"Stop that," the doctor said.
"Stop what?"
"Your hand."
"I can't."
"Is that new?"
"A year or two."
"Not just since you woke up?"
"No."
The doctor looked at the chart. Age: Forty-one.
"Do you drink?" he asked.
"Not really," Barr said. "A sip sometimes, to help me sleep."
The doctor disbelieved him automatically and flipped through the chart to the tox screen and the liver function test. But the tox screen was clear and the liver function was healthy. Not a drinker. Not an alcoholic. Not even close.
"Have you seen your own physician recently?" he asked.
"I don't have insurance," Barr said.
"Stiffness in your arms and legs?"
"A little."
"Does your other hand do that, too?"
"Sometimes."
The doctor took out his pen again and scribbled on the bottom of the chart: Observed tremor in right hand, not post-traumatic, primary diagnosis alcoholism unlikely, stiffness in limbs present, possible early-onset PA?
"What's wrong with me?" Barr asked.
"Shut up," the doctor said. Then, duty done, he clipped the chart back on the foot of the bed and walked out of the room.
Helen Rodin searched through the evidence cartons and came out with the formal specification of charges against James Barr. Among many other technical violations of the law, the State of Indiana had listed five counts of homicide in the first degree with aggravating circumstances, and as due process required had gone on to list the five alleged victims by name, sex, age, address, and occupation. Helen scanned the page, ran her fingers down the columns for address and occupation.
"I don't see any obvious connections," she said.
"I didn't mean they were all targets," Reacher said. "Probably only one of them was. Two, at most. The others were window dressing. An assassination disguised as a spree. That's my guess."
"I'll get to work," she said.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
He used the fire stairs instead of the elevator and got back to the garage unseen. He hustled up the ramp and across the street and under the highway again. The invisible man. Life in the shadows. He smiled. He stopped.
He decided to go look for a pay phone.
He found one on the side wall of a small grocery called Martha's, two blocks north of the cheap clothing store he had used. The booth faced a wide alley that was used as a narrow parking lot. There were six slanted spaces full of six cars. Beyond them, a high brick wall topped with broken glass. The alley turned ninety degrees behind the grocery. He guessed it turned again somewhere and let out on the next block south.
Safe enough, he thought.
He took Emerson's torn card out of his pocket. Chose the cell number. Dialed the phone. Leaned his shoulder against the wall and watched both ends of the alley at once and listened to the purr of the ring tone in his ear.
"Yes?" Emerson said.
"Guess who?" Reacher said.
"Reacher?"
"You named that tune in one."
"Where are you?"
"I'm still in town."
"Where?"
"Not far away."
"You know we're looking for you, right?"
"I heard."
"So you need to turn yourself in."
"I don't think so."
"Then we'll come find you," Emerson said.
"Think you can?"
"It'll be easy."
"You know a guy called Franklin?"
"Sure I do."
"Ask him how easy it'll be."
"That was different. You could have been anywhere."
"You got the motor court staked out?"
There was a pause. Emerson said nothing.
"Keep your people there," Reacher said. "Maybe I'll be back. Or on the other hand, maybe I won't."
"We'll find you."
"Not a chance. You're not good enough."
"Maybe we're tracing this call."
"I'll save you the trouble. I'm outside a grocery called Martha's."
"You should come in from the cold."
"I'll trade," Reacher said. "Find out who placed the cone in the parking garage and then I'll think about coming in."
"Barr placed the cone."
"You know he didn't. His van isn't on the tapes."
"So he used another vehicle."
"He doesn't have another vehicle."
"So he borrowed one."
"From a friend?" Reacher said. "Maybe. Or maybe the friend placed the cone for him. Either way, you find that friend, and I'll think about coming in to talk to you."
"There are hundreds of cars on those tapes."
"You've got the resources," Reacher said.
"I don't trade," Emerson said.
"I think his name is Charlie," Reacher said. "Small guy, wiry black hair."
"I don't trade," Emerson said again.
"I didn't kill the girl," Reacher said.
"Says you."
"I liked her."
"You're breaking my heart."
"And you know I didn't stay at the Metropole last night."
"Which is why you dumped her there."
"And I'm not left-handed."
"I don't follow."
"Tell Bellantonio to talk to your ME."
"We'll find you," Emerson said.
"You won't," Reacher said. "Nobody ever has before."
Then he hung up and walked back to the street. Crossed the road and hiked half a block north and took cover behind a stack of unused concrete lane dividers in a vacant lot. He waited. Six minutes later two cruisers pulled up in front of Martha's grocery. Lights, but no sirens. Four cops spilled out. Two went in the store and two went to find the phone. Reacher watched them regroup on the sidewalk. Watched them search the alley and check around its corner. Watched them come back. Watched them admit defeat. He saw one of the four get on his radio for a short conversation full of defensive body language. Raised palms, shrugged shoulders. Then the conversation ended and Reacher slipped away east, heading back toward the Marriott.
The Zec had only a thumb and a single finger remaining on each hand. On the right was a stump of an index finger, blackened and gnarled by frostbite. He had once spent a week outdoors in the winter, wearing an old Red Army tunic, and the way its previous owner's water canteen had ridden on his belt had worn the fabric of the right pocket thinner than the left. On such trivial differences survival had hung. His left hand had been saved, and his right hand lost. He had felt his fingers die from the pinkie inward. He had taken his hand out of his pocket and let it freeze hard enough to go completely numb. Then he had chewed off the dead fingers before the gangrene could spread. He remembered dropping them to the ground, one by one, like small brown twigs.
His left hand retained the pinkie. The middle three fingers were missing. Two had been amputated by a sadist with garden shears. The Zec had removed the other himself, with a sharpened spoon, so as to be disqualified for labor in some machine shop or other. He couldn't recall the specifics, but he remembered a persuasive rumor that it was better to lose another finger than work on that particular detail. Something to do with the overseer.
Ruined hands. Just two of many souvenirs of another time, another place. He wasn't very aware of them anymore, but they made modern life difficult. Cell phones had gotten so damn small. Linsky's number was ten digits long, and it was a pig to dial. The Zec never retained a phone long enough to make it worth storing a number. That would be madness.