A Wanted Man

THIRTY

REACHER PUT HIS hands flat on the floor and pushed himself up off his knees. He turned and looked at the fat man in the office doorway and said, ‘I need to borrow your car.’

The fat man stared at Reacher’s face.

He said, ‘What?’

‘Your car. Right now.’

‘No way.’ The guy was about thirty, prematurely losing his hair, about five feet four high, and about five feet three wide. He was wearing a white shirt and a red sleeveless V-necked sweater. He said, ‘I told you, I already called the cops. They’re on their way. So don’t try anything stupid.’

Reacher said, ‘How long will it take for the cops to arrive?’

‘Two minutes, max. They’re already rolling.’

‘From where?’

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher said, ‘County?’

The guy said, ‘At night we rely on the State Police.’

‘They were all on roadblock duty. On the Interstate. A long way west of here. Short notice. No time to organize replacements. I’d say they’re two hours away, minimum. Not two minutes, maximum. If they come at all, that is. No one died here.’

‘A shot was fired.’

‘And that’s a bad thing, right?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘So they’re the bad guys. Because they fired the shot. And they fired it at me. Which makes me the good guy.’

‘Or the even worse guy.’

‘Whichever,’ Reacher said. ‘If I’m the good guy you’ll help me because you’re on my side. If I’m the even worse guy you’ll help me because you’re scared of me. But either way you’ll help me. So you might as well just cut to the chase and give me your keys.’

‘Won’t do you any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I protect myself.’

‘Against what?’

‘Against people like you.’

‘How?’

‘No gas in my car.’

‘There has to be gas in your car. You’re thirty miles from the gas station.’

‘There’s a gallon or so. Good for about forty miles. And forty miles is nothing out here.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘It’s the best anti-theft protection there is. Better than an alarm, better than a tracker, better than a fancy lock.’

‘You’re pretty smart,’ Reacher said. ‘Or completely nuts. One or the other. What about your guests tonight? Who are they? Maybe I could borrow that pick-up truck.’

The fat man just said, ‘Oh, man, please.’

But Reacher didn’t push it. He just stood there, defeated. Because of numbers. Specifically four, and three, and two. Almost four minutes had passed. King and McQueen were about to hit the next road junction. It would be a T-junction, offering two choices, or a crossroads, offering three. Iowa. The chequerboard. The agricultural matrix. To be more than a field’s-length behind a fleeing fugitive meant facing endlessly escalating odds of taking the wrong turn. So far Reacher had seen T-junctions and crossroads in about a two-to-three ratio, spaced an average of about eight miles apart. The fat man’s gallon of gas might last about sixty minutes. And at the end of that hour the odds of being on the right track would have stacked up to around 650 to one against.

Hopeless.

Time, and geometry.

Sorenson’s e-mail pinged again and she found an audio file from the Iowa 911 service. It was the call that had been patched through to the FBI emergency operator.

What is your current location?

Give me the FBI.

Sir, what is your current location?

Don’t waste time.

Do you need fire, police, or ambulance?

I need the FBI.

Sir, this is the 911 emergency service.

And since about September the twelfth 2001 you’ve had a direct button for the FBI.

How did you know that?

Just a lucky guess. Hit the button, and hit it now.

The same nasal voice. The same measured urgency. No panic, but not much patience, either. The same insight. As a matter of fact 911 dispatchers had not gotten an FBI button on September twelfth 2001. The installations had started a week or so later. But in principle the guy was right. He was clued in.

But how?

She played the file again, and had got as far as I need the FBI when her ring tone cut in over it. Another live call. The plain electronic tone, loud and thrilling through the speakers. It was her duty officer again, at his desk in Omaha. He said, ‘I don’t know if it means anything, but the Iowa State Police are saying they just got a 911 call about a gunshot fired in a motel lobby, about thirty-some miles south and east of that gas station.’

The fat man hovered nervously behind the reception counter and Reacher took a look at the bullet hole in his wall. It was directly above the office door, maybe nine inches left of centre, close to the ceiling, maybe an inch and a half below the crown moulding. It looked like the round had hit near a stud or a screw. The impact had blasted off a large shallow flake of plaster, about the size of a teacup saucer, and the flake had left a corresponding crater. The centre of the crater was drilled with the.22 hole, neat and precise, a little smaller than a pencil.

Reacher backed off and stood where McQueen had stood. He turned sideways. He bent his knees and lowered himself five inches, to make himself McQueen’s height. He raised his arm and straightened it and pointed his index finger at the hole.

He closed one eye.

He shook his head.

It had been a bad miss, in his opinion. Because it would have missed even if he hadn’t fallen down on the floor. It would have missed even if he had stretched up high on tiptoes. It would have missed even if he had jumped up in the air. It might have grazed a seven-five NBA star, but at six-five Reacher would have been OK under any circumstances.

If he was going to miss, he was going to miss high.

Civilian marksmanship was appalling, for a population obsessed with guns.

Reacher straightened up again and turned back to the fat man and said, ‘I need to use your phone.’