by Lee Child
He kept the Malibu humming along, eight miles, nine, and then he started looking ahead for the bar he had seen on the shoulder. The small wooden building. The Cell Block. Maybe just outside the city limit. Unincorporated land. Maybe a question of licensing or regulation. There was mist in the air and the Malibu’s headlights made crisp little tunnels. Then they were answered by a glow in the air. A halo, far ahead on the left. Neon, in kelly green, and red, and blue. Beer signs. Plus yellow tungsten from a couple of token spots in the parking lot.
Reacher slowed and pulled in and parked his yellow car next to a pick-up that was mostly brown with corrosion. He got out and locked up and headed for the door. From close-up the place looked nothing at all like a prison. It was just a shack. It could once have been a house or a store. Even the sign was written wrong. The words Cell Block were stenciled like a notation on an electrician’s blueprint. Like something technological. There was noise inside, the warm low hubbub and hoo-hah of a half-empty late-evening bar in full swing, plus a little music under it, probably from a jukebox, a tune Reacher didn’t recognize but was prepared to like.
He went in. The door opened directly in the left front corner of the main public room. The bar ran front to back on the right, and there were tables and chairs on the left. There were maybe twenty people in the room, mostly men. The decoration scheme was really no scheme at all. Wooden tables, wheelback chairs, bar stools, board floor. There was no prison theme. In fact the electronic visuals from outside were continued inside. The stenciled words Cell Block were repeated on the bar back, flanked by foil-covered cutouts of radio towers with lightning bolts coming out of them.
Reacher threaded sideways between tables and caught the barman’s eye and the barman shuffled left to meet him. The guy was young, and his face was open and friendly. He said, “You look confused.”
Reacher said, “I guess I was expecting bars on the windows, maybe booths in the old cells. I thought maybe you would be wearing a suit with arrows all over it.”
The guy didn’t answer.
“Like an old prison,” Reacher said. “Like a cell block.”
The guy stayed blank for a second, and then he smiled.
“Not that kind of cell block,” he said. “Take out your phone.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Well, if you did, you’d find it wouldn’t work here. No signal. There’s a null zone about a mile wide. That’s why people come here. For a little undisturbed peace and quiet.”
“They can’t just not answer?”
“Human nature doesn’t really work that way, does it? People can’t ignore a ringing phone. It’s about guilty consciences. You know, wives or bosses. All kinds of hassle. Better that their phones don’t ring at all.”
“So do you have a pay phone here? Strictly for emergencies?”
The guy pointed. “Back corridor.”
“Thanks,” Reacher said. “That’s why I came in.”
He threaded down the line of stools, some of them occupied, some of them not, and he found an opening that led to the restrooms and a rear door. There was a pay phone on the wall opposite the ladies’ room. It was mounted on a cork rectangle that was dark and stained with age and marked with scribbled numbers in faded ink. He checked his pockets for quarters and found five. He wished he had kept the Iranian’s coins. He dialed the same number he had used a quarter of an hour ago, and Dorothy Coe had used a quarter of a century ago. The call was answered and he asked for Hoag, and he was connected inside ten short seconds.
“One more favor,” he said. “You got phone books for the whole county, right?”
Hoag said, “Yes.”
“I need a number for a guy called Seth Duncan, about sixty miles north of you.”
“Wait one,” Hoag said. Reacher heard the click and patter of a keyboard. A computer database, not a paper book. Hoag said, “That’s an unlisted number.”
“Unlisted as in you don’t have it, or as in you can see it but you won’t tell me?”
“Unlisted as in please don’t ask me, because you’ll be putting me on the spot.”
“OK, I won’t ask you. Anything under Eleanor Duncan?”
“No. There are four Duncans, all male names. All unlisted.”
“So give me the doctor instead.”
“What doctor?”
“The local guy up there.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Reacher said. “I don’t have his name.”
“Then I can’t help you. This thing is purely alphabetical by last name. It’s going to say Smith, Dr. Bill, or whatever. Something like that. In very small letters.”
“Got to be a contact number for a doctor. There might be an emergency. Got to be some way of getting hold of the guy.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Wait,” Reacher said. “I know how. Give me the Apollo Inn.”
“Apollo like the space rocket?”
“Exactly like the space rocket.”
The keyboard pattered and Hoag read out a number, a 308 area code for the western part of the state, and then seven more digits. Reacher repeated them once in his head and said, “Thanks,” and hung up and redialed.
Ten miles south, Mahmeini’s man was dialing too, calling home. He got Mahmeini on his cell, and said, “We have a problem.”
Mahmeini said, “Specifically?”
“Asghar has run out on us.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, he has. I sent him down to the car to get me a bottle of water. He didn’t come back, so I checked. The car is gone, and he’s gone too.”
“Call him.”
“I tried ten times. His phone is off.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find him.”
“I have no idea where to look.”
Mahmeini said, “He drinks, you know.”
“I know. But there’s no bar in town. Just a liquor store. And it will be closed by now. And he wouldn’t have driven to the liquor store anyway. He would have walked. It’s only about three blocks away.”
“There must be a bar. This is America. Ask the concierge.”
“There is no concierge. This isn’t the Bellagio. They don’t even put water in the rooms.”
“There must be someone at the desk. Ask him.”
“I can’t go anywhere. I don’t have a car. And I can’t ask the others for help. Not now. That would be an admission of weakness.”
“Find a way,” Mahmeini said. “Find a bar, and find a way of getting there. That’s an order.”
Reacher listened to the ring tone. It was loud and sonorous and resonant in his ear, the product of a big old-fashioned earpiece maybe an inch and a half across, buried deep inside a big old-fashioned plastic handset that probably weighed a pound. He pictured the two phones ringing in the motel, fifty miles north, one at the desk, one behind the bar. Or maybe there were more than two phones. Maybe there was a third extension in a back office, and a fourth in Vincent’s private quarters. Maybe the whole place was a regular rat’s nest of wiring, just like the inside of a lunar module. But however many phones there were, they all rang for a long period, and then one of them was answered. Vincent came on and said, “This is the Apollo Inn,” just like Reacher had heard him say it before, very brightly and enthusiastically, like it was a brand-new establishment taking its first-ever call on its first-ever night in business.
Reacher said, “I need Eleanor Duncan’s phone number.”
Vincent said, “Reacher? Where are you?”
“Still out of town. I need Eleanor’s number.”
“Are you coming back?”
“What could possibly keep me away?”
“Are you not going to Virginia?”
“Eventually, I hope.”
“I don’t have Eleanor’s number.”
“Isn’t she on the phone tree?”
“No, how could s
he be? Seth might answer.”
“OK, is the doctor there?”
“Not right now.”
“Slow night, then.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Hold the line,” Vincent said. There was a thump as he put the handset down, maybe on the bar, and then a pause, just about long enough for him to walk across the lounge, and then the sound of a second handset being raised, maybe at the desk. The two open lines picked up on each other and Reacher heard the room’s slow echo hissing and bouncing off the round domed ceiling. Vincent read out a number, the area code and seven more digits, and Reacher repeated them once in his head and said, “Thanks,” and hung up and redialed.
The guy at the Marriott’s desk told Mahmeini’s man that yes, there was a bar, not exactly in town but ten miles north, on the left shoulder of the two-lane, called the Cell Block, a pleasant place, reasonably priced, and that yes, it was usually open late, and that yes, there was a taxi service in town, and that yes, he would be happy to call a cab immediately.
And so less than five minutes later Mahmeini’s man was sliding across stained vinyl into the rear seat of an ancient Chevy Caprice, and the driver was pulling out of the lot, and heading down McNally Street, and making the right at the end.
The doctor answered a lot faster than Vincent had. Reacher said, “I need Eleanor Duncan’s phone number.”
The doctor said, “Reacher? Where are you?”
“Still out of town.”
“Are you coming back?”
“What, are you missing me?”
“I didn’t tell the Duncans about the Cadillac.”
“Good man. Has Seth gone home yet?”
“He was still with his father when I left.”
“Will he stay?”
“People say he often does.”
“You OK?”
“Not too bad. I was in the truck. The Cornhuskers got me.”
“And?”
“Nothing much. Just words, really.”
Reacher pictured the guy, maybe standing in his hallway or his kitchen, quaking, shaking, watching the windows, checking the doors. He asked, “Are you sober?”
The doctor said, “A little.”
“ ‘A little’?”
“That’s about as good as it gets these days, I’m afraid.”
“I need Eleanor Duncan’s number.”
“She’s not listed.”
“I know that.”
“She’s not on the phone tree.”
“But she’s your patient.”
“I can’t.”
“How much more trouble could you be in?”
“It’s not just that. There are confidentiality issues, too. I’m a doctor. Like you said, I took an oath.”
“We’re making an omelet here,” Reacher said. “We’re going to have to break some eggs.”
“They’ll know it came from me.”
“If it comes to it, I’ll tell them different.”
The doctor went quiet, and then he sighed, and then he recited a number.
“Thanks,” Reacher said. “Take care. Best to your wife.” He hung up and redialed and listened to yet more ring tone, the same languid electronic purr, but this time from a different place, from somewhere inside the restored farmhouse, among the pastel colors and the fancy rugs and the oil paintings. He figured that if Seth was home, then Seth would answer. It seemed to be that kind of a relationship. But he bet himself a buck Seth wasn’t home. The Duncans were in two kinds of trouble, and Reacher’s experience told him they would huddle together until it passed. So Eleanor was probably home alone, and would pick up. Or not. Maybe she would just ignore the bell, whatever the barman thirty feet away thought about human nature.
She picked up.
“Hello?” she said.
Reacher asked, “Is Seth there?”
“Reacher? Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter where I am. Where’s Seth?”
“He’s at his father’s. I don’t expect him home tonight.”
“That’s good. You still up and dressed?”
“Why?”
“I want you to do something for me.”
Chapter 34
The old Caprice’s rear bench was contoured like two separate bucket seats, not by design but by age and relentless wear and tear. Mahmeini’s man settled into the right-hand pit, behind the front passenger seat, and cocked his head to the left so he could see out the windshield. He saw the blank back of a billboard in the headlight beams, and then he saw nothing. The road ahead was straight and empty. No oncoming lights, which was a disappointment. One drink on Asghar’s part might be overlooked. Or even two. Or three, followed by a prompt return. But a night of it would be considered desertion.
The wheezing old motor had the needle trembling over the sixty mark. A mile a minute. Nine more miles to go. Nine minutes.
Reacher said, “Exactly one hour and ten minutes from now, I want you to take a drive. In your little red sports car.”
Eleanor Duncan said, “A drive? Where?”
“South on the two-lane,” Reacher said. “Just drive. Eleven miles. As fast as you want. Then turn around and go home again.”
“Eleven miles?”
“Or twelve. Or more. But not less than ten.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter why. Will you do it?”
“Are you going to do something to the house? You want me out of the way?”
“I won’t come near the house. I promise. No one will ever know. Will you do it?”
“I can’t. Seth took my car key. I’m grounded.”
“Is there a spare?”
“He took that too.”
Reacher said, “He’s not carrying them around in his pocket. Not if he keeps his own key in a bowl in the kitchen.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Reacher asked, “Do you know where they are?”
“Yes. They’re on his desk.”
“On or in?”
“On. Just sitting there. Like a test for me. He says obedience without temptation is meaningless.”
“Why the hell are you still there?”
“Where else could I go?”
“Just take the damn keys, will you? Stand up for yourself.”
“Will this hurt Seth?”
“I don’t know how you want me to answer that question.”
“I want you to answer it honestly.”
“It might hurt him indirectly. And eventually. Possibly.”
There was a long pause. Then Eleanor said, “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll drive south eleven miles on the two-lane and come back again. An hour and ten minutes from now.”
“No,” Reacher said. “An hour and six minutes from now. We’ve just been talking for four minutes.”
He hung up and stepped back to the main public room. The barman was working like a good barman should, using fast, efficient movements, thinking ahead, watching the room. He caught Reacher’s eye and Reacher detoured toward him and the guy said, “I should get you to sign a napkin or something. Like a memento. You’re the only guy who ever came in here to use a phone, not avoid one. You want a drink?”
Reacher scanned what the guy had to offer. Liquor of all kinds, beer on tap, beer in bottles, sodas. No sign of coffee. He said, “No, thanks, I’m good. I should hit the road.” He moved on, shuffling sideways between the tables, and he pushed out the door and walked back to his car. He got in, started up, backed out, and drove away north.
Mahmeini’s man saw a glow in the air, far ahead on the left. Neon, green and red and blue. The driver kept his foot down for a minute more, and then he lifted off and coasted. The engine coughed and the exhaust popped and sputtered and the taxi slowed. Way far up the road in the distance were a pair of red taillights. Very faint and far away. Almost not there at all. The taxi braked. Mahmeini’s man saw the bar. Just a simple wooden building. There were two weak spotlights under the eaves at the front. They
threw two pools of token light into the lot. There were plenty of parked vehicles. But no yellow rental.
The taxi pulled in and stopped. The driver looked back over his shoulder. Mahmeini’s man said, “Wait for me.”
The driver said, “How long?”
“A minute.” Mahmeini’s man got out and stood still. The taillights in the north had disappeared. Mahmeini’s man watched the darkness where they had been, just for a second. Then he walked to the wooden building’s door. He entered. He saw a large room, with chairs and tables on the left and a bar on the right. There were about twenty customers in the room, mostly men, none of them Asghar Arad Sepehr. There was a barman behind the bar, serving a customer, lining up the next, glancing over at the new arrival. Mahmeini’s man threaded between the tables toward him. He felt that everyone was watching him. A small man, foreign, unshaven, rumpled, and not very clean. The barman’s customer peeled away, holding two foaming glasses of beer. The barman moved on, to the next customer, serving him, but glancing beyond him for the next in line, as if he was planning two moves ahead.
Mahmeini’s man said, “I’m looking for someone.”
The barman said, “I guess we all are, sir. That’s the very essence of human nature, isn’t it? It’s an eternal quest.”
“No, I’m looking for someone I know. A friend of mine.”
“A lady or a gentleman?”
“He looks like me.”
“Then I haven’t seen him. I’m sorry.”
“He has a yellow car.”
“Cars are outside. I’m inside.”
Mahmeini’s man turned and scanned the room, and thought about the red taillights in the north, and turned back and asked, “Are you sure?”
