street and came out along the north side of a half-finished parking garage extension. He recalled Ann Yanni's fevered breaking-news recap and glanced up at it and then away from it to a public square. There was an empty ornamental pool with a fountain spout sticking up forlornly in the centre. There was a narrow walkway between the pool itself and a low wall. The walkway was decorated with makeshift funeral tributes. There were flowers, with their stems wrapped in aluminium foil.
Photographs under plastic, and small stuffed animals, and candles. There was a dusting of leftover sand. The sand had soaked up the blood, he guessed. Fire engines carry boxes of sand, for accidents and crime scenes. And stainless steel shovels, for removal of body parts. He glanced back at the parking garage. Less than thirty-five yards, he thought. Very close.
He stood still. The plaza was silent. The whole city was quiet. It felt stunned, like a limb briefly paralysed after a massive bruising blow. The plaza was the epicentre. It was where the blow had landed. It was like a black hole, with emotion compressed into it too tight to escape.
He walked on. The old limestone building was a library.
That's OK, he thought.
Librarians are nice people. They tell you things, if you ask them. He asked for the DA's office. A sad and subdued woman at the checkout desk gave him directions. It wasn't a long walk. It wasn't a big city. He walked east past a new office building that had signs for the DMV and a military recruitment centre. Behind it was a block of off brand stores and then a new courthouse building. It was a plain flat-roof off-the-shelf design dressed up with mahogany doors and etched glass. It could have been a church, from some weird denomination
with
a
generous
but
strapped
congregation.
He avoided the main public entrance. He circled the block until he came to the office wing. He found a door labelled District Attorney. Below it on a separate brass plate he found Rodin's name.
An elected official, he thought. They use a separate plate to make it cheaper when the guy changes every few Novembers. Rodin's initials were A. A. He had a law degree. Reacher went in through the door and spoke to a receptionist at a counter. Asked to see A. A. Rodin himself. 'About what?' the receptionist asked, quietly, but politely. She was middle aged, well cared for, well turned out, wearing a clean white blouse. She looked like she had worked behind a desk all her life. A practised bureaucrat. But stressed. She looked like she was carrying all the town's recent troubles on her shoulders. 'About James Barr,' Reacher said.
'Are you a reporter?' the receptionist asked.
'No,' Reacher said.
'May I tell Mr Rodin's office your connection to the case?'
'I knew James Barr in the army.'
'That must have been some time ago.'
'A long time ago,' Reacher said.
'May I have your name?'
'Jack Reacher.'
The receptionist dialled a phone and spoke. Reacher guessed she was speaking to a secretary, because both he and Rodin were referred to in the third person, like abstractions. Can he see a Mr Reacher about the case?
Not the Barr case. Just the case. The conversation continued. Then the receptionist covered the phone by clamping it to her chest, below her collar bone, above her left breast. 'Do you have information?' she asked.
The secretary upstairs can hear your heart beating, Reacher thought.
'Yes,' he said. 'Information.'
'From the army?' she asked.
Reacher nodded. The receptionist put the phone back to her face and continued the conversation. It was a long one. Mr A. A. Rodin had an efficient pair of gatekeepers. That was clear. No way of getting past them without some kind of an urgent and legitimate reason. That was clear, too. Reacher checked his watch.
Nine forty in the morning. But there was no rush, under the circumstances. Barr was in a coma. Tomorrow would do it. Or the next day.
Or maybe he could get to Rodin through the cop, if need
Photographs under plastic, and small stuffed animals, and candles. There was a dusting of leftover sand. The sand had soaked up the blood, he guessed. Fire engines carry boxes of sand, for accidents and crime scenes. And stainless steel shovels, for removal of body parts. He glanced back at the parking garage. Less than thirty-five yards, he thought. Very close.
He stood still. The plaza was silent. The whole city was quiet. It felt stunned, like a limb briefly paralysed after a massive bruising blow. The plaza was the epicentre. It was where the blow had landed. It was like a black hole, with emotion compressed into it too tight to escape.
He walked on. The old limestone building was a library.
That's OK, he thought.
Librarians are nice people. They tell you things, if you ask them. He asked for the DA's office. A sad and subdued woman at the checkout desk gave him directions. It wasn't a long walk. It wasn't a big city. He walked east past a new office building that had signs for the DMV and a military recruitment centre. Behind it was a block of off brand stores and then a new courthouse building. It was a plain flat-roof off-the-shelf design dressed up with mahogany doors and etched glass. It could have been a church, from some weird denomination
with
a
generous
but
strapped
congregation.
He avoided the main public entrance. He circled the block until he came to the office wing. He found a door labelled District Attorney. Below it on a separate brass plate he found Rodin's name.
An elected official, he thought. They use a separate plate to make it cheaper when the guy changes every few Novembers. Rodin's initials were A. A. He had a law degree. Reacher went in through the door and spoke to a receptionist at a counter. Asked to see A. A. Rodin himself. 'About what?' the receptionist asked, quietly, but politely. She was middle aged, well cared for, well turned out, wearing a clean white blouse. She looked like she had worked behind a desk all her life. A practised bureaucrat. But stressed. She looked like she was carrying all the town's recent troubles on her shoulders. 'About James Barr,' Reacher said.
'Are you a reporter?' the receptionist asked.
'No,' Reacher said.
'May I tell Mr Rodin's office your connection to the case?'
'I knew James Barr in the army.'
'That must have been some time ago.'
'A long time ago,' Reacher said.
'May I have your name?'
'Jack Reacher.'
The receptionist dialled a phone and spoke. Reacher guessed she was speaking to a secretary, because both he and Rodin were referred to in the third person, like abstractions. Can he see a Mr Reacher about the case?
Not the Barr case. Just the case. The conversation continued. Then the receptionist covered the phone by clamping it to her chest, below her collar bone, above her left breast. 'Do you have information?' she asked.
The secretary upstairs can hear your heart beating, Reacher thought.
'Yes,' he said. 'Information.'
'From the army?' she asked.
Reacher nodded. The receptionist put the phone back to her face and continued the conversation. It was a long one. Mr A. A. Rodin had an efficient pair of gatekeepers. That was clear. No way of getting past them without some kind of an urgent and legitimate reason. That was clear, too. Reacher checked his watch.
Nine forty in the morning. But there was no rush, under the circumstances. Barr was in a coma. Tomorrow would do it. Or the next day.
Or maybe he could get to Rodin through the cop, if need
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