17 A Wanted Man

by Lee Child

  But McQueen was still a problem, even at twenty miles an hour. Theoretically Reacher could find the lever and jam the seat back into him, and maybe swing an elbow, but the headrest was in the way, and there was collateral damage just waiting to happen, right there next to the guy on the rear bench.

  A mother, separated from her child.

  Two feet from McQueen, on his right. And the guy was probably right-handed. Most people were.

  They have guns.

  So Reacher just coasted onward, through the curve, to the turn at the end of the ramp. Repeats of the gas board and the motel board faced him on the far shoulder of a narrow two-lane road. Both had arrows pointing right.

  Alan King yawned and said, ‘We’re coming off here?’

  Don McQueen said, ‘This is as good a place as any.’

  ‘For what?’ Reacher said.

  ‘For gas,’ McQueen said. ‘What else? Turn right. Follow the sign.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  REACHER TURNED RIGHT and followed the sign. The road was narrow and dark. And dead straight, like a lot of roads in Iowa. The surrounding landscape was invisible, but it felt flat. Dormant winter fields, left and right, as far as the mind could sense. There was nothing up ahead. Just darkness. And then Missouri, presumably, a hundred miles away. Maybe a river first. The Des Moines, Reacher thought. He had studied geography in school. The river called the Des Moines met the mighty Mississippi a couple hundred miles southeast of the city called Des Moines.

  He said, ‘This is a complete waste of time, guys. We’re going to drive twenty miles and find a gas station that went out of business before they invented unleaded.’

  McQueen said, ‘There was a sign. Has to mean something.’

  ‘It means there was gas here back when you were in grade school. Thirty cents a gallon. And Luckies at thirty cents a pack.’

  ‘I’m sure they keep those signs updated.’

  ‘You’re a very trusting person.’

  ‘Not really,’ McQueen said.

  Reacher drove on. The road surface was pitted and pot-holed and the car bounced and swayed. Not its natural element, as a vehicle. Or Reacher’s, as a driver. Both had been better on the highway.

  McQueen asked, ‘How’s your head?’

  Reacher said, ‘My head is fine. It’s my nose that’s busted, not my skull.’

  ‘You need another aspirin?’

  ‘I already had that discussion with Mr King. While you were asleep.’

  King said, ‘He elected to soldier on without. He seems very protective of Karen’s personal supply.’

  ‘Aspirin is not a prescription drug,’ McQueen said. ‘She could get more at the gas station. Or paracetamol, or ibuprofen.’

  ‘Or leeches,’ Reacher said. ‘We might find some under a dusty old pile of inner tubes and buggy whips. After we bust the padlock the bank put on thirty years ago.’

  ‘Just keep going,’ McQueen said. ‘Be patient.’

  So Reacher drove on, slowly south on the lumpy road, and two miles later he was proved wrong, and McQueen was proved right. They all saw a faint yellow glow in the night-time mist, way far ahead in the distance, on the horizon, like a beacon, which grew stronger as they approached it, and which finally resolved itself into the fierce neon glare of a brand new Shell station, all crisp white and yellow and orange, sitting like a mirage or a landed UFO on a quarter-acre bite out of a fallow cornfield. It had hi-tech pumps on two gondola islands, and lube bays, and a glassed-in store lit up so bright it must have been visible from outer space.

  And it was open for business.

  ‘You should have trusted me,’ McQueen said.

  Reacher slowed the car to a walk and turned in. He chose the pumps farther from the store and nearer the road and eased to a stop. He put the transmission in Park and shut down the motor. He pulled the key, casually, like a reflex, like a rote habit, and dropped it in his pocket.

  Alan King saw him do it, but said nothing.

  Reacher said, ‘Same system? I get the coffee, you get the gas?’

  ‘Works for me,’ McQueen said.

  So Reacher opened his door and got out. He stood and stretched and arched his back and then looped around the pump islands and headed for the bright lights. He could see a kid on a stool behind the register, watching him, staring at his face. The busted nose. A universal attraction, apparently. The guy wasn’t much more than twenty years old, and he looked sleepy and slow.

  Reacher paused before going in, and checked back. Alan King had dipped a credit card and was getting ready to pump the gas. McQueen was still in the rear seat. Delfuenso was still next to him.

  Reacher went inside. The kid behind the register looked up and nodded a cautious greeting. Reacher waited until the door sucked shut and said, ‘Got a pay phone?’

  The kid blinked and opened his mouth and closed it again, like a goldfish.

  ‘Not a difficult question,’ Reacher said. ‘A simple yes or no answer will suffice.’

  ‘Yes,’ the kid said. ‘We have a pay phone.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘By the restrooms,’ the kid said.

  ‘Which are where?’

  The kid pointed.

  ‘In back,’ he said.

  Reacher looked the other way, out the window.

  Don McQueen’s door was open.

  But he was still in the car. Just sitting there, facing forward.

  Reacher turned back and saw a door in the rear wall of the store. It had two stick figures on it, one in a skirt and one in pants. He stepped over to it and pulled it open. Behind it was a small lobby, with two more doors, one with the pants figure on it, and the other with the skirt. On the wall between the two was a pay phone, shiny and new, with an acoustic hood over it.

  Reacher checked back. King was pumping the gas. McQueen was twisted sideways in his seat. He had both feet out of the car. They were planted on the ground. But that was all. He was stretching his legs. For comfort. He wasn’t moving.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Reacher checked the ladies’ room. No windows. No alternate exit.

  He checked the men’s room. No windows. No alternate exit. He pulled a wad of towels from the dispenser and came back out to the lobby and folded the towels twice and jammed them between the lobby door and its frame, on the hinge side, so that the door held itself open a few inches. A little less than four inches, to be exact. Reacher ducked back and checked the view from the phone. He could see a small sliver of the store. He could see a tiny slice of the main door. Not much, but he would know if it opened.

  He hoped.

  He lifted the receiver and dialled 911.

  More or less instantly a dispatcher asked, ‘What is your current location?’

  Reacher said, ‘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.’

  Reacher stared through the gap at the tiny slice of the main door. Nothing happening. Not yet. The sound in his ear changed. Dead air, then a new dial tone.

  Then a new voice.

  It said, ‘This is the FBI. What is the nature of your emergency?’

  Reacher said, ‘I have information, probably for your field office in Omaha, Nebraska.’

  ‘What is the nature of your information?’

  ‘Just connect me, now.’

  ‘Sir, what is your name?’

  Reacher knew all about night-time duty officers. He had talked to thousands during his years in the service. They were always either on the way down, and therefore insecure, or on the way up, and therefore ambitious. He knew what worked with them, and he k
new what didn’t. He had learned the right psychological approach.

  He said, ‘Connect me now or you’ll lose your job.’

  A pause.

  Then dead air.

  Then a new dial tone.

  Then the outer door swept open. Reacher heard the loud swish of its rubber seal and saw part of its bright white frame flash through the limits of the narrow gap. He got a glimpse of a blue shoulder. He heard the fast click of heels on tile.

  He hung up the phone.

  He stepped forward and grabbed the folded towels with one hand and pushed the lobby door with the other and tossed the towels behind him and came face to face with Don McQueen.

  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.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  GOODMAN GOT THE bare bones of the story from Sorenson and said, ‘What about my missing eyewitness?’

  Sorenson said, ‘You can handle that yourself for the rest of the night. But don’t worry. You’re about to get plenty of help. As soon as the office workers get in tomorrow I’ll be replaced and you’ll be knee-deep in agents. You’ll have so many here you can put a couple on traffic duty. You can find out who drops gum on the sidewalk.’

  ‘Your SAC is already involved. And you haven’t been replaced yet.’

  ‘He hasn’t kicked it upstairs yet. Can’t do that, in the middle of the night. But he will. And he’ll cover his ass. Right now I bet he’s writing a report, which will be in every e-mail in-box everywhere by the time the sun comes up, and the last paragraph will be a recommendation to pull me out and bring in the heavy hitters from D.C. You can take that to the bank.’

  ‘Doesn’t he trust you?’

  ‘He trusts me just fine. But this thing looks toxic. He won’t want it anywhere near his own office. He prefers to look good.’

  ‘So why are you going to Iowa?’

  ‘Because right now it’s still my case.’

  ‘You really think it’s them?’

  ‘The location is right. It’s about where they’d be by now.’

  ‘That’s just a wild-ass guess.’

  ‘Who else would call Omaha from east of Des Moines?’

  ‘Why would they call at all? And from a traceable pay phone?’

  ‘A secret conscience attack, maybe. By the driver, possibly. They tell me the voice was nasal. Which could be a busted nose, not the flu. And maybe a pay phone was all he could find.’