One Shot

much of an alibi, do I?”
    She stood still for a moment. Said nothing. Then she stepped back and joined the others. They all left together. Reacher watched them process out at the security desk, and as soon as they were through the steel door and in the elevator lobby he turned around and walked down the corridor to James Barr’s door. He didn’t knock. Just paused a beat and turned the handle and went inside.

CHAPTER 7
    The room was overheated. You could have roasted chickens in it. There was a wide window with white venetian blinds closed against the sun. They glowed and filled the room with soft white light. There was medical equipment piled everywhere. A silent respirator, disconnected. IV stands and heart monitors. Tubes and bags and wires.
    Barr was flat on his back in a bed in the middle of the room. No pillow. His head was clamped in a brace. His hair was shaved and he had bandages over the holes they had drilled in his skull. His left shoulder was wrapped in bandages that reached to his elbow. His right shoulder was bare and unmarked. The skin there was pale and thin and marbled. His chest and his sides were bandaged. The bedsheet was folded down at his waist. His arms were straight at his sides and his wrists were handcuffed to the cot rails. He had IV needles taped to the back of his left hand. There was a peg on his right middle finger that was connected by a gray wire to a box. There were red wires leading out from under the bandages on his chest. They led to a machine with a screen. The screen was showing a rolling pattern that reminded Reacher of the cellular company’s recording of the gunshots. Sharp peaks, and long troughs. The machine made a muted beep every time a peak hit the screen.
    “Who’s there?” Barr asked.
    His voice was weak and rusty, and slow. And scared.
    “Who’s there?” he asked again. The way his head was clamped limited his field of vision. His eyes were moving, left and right, up and down.
    Reacher stepped closer. Leaned over the bed. Said nothing.
    “You,” Barr said.
    “Me,” Reacher said.
    “Why?”
    “You know why.”
    Barr’s right hand trembled. The motion put a ripple in the wire from the peg. The handcuff moved against the bed rail and made a quiet metallic sound.
    “I guess I let you down,” he said.
    “I guess you did.”
    Reacher watched Barr’s eyes, because they were the only part of him that could move. He was incapable of body language. His head was immobile and most of the rest of him was trussed up like a mummy.
    “I don’t remember anything,” Barr said.
    “You sure?”
    “It’s all blank.”
    “You clear on what I’ll do to you if you’re bullshitting me?”
    “I can guess.”
    “Triple it,” Reacher said.
    “I’m not bullshitting,” Barr said. “I just can’t remember anything.” His voice was quiet, helpless, confused. Not a defense, not a complaint. Not an excuse. Just a statement of fact, like a lament, or a plea, or a cry.
    “Tell me about the ballgame,” Reacher said.
    “It was on the radio.”
    “Not the TV?”
    “I prefer the radio,” Barr said. “For old times’ sake. That’s how it always was. When I was a kid. The radio, all the way from St. Louis. All those miles. Summer evenings, warm weather, the sound of baseball on the radio.”
    He went quiet.
    “You OK?” Reacher said.
    “My head hurts real bad. I think I had an operation.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “I don’t like baseball on the TV,” Barr said.
    “I’m not here to discuss your media preferences.”
    “Do you watch baseball on TV?”
    “I don’t have a TV,” Reacher said.
    “Really? You should get one. You can get them for a hundred bucks. Maybe less, for a small one. Look in the Yellow Pages.”
    “I don’t have a phone. Or a house.”
    “Why not? You’re not still in the army.”
    “How would you know?”
    “Nobody’s still in the army. Not from back then.”
    “Some people are,” Reacher said, thinking about Eileen Hutton.
    “Officers,” Barr said. “Nobody else.”
    “I
was
an officer,” Reacher said. “You’re supposed to be able to remember stuff like that.”
    “But you weren’t like the others. That’s what I meant.”
    “How was I different?”
    “You worked for a living.”
    “Tell me about the ballgame.”
    “Why don’t you have a house? Are you doing OK?”
    “You worried about me now?”
    “Don’t like it when folks aren’t doing so well.”
    “I’m doing fine,” Reacher said.