by Lee Child
Goodman’s car was still there on the crown of the road. The keys were still in it, which was what Reacher had expected. City cops usually took their keys with them. Country cops, not so much. There was nothing more embarrassing than having some street kid steal a patrol car during an urban melee, but that kind of danger was rare in the boonies, so habits were different.
And there was an added bonus, too. They didn’t need to buy a new phone. Goodman’s cell was right there, charging away in a dashboard cradle identical to Sorenson’s own Bureau issue. The screen was showing two missed calls. One from Sorenson’s cell, and the other from the department’s dispatcher.
Post-mortem calls.
Reacher racked the driver’s seat back and fired up the engine. The car was a police-spec Crown Vic, under the skin exactly the same as Sorenson’s more discreet version. But it was older and grimier inside. The seat had been crushed into Goodman’s unique shape by many hours of use. Reacher felt like he was putting on a dead man’s clothes.
Sorenson asked, ‘Where are we going?’
Reacher said, ‘Anywhere with cell reception. We need to wait until we hear from your tech guys. About the autopsy. You need to call them and give them the new number.’
‘We’re basically stealing this car, you know.’
‘But who’s going to do anything about it? That idiot Puller?’
Reacher turned around in Delfuenso’s empty driveway and headed back south and west towards the crossroads. He got less than half a mile before Goodman’s phone rang in its cradle. A loud electronic squawk. Urgent, and nothing fancy.
The readout window showed a 402 area code.
‘Omaha,’ Reacher said.
Sorenson craned over to read the rest of the number.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘That’s my SAC’s private line.’
‘He’s calling Goodman? Why?’
‘You kidnapped me. He’s alerting local law enforcement all over eastern Nebraska. Iowa too, probably.’
‘Doesn’t he know Goodman is dead?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t see how he could. Not yet.’
‘How did he get this number?’
‘Database. We have lots of numbers.’
‘Has he spoken to Goodman before?’
‘No. I don’t think so. The night duty agent took a call from him. That’s all. That’s how this whole thing started.’
‘How do I work this phone?’
‘You’re not going to talk to him, are you?’
‘We can’t let everyone ignore him. He’ll start to feel bad.’
‘But he knows your voice. You two just spoke.’
‘What did Goodman sound like?’
‘Like a seventy-year-old guy from Nebraska.’
‘How do I work the phone?’
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Quick, before it goes to voice mail.’
‘There’s a microphone in the windshield pillar. Just hit the green button.’
Reacher hit the green button. He heard telephone sounds over the car speakers, unnaturally loud and clear and detailed. Every hiss and every crackle was faithfully rendered. He heard Special Agent in Charge Perry’s voice. It sounded brisk and a little tense. It said, ‘Is this Sheriff Goodman?’
Reacher took his right hand off the wheel and put his little finger in the corner of his mouth. Like an intrusive implement during a dental procedure. He said, ‘Yes, it is.’
The voice filling the car said, ‘Sheriff, I’m Anthony Perry, the SAC at the Omaha FBI. The Bureau has an interest in a situation that may be developing in your neck of the woods.’
‘And what situation would that be, sir?’
‘I believe you may have met Agent Sorenson from my office.’
‘I had that pleasure last night. A mighty fine young woman. You must be proud to have her working for you, sir.’
Sorenson laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Perry said, ‘Well, yes, but that’s beside the point right now. We picked up a report from the Nebraska State Police that a child went missing this morning.’
‘Sad but true, sir.’
‘I believe Agent Sorenson may have headed directly to you as a result.’
‘That’s good,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ll be glad of all the help I can get.’
He gulped saliva past his finger.
Perry said, ‘Are you OK, sheriff?’
‘I’m tired,’ Reacher said. ‘I’m an old man and I’ve been awake for a long time.’
‘You haven’t seen Agent Sorenson today?’
‘No, not yet, but I’ll be sure to watch out for her.’
‘It’s not that simple, sheriff. I believe she may have detoured on her way here with a male suspect. I believe that male suspect may have somehow overpowered her and may be currently holding her hostage.’
‘Well, sir, I can certainly see how you might describe that as a situation. Yes, indeed. But you don’t need my permission to come look for her. I think you’re entitled to take care of your own people. And you’re always welcome here.’
‘No, I can’t spare the manpower,’ Perry said. ‘We can’t be everywhere at once. I’m asking you and your boys to be my eyes and ears down there. Can you do that for me?’
‘Do what exactly?’
‘Let me know immediately if you see Agent Sorenson, or her car. And if possible take her companion into custody.’
‘Do you have a description?’
‘He’s a big guy with a broken nose.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘You should treat him as extremely dangerous. Don’t take unnecessary risks.’
‘You mean shoot first and ask questions later?’
‘I think that would be a very sound operating principle, under the circumstances.’
‘OK, you got it, Mr Perry. You can cross my county off your list of concerns, as of right now. If he comes here, we’ll deal with him.’
‘Thank you, sheriff. I very much appreciate your cooperation.’
‘We’re here to serve, sir,’ Reacher said. He took his finger out of his mouth and pressed the red button on the phone.
Sorenson didn’t speak.
Reacher said, ‘What? That’s a good result. This whole county is ours now. We can come and go as we please.’
‘But suppose we have to stray out of this county? Don’t you get it? You’re a wanted man. He’s putting a hit on you.’
‘People have tried that too,’ Reacher said. ‘And I’m still here, and they’re not.’
A mile later Sorenson called her tech team to let them know she had a new cell number. Her guys didn’t answer, so she had to leave a voice mail, which Reacher took to be a good sign, because it likely meant that right then they were hard at work, bent over a stainless steel mortuary table somewhere. He didn’t envy them their task. Like all cops he had attended autopsies. A rite of passage, and a character thing, and sometimes important to the chain of evidence. Decomposed floaters were the worst, but badly burned people were a close second. Like carving a London broil, but not exactly.
He stopped a couple of miles short of the crossroads. He didn’t want to be seen driving the dead sheriff’s car. Not by local people and especially not by Puller or any of the other deputies. He didn’t want controversy or radio chatter. Not at that point. At that point anonymity was his friend. He found a field entrance and backed up into the tractor ruts and left the motor running for the heat. He had about half a tank of gas. He stared straight ahead out the windshield at flat brown dirt that ran all the way to the horizon. Six months from then the car would have been hidden by green leaves, in the middle of thousands or tens of thousands of tons of produce, all made by plant DNA and rain and minerals from the earth.
Sorenson asked, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Right now?’
‘No, about Delfuenso’s autopsy.’
‘It’ll be a yes or no answer,’ he said. ‘Either one thing or the other.’
‘Care to expand on th
at?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I might embarrass myself.’
‘Are you easily embarrassed?’
‘I can feel a little foolish if I make grand pronouncements that turn out wrong.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘More often than I would like. Do you have kids?’
Sorenson shook her head. ‘Never happened for me.’
‘Did you want it to?’
‘I’m not sure. You?’
‘No and no. Are you easily embarrassed?’
‘Not easily,’ Sorenson said. ‘Not professionally, anyway. Sometimes personally, I suppose. Like right now I wish I could shower and change. I’ve been wearing this shirt since I got up yesterday.’
Reacher said, ‘I wear mine three days minimum. And right now my nose is busted. So I can’t smell anything anyway.’
She smiled.
He said, ‘You could go shopping. You could shower at Delfuenso’s house. This county is ours.’
‘Showering at Delfuenso’s house would be creepy. A dead woman’s bathroom?’
‘We’re driving a dead man’s car.’
‘Where could I go shopping, anyway?’
‘There must be a store in town. You could get bib overalls.’
‘You don’t want to go to town. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stopped here.’
‘We could go to Sin City. We know they have shirts there, at least. In the convenience store.’
‘Not very nice shirts.’
‘You’d look good in anything.’
‘I’ll choose to ignore that,’ she said. Then she said, ‘OK, let’s go to Sin City. I’ll do what you did. I’ll buy a shirt and you can get me an hour in a motel.’
‘Doesn’t work that way in the afternoon. The maids will have gone home. You’d have to pay for a whole night.’
‘No problem. It’s worth it to me.’
‘You’re very fastidious.’
‘Most people are.’
‘We could get lunch, too.’
But then Goodman’s phone rang again. The same urgent electronic squawk, loud and resonant through the speakers.
The area code was 816.
‘Kansas City,’ Reacher said.
‘Don’t answer it,’ Sorenson said.
The phone squawked on, six, seven, eight times, and then it stopped. The car went quiet again. Just the purr of the motor, and the whir of the heater.
Reacher said, ‘Your counterterrorism guys are from Kansas City, right?’
‘They’re not mine,’ Sorenson said.
‘Dawson and Mitchell, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who else would call Goodman from a Kansas City number?’
‘Could be anyone. Brother, sister, daughter, son. Old college roommate. Fishing buddy.’
‘During work hours?’
‘Why not?’
‘Did Goodman even go to college?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I don’t think his chief deputy did.’
The phone trilled once. Voice mail. Sorenson leaned over and fiddled with the phone. Her hair touched Reacher’s arm. The car filled with a watery, distorted sound.
‘Cell phone,’ Sorenson said. ‘Weak signal. Probably indoors. Or in a moving vehicle.’
Then a voice broke through and said, ‘Sheriff Goodman, this is Agent Dawson with FBI counterterrorism out of Kansas City. We met last night. I need you to call me back as soon as possible. And until then I need to warn you about a man travelling with Agent Sorenson out of our Omaha office. He’s a dangerous fugitive and should be apprehended on sight. My partner and I are on our way to you. We’ll deal with the situation after we get there, but please take care until we do. We’ll be with you in about thirty minutes or less. We’ll check in at the department and hope to see you there.’
Then there was more watery distortion, and then there was silence.
Just the purr of the motor, and the whir of the heater.
Sorenson said, ‘Not our county after all.’
FIFTY-ONE
REACHER DIDN’T MOVE the car. It was in as good a place as any. He said, ‘Clearly Omaha isn’t talking to Kansas City. If your guy had known Dawson and Mitchell were on the way here he wouldn’t have asked Goodman to be his eyes and ears.’
‘More likely the other way around,’ Sorenson said. ‘Kansas City isn’t talking to Omaha. They’re operating independently. Which is typical, for a bunch of counterterrorism hotshots.’
‘Do they think I’m a terrorist?’
‘They know you were driving the car for King and McQueen. Who killed a guy you’re pretty sure was CIA. Which puts you all in the relevant category, wouldn’t you say?’
‘There was a black guy in a pick-up truck who almost stopped for me. Not long before King and McQueen showed up. I was kind of glad at the time. I was cold and it looked like his heater was busted. Now I wish he had stopped. I’d be in Virginia by now.’
‘With pneumonia, maybe.’
‘Let’s go get you a shirt and a shower.’
‘But we only have half an hour. Or less.’
‘Until what? No one’s got a beef with you. And no one will even see me.’
‘They think I’ve been kidnapped. They’ll rescue me. Same thing as taking me prisoner.’
‘Your boss hasn’t talked to them. They know nothing about the alleged kidnap. They said I was travelling with you, not holding you hostage. They’ll say hi, you’ll say hi, they’ll ask you about the guy with the nose, you’ll say you have no idea where he is. That’s if they find you at all. Which they won’t. They won’t want a room at the motel, and even if they do, the clerk won’t put them in the same room as you. That’s not how motels work, generally.’
‘OK,’ Sorenson said. ‘Let’s go.’
Goodman’s car had no GPS on the dash and no map in the glove box. No obvious need for either thing. Presumably Goodman had known his county like the back of his hand. Probably he had grown up there and lived there all his life. So Reacher navigated by memory and common sense and guesswork. He was about two miles north and east of the crossroads and he needed to get three miles due north of the crossroads. So he threaded basically west through the chequerboard and came out on the main drag opposite the sad line of for-sale farm junk. He paused there and checked both ways and saw nothing to worry about. No Bureau sedans, no SWAT teams, no armoured trucks. No local deputies, no roadblocks, no choppers in the air. So he turned north and cruised the last mile and looped in behind the convenience store.
Sorenson detached Goodman’s phone from its cradle and put it in her bag. She went in the store and five minutes later she came out again with the same kind and the same size of shirt that Delfuenso had been given, and a smaller softer packet Reacher guessed was dollar underwear and socks. The best-looking motel was on the other side of the road, so Reacher drove over there but parked some distance away. He figured it was better if Sorenson approached the place on foot. In his experience hotel keepers were habitual gossips, and he didn’t want a county-wide bulletin about a stranger driving the sheriff’s car. He watched Sorenson go into the office, and he saw her come out again five minutes later with a key. He watched her walk down the row of rooms, and he saw her go into one.
Thirty minutes, he figured, for a fastidious woman whose last shower had been more than thirty hours ago. Or forty minutes, possibly, if she was the kind of person who dried her hair with electricity.
He moved the car and parked it behind a bar that was closed in the daytime. Sin City as a whole was pretty quiet. The diners all had signs reading Last Food Before the Interstate and the gas stations had signs reading Last Gas Before the Interstate. He figured the Chamber of Commerce could have put up a sign saying Last Everything Before the Interstate without a word of a lie. But not many drivers were availing themselves of their final opportunities.
He got out of the car and locked it up and walked away. He crossed the road and looped around behind Delfuenso’s cockta
il lounge. The red Mazda was still there. Five doors, four seats. The locks had been jimmied, presumably by Sorenson’s tech team. The interior was bland and clean. The driver’s seat was set for a person of average height. A rental car, typical in every respect.
If in doubt drink coffee was Reacher’s operating principle, so he headed back across the road to the diner nearest Sorenson’s motel. He got a high-backed corner booth with a blank wall behind him, and a heavy pottery mug full to the brim with a strong brew. A bad receptacle, but decent coffee. And a good tactical position. He could see the room and he could see the street. The restroom corridor was three feet from his left shoulder and there was a fire exit at the end of it. He watched out the window and saw traffic on the road. An eighteen-wheeler heading north, and a similar thing heading south. A battered pick-up truck, a boxy four wheel drive covered in mud, and a delivery van lacy with rust.
And then a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, coming north.
Same make and model and colour as Sorenson’s car.
Needle antennas on the trunk lid, just like Sorenson’s antennas.
FBI.
Two men in it.
It was going slow. Too slow. A telling percentage slower than normal caution. It was going at search speed. The driver was scanning left, and the passenger was scanning right. Reacher watched it crawl past. He thought the guys in it were two of the four he had seen in the lot behind the FBI building in Omaha. Maybe. Dawson and Mitchell. Possibly.
He sipped his coffee and measured time and speed and distance in his head. And right on cue the blue Crown Vic came back, now heading south, still going slow, the two heads in it turning as the two pairs of eyes scanned the shoulders, the buildings, the people, the cars, pausing here and there and hanging up and then jumping ahead again.
Then the car slowed some more.
And turned in.
It bumped over a broken kerb and crunched over the gravel into the diner’s front lot and came closer and parked with its nose a yard from Reacher’s window. The two guys in it sat still. No urgency. No purpose. A coffee break, after a long and fruitless search. That was all. Reacher was pretty sure he recognized them. He was pretty sure they were Dawson and Mitchell. They were blinking and yawning and wagging their necks to ease out the kinks. They were dressed in dark blue suits and white shirts and blue ties. They looked a little ragged. A little tired. One looked a little taller and a little thinner than the other, but otherwise they were a matching pair. Both had fair hair and red faces. Both were somewhere in their early forties.
