.

    Helen Rodin came out of James Barr’s room fifteen minutes after she went in. She walked straight back to the waiting area. Everyone looked at her. She looked at Mary Mason.
    “Your turn,” she said. Mason stood up and walked away down the corridor. She took nothing with her. No briefcase, no paper, no pen. Reacher watched her until Barr’s door closed behind her. Then he leaned back in his chair, in the silence.
    “I liked him,” Helen said, to nobody in particular.
    “How is he?” Niebuhr asked.
    “Weak,” Helen said. “Smashed up. Like he got hit by a truck.”
    “Is he making sense?”
    “He’s coherent. But he doesn’t remember anything. And I don’t think he’s faking.”
    “How far back is he blanking?”
    “I can’t tell. He remembers listening to a baseball game on the radio. Could have been last week