Charlie, Helen thought.
Eileen Hutton walked three fast blocks south from the Marriott and arrived at the courthouse at one minute to four exactly. Alex Rodin's secretary came down to escort her up to the third floor. Depositions were taken in a large conference room because most witnesses brought their own lawyers and court reporters with them. But Hutton was on her own. She sat down alone on one long side of a large table and smiled as a microphone was placed in front of her and a video camera was focused on her face. Then Rodin came in and introduced himself. He brought a small team with him. An assistant, his secretary, a court reporter with her machine.
"Would you state your full name and title for the record?" he asked.
Hutton looked at the camera.
"Eileen Ann Hutton," she said. "Brigadier General, Judge Advocate General's Corps, United States Army."
"I hope this won't take long," Rodin said.
"It won't," Hutton said.
And it didn't. Rodin was trawling in a sea he hadn't charted. He was like a man in a darkened room. All he could do was dart around randomly and hope he bumped into something. After six questions he realized he was never going to.
He asked, "How would you characterize James Barr's military service?"
"Exemplary without being exceptional," Hutton said.
He asked, "Was he ever in trouble?"
"Not to my knowledge," Hutton said.
He asked, "Did he ever commit a crime?"
"Not to my knowledge," Hutton said.
He asked, "Are you aware of recent events in this city?"
"Yes, I am," Hutton said.
He asked, "Is there anything in James Barr's past that might shed light on the likelihood or otherwise of his having been involved in those events?"
"Not to my knowledge," Hutton said.
Finally he asked, "Is there any reason why the Pentagon might be more aware of James Barr than any other veteran?"
"Not to my knowledge," Hutton said.
So at that point Alex Rodin gave up.
"OK," he said. "Thank you, General Hutton."
Helen Rodin walked thirty yards and stood on the street for a moment outside James Barr's house. It had police tape across the entryway and a plywood sheet nailed over the broken front door. It looked forlorn and empty. There was nothing to see. So she used her cell phone to call a cab and had it take her to the county hospital. It was after four o'clock in the afternoon when she arrived and the sun was in the west. It lit up the white concrete building with pale shades of orange and pink.
She rode up to the sixth floor and signed in with the Board of Corrections and found the tired thirty-year-old doctor and asked him about James Barr's condition. The doctor didn't really answer. He wasn't very interested in James Barr's condition. That was clear. So Helen just walked past him and opened Barr's door.
Barr was awake. He was still handcuffed to the cot. His head was still clamped. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. His breathing was low and slow and the heart monitor was beeping less than once a second. His arms were trembling slightly and his handcuffs were rattling against the bed frame. Quiet, dull, metallic sounds.
"Who's there?" he said.
Helen stepped close and leaned into his field of view.
"Are they looking after you?" she asked.
"I have no complaints," he said.
"Tell me about your friend Charlie."
"Is he here?"
"No, he's not here."
"Did Mike come?"
"I don't think they allow visitors. Just lawyers and family."
Barr said nothing.
"Are those your only friends?" Helen said. "Mike and Charlie?"
"I guess," Barr said. "And Mike's more of a neighbor."
"What about Jeb Oliver?"
"Who?"
"He works at the auto parts store."
"I don't know him."
"Are you sure?"
Barr's eyes moved and his lips pursed, like a man searching his memory, trying to be helpful, desperate for approval.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I never heard of him."
"Do you use drugs?"
"No," Barr said. "Never. I wouldn't do that." He was quiet for a beat. "Truth is I don't really do much of anything. I just live. That's why this whole thing makes no sense to me. I spent fourteen years in the world. Why would I throw it all away now?"
"Tell me about Charlie," Helen said.
"We hang out," Barr said. "We do stuff."
"With guns?"
"A little bit."
"Where does Charlie live?"
"I don't know."
"How long have you been friends?"
"Five years. Maybe six."
"And you don't know where he lives?"
"He never told me."
"He's been to your place."
"So?"
"You never went to his place?"
"He came to mine instead."
"Do you have his phone number?"
"He just shows up, here and there, now and then."
"Are you close?"
"Close enough."
"How close exactly?"
"We get along."
"Well enough to tell him what happened fourteen years ago?"
Barr didn't answer. Just closed his eyes.
"Did you tell him?"
Barr said nothing.
"I think you told him," Helen said.
Barr didn't confirm or deny it.
"I'm surprised that a man doesn't know where his friend lives. Especially a friend as close as I think Charlie is."
"I didn't push it," Barr said. "I was lucky to have a friend at all. I didn't want to ruin it with questions."
Eileen Hutton got up from Alex Rodin's deposition table and shook hands all around. Then she stepped out to the corridor and came face-to-face with a guy she assumed was the cop called Emerson. The one Reacher had warned her about. He confirmed it by handing her a card with his name on it.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
"About what?" she asked back.
"About Jack Reacher," Emerson said.
"What about him?"
"You know him, am I right?"
"I knew him fourteen years ago."
"When did you last see him?"
"Fourteen years ago," she said. "We were in Kuwait together. Then he shipped out somewhere. Or I did. I can't remember."
"You didn't see him today?"
"He's in Indiana?"
"He's in town. Right here, right now."
"Small world."
"How did you get here?"
"I flew into Indianapolis and rented a car."
"Staying overnight?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Where?"
"The Marriott."
"Reacher killed a girl last night."
"Are you sure?"
"He's our only suspect."
"That would be very unlike him."
"Call me if you see him. The station house number is on my card. And my direct extension. And my cell phone."
"Why would I see him?"
"Like you said, it's a small world."
A police black-and-white crawled north through the building rush hour traffic. Past the gun store. Past the barbershop. Any Style $7. Then it eased right and turned into the motor court. The cop in the passenger seat got out and walked to the office. Gave the clerk a flyer. Laid it flat on the counter and swiveled it around and slid it across.