A Wanted Man

TWENTY-SEVEN

REACHER AND MCQUEEN stepped mutely around each other, chest to chest, like guys do at restroom doors. McQueen went in and Reacher headed through the store to the coffee station, which was a complex push-button one-cup-at-a-time machine, a yard wide, all chrome and aluminium, brand new, probably Italian. Or French. European, certainly. It seemed to grind a separate batch of beans after each push of the button, and it was so slow that McQueen was out of the men’s room before Reacher was through with the last cup. Which was a good thing, in that McQueen was then more or less obligated to carry two cups back to the car, which meant his hands were full, and armed men with full hands were better than armed men with empty hands, in Reacher’s considered opinion.

Reacher carried the other two cups, black no sugar, one for himself and one for Karen Delfuenso. Alan King was still out of the car. The car was still next to the pump. The readout showed that less than four gallons had gone in the tank.

King said, ‘I’ll drive from here, Mr Reacher.’

Reacher said, ‘Really? I haven’t done my three hundred miles yet.’

‘Change of plan. We’re going to head for the motel and hole up for the night.’

‘I thought you wanted to get to Chicago.’

‘I said our plans have changed. What part of that don’t you understand?’

‘Your call,’ Reacher said.

‘Indeed,’ King said. ‘So I’ll need the car key.’

Four-dimensional planning. Reacher was on the near side of the car, and King and McQueen were on the far side. Delfuenso was still in her seat. Her door was wide open. Her head was inches away from King’s right hand. It would take part of a second for King and McQueen to drop their cups of coffee. Part of another second for them to get to their guns. Reacher could throw his own cup like a scalding grenade at one head or the other, but not both. He could scramble around the trunk, or over it, but not fast enough.

No chance.

Geometry, and time.

He rested his cup on the Chevy’s roof and fished in his pocket for the key.

He held it out.

Come and get it.

But King wasn’t the dumbest guy in the world. He said, ‘Just drop it on the seat. I’ll be right there.’

Don McQueen got in the front. He twisted counterclockwise, like a friendly guy just checking all his pals were going to get properly settled and comfortable. But the position kept his right hand free and clear, close to his right pants pocket, close to the right side of his pants waistband.

King was still near the gas cap, with his own right hand free and clear, still inches from Karen Delfuenso’s head.

Geometry, and time.

Reacher climbed in behind the driver’s seat, and leaned over and dropped the key.

McQueen smiled at him.

King closed Delfuenso’s door for her from the outside, and then he tracked around the trunk and closed Reacher’s door for him. He picked up the key and climbed in and scooted his seat six inches forward. He started the engine and eased back to the road and drove onward into the darkness, south, away from the Interstate, towards the promised motel.

The FBI emergency response operator had stayed on the line and listened in to the aborted call to Omaha. He had heard the ring tone. He had heard the receiver go down. He was a rookie, hence the routine night duty. But he was a fast-tracked rookie, hence the D.C. assignment and the important post. He was fast-tracked because he was smart.

He was smart enough to follow up.

He called the Omaha field office and spoke to the duty agent. He asked, ‘Have you guys got something going on there tonight?’

The agent in Nebraska yawned and said, ‘Kind of. There’s a single-victim knife-crime homicide in the back of beyond miles from anywhere, which doesn’t sound like a very big deal, but for some reason the SAC is on it, and the CIA and the State Department are sniffing around, and we’ve had a bunch of roadblocks on the Interstate.’

‘Then you should know I put a call through to you, but the caller hung up before you answered.’

‘Location?’

‘Caller ID and the phone company indicate a gas station in the middle of nowhere, south and east of Des Moines, Iowa.’

‘Did you get a name?’

‘No name, but the caller was male, and in a hurry. He sounded like he was sick with a head cold. Very nasal.’

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘Not specifically. He said he had information, probably for Omaha, Nebraska.’

‘Probably?’

‘That was the word he used.’

The guy in Nebraska said, ‘OK, thanks,’ and hung up.

The dark Iowa road ran dead straight for another eight miles to a featureless T-junction. There was an immense field on the left, and another on the right, and a double-wide field ahead. Hence the mandatory turn. A repeat accommodations sign had an arrow pointing left to the motel. Another eight miles later there was a featureless crossroads with an arrow pointing right. Alan King drove on, threading through the giant chequerboard matrix of Iowa agriculture. Alongside him Don McQueen sat half turned, slumped against his window, awake and watchful. Behind McQueen Karen Delfuenso stared rigidly ahead. She wouldn’t look at Reacher. She seemed disappointed in him.

Reacher himself sat still and breathed slow, in and out, just waiting.

The night duty agent in Nebraska wrote the words male caller, in a hurry, head cold, nasal voice, gas station, S &E of Des Moines, Iowa on a pad of paper, and then he scrolled through the speed dial list on his telephone console. He stopped on Sorenson, J. cellular.

He thought for a second.

Then he hit Dial.

Just in case it was important.

At that moment Julia Sorenson was talking to Sheriff Goodman about the missing eyewitness. The guy lived with a woman he wasn’t married to, in a rented farm property eleven miles north and west of the crime scene, and there was only one practical route for him to take, and he hadn’t arrived, and neither he nor his truck had been found along the way. He was not in any of Sin City’s bars or lounges, and Goodman’s deputies hadn’t found him in town.

Then Sorenson’s phone rang, and she excused herself and turned away and took the call. It was the night duty agent back at the field office. She only half listened to his preamble. Law enforcement got lots of aborted calls. Kids, pranksters, drunks, misdials, all part of the territory. But she started to pay serious attention when the guy got to the apparent source of the call. Because of her earlier gloomy and defeated conclusion: the perpetrators were somewhere east of Des Moines.

‘Say that again?’ she asked.

The guy said, ‘A pay phone in a gas station in the middle of nowhere, south and east of Des Moines, Iowa.’

‘Are we sure of that?’

‘Caller ID and the phone company confirmed it.’

‘Who made the call?’

‘No name, but the emergency operator said the voice was male.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He was in a hurry and he sounded nasal.’

‘Nasal?’

‘Like he had a head cold.’

‘Is there a recording?’

‘Of the original call? I’m sure there is.’

‘Have it e-mailed to me. And call that gas station. Check if they have video, and if not, get a narrative and descriptions of everybody and everything.’

The duty agent said, ‘You need to call the CIA.’

Sorenson said, ‘Don’t tell me what I need to do.’

‘It’s just that they’re calling me all the time. They want updates.’

‘Tell them nothing,’ Sorenson said. ‘Not yet.’

Then she clicked off the call and turned back and looked Goodman in the eye and said, ‘Sorry, chief, but I have to go to Iowa.’