A Wanted Man: (Jack Reacher 17)

by Lee Child

  ‘Gut feeling?’

  ‘Right now my gut feeling is I want to retrain as a hairdresser. This thing was about the worst I’ve ever seen.’

  Sorenson was quiet for a long moment.

  Then she said, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I started from the beginning, with the pelvic girdle. That’s the only way to confirm gender with a case like this. And it was totally clear. The pelvic bones had been reasonably well protected by a thick layer of fat.’

  Reacher looked up. Delfuenso wasn’t fat. She was thin.

  Sorenson said, ‘And?’

  ‘It’s beyond a reasonable doubt the corpse was male.’

  Sorenson ran through the details with her guy. Like a crash course in forensic anthropology. Reacher remembered some of the words and some of the principles from the classroom. He had studied such things once, partly as a professional requirement, and partly out of interest. There were four things to look for with pelvises. First was the iliac spread. The ilia were the big bones shaped like butterfly wings, and female ilia were flared wider, and shaped more like a cradle, like cupped hands, with the anterior spines farther apart, whereas male ilia were narrower and tighter and much more straight up and down, more like a guy on a riverbank describing a foot-long trout.

  Then second, the hole in the ischium was small and triangular in females, and large and round in males. And third, the angle across the pubic arch was always greater than ninety degrees in females, and rounded, and always less than ninety degrees in males, and sharp.

  And the fourth was the clincher, of course: the space between the ischia was big enough in females for a baby’s head to fit through. Not so with males. Not even close.

  Pelvises didn’t lie. They couldn’t be confused one for the other. Even a million-year-old pelvis dug out of the ground in pieces was quite clearly either male or female. Short of being ground to powder, a pelvis determined gender, no question, no doubt at all, end of story, thank you and goodnight. That was what Reacher had learned in the classroom, and that was what the voice on the phone confirmed.

  Sorenson said, ‘So it wasn’t Delfuenso.’

  The voice on the phone said, ‘Correct. And I’m happy for you. But that’s all I can reliably tell you. It was a male human being. Anything more than that would be pure guesswork.’

  Sorenson clicked off the call and turned to Reacher and said, ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  Reacher said, ‘I suspected.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing else made sense after Lucy was taken. I figured Delfuenso might still be a captive somewhere, maybe freaking out, maybe refusing to cooperate, and the only way to shut her up was go get her kid.’

  ‘To calm her down?’

  ‘Or to threaten her with.’

  ‘So now we have two of them in danger.’

  ‘Or maybe we don’t,’ Reacher said. ‘Maybe we have two of them as safe as houses. Because there are other potential conclusions, too. But they could be wrong conclusions. They could be embarrassingly grand pronouncements.’

  ‘Which one died? King or McQueen? Or was it someone we never heard of yet?’

  ‘It was King, I think. He was a little fat, especially around the middle. And he would fit the theory.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Something McQueen said when we pulled off the Interstate for gas.’

  ‘You told me this already. He said you should have trusted him.’

  ‘Before that. I was dubious about coming off there and he got a little impatient and said he was in charge.’

  ‘Maybe he was. One or the other had to be. I doubt it was a democracy.’

  ‘But there’s a sound in those specific words, don’t you think? In charge? You have special agents in charge. We had officers in charge of this and that. A charge is something you’re given. You’re entrusted with it. It’s authority that devolves down an official hierarchy.’

  ‘That’s very subjective.’

  ‘I think a regular bad guy would have said I’m the boss here. Something like that.’

  ‘So what are you saying? You think McQueen is ex-military? Or ex-law enforcement?’

  Reacher didn’t answer that. He said, ‘And then he said the thing about trusting him. As if he was worthy of trust, somehow as of right. And then he shot at me and missed.’

  ‘Probably not either military or law enforcement, then. Lousy marksman.’

  ‘Maybe he was a great marksman.’

  ‘But he was in the room with you. It was what, about eight feet? How can he be a great marksman and miss from eight feet?’

  ‘Maybe he missed on purpose.’

  Sorenson said nothing.

  Reacher said, ‘I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I was just happy to be alive. But it was a hell of a high shot. It was a foot over my head. Maybe more. I remember saying it would have missed the motel keeper if he’d been standing on his own shoulders. It was exaggerated. It must have been about ten degrees above the horizontal. More than eleven-point-something, to be precise.’

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘I’m serious. There’s more. He moved his position so he was blocking my view of the car.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he was blocking their view of me. As if he needed them to think he was doing one thing, when really he was doing another thing.’

  ‘He missed. That’s all. People do, sometimes.’

  ‘I think it was deliberate.’

  ‘He killed the guy in the pumping station, Reacher. He killed his own partner, apparently. He burned him to death. Why would he miss you deliberately? What makes you special?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Reacher said.

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Tell me your phone number.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to need it.’

  ‘I left my phone in Delfuenso’s house, remember?’

  ‘You’re about to go get it back. And your car. And your reputation. You’re about to be a hero.’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  REACHER AND SORENSON swapped places in Goodman’s car and Sorenson drove back to town, sedately, never more than fifty miles an hour. They passed Sin City, and they passed the empty bean fields, and they passed the quarter-mile of old machinery, and more bean fields, and they turned right at the crossroads and drove a hundred yards and parked next to the old pumping station. Sorenson fiddled with Goodman’s phone and brought up the list of recent calls and voice mails. She found Dawson’s cell number. She dialled it and the guy answered almost instantly.

  He said, ‘Sheriff Goodman?’

  Sorenson said, ‘No, this is Sorenson out of Omaha. Long story with the sheriff’s phone. But I have the man you’re looking for. He’s in my custody. You can come pick him up any time you like.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the old pumping station.’

  ‘We’ll be there in two minutes.’

  Ninety seconds later Reacher opened his door and said, ‘OK, I’m ready for my close-up.’ He got out into the cold and crossed the sidewalk and faced the old pumping station’s concrete wall and put his fingertips on the rough surface. He shuffled his feet a yard apart and leaned forward and took his weight on his hands. Assume the position. Sorenson stood six feet behind him and pulled her gun and held it two-handed, trained on the centre of his back.

  ‘Looking good,’ she said.

  ‘Not feeling good,’ he said.

  ‘Best of luck,’ she said. ‘It’s been fun hanging out with you.’

  ‘We’re not done yet. I hope to see you again.’

  They held their poses. The concrete was cold. Then Reacher heard tyres on the pavement. He heard a car come to a stop, and he heard doors open. He turned his head. The blue Crown Vic. Dawson and Mitchell. They came out fast, coats billowing, guns drawn, triumph on their faces. They talked with Sorenson briefly. Congratulations, appreciation, thanks. They said they would take over from
there. Reacher turned his face back to the wall. He heard Sorenson walk away. He heard Goodman’s car start up. He heard it drive off down the street.

  Then there was silence. Just breathing from behind him, and the sound of cold air moving across the land.

  Then either Dawson or Mitchell said, ‘Turn around.’

  Which Reacher was glad to do. His fingertips were numb and his shoulders were starting to hurt. He pushed off the wall and rocked upright and turned around. Both guys had their guns on him. They looked the same as they had through the diner window. Early forties, blue suits, white shirts, blue ties, still ragged, still tired, still flushed. Maybe a little more tired and a little more flushed than before, due to their recent exertions. Of which the worst part had probably been dealing with Puller. Fast driving was no big deal. Dealing with morons was. What was the phrase? Like teaching Hindu to a beagle.

  The one who was a little taller and a little thinner than the other said, ‘My name is Dawson. My partner’s name is Mitchell. We’d like you to get in the car.’

  Reacher said, ‘You understand I never met King or McQueen before last night?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You were hitching rides. We accept that completely. No hard feelings about the evasive manoeuvres in the stolen cop car just now, either. And Mr Lester is prepared to overlook his injuries.’

  ‘What injuries?’

  Mitchell said, ‘You hurt his leg. His feelings too, probably.’

  ‘So we’re all good?’

  ‘Peachy.’

  ‘Then why are you arresting me?’

  Dawson said, ‘We’re not arresting you. Not technically.’

  ‘You’re arresting me untechnically, then?’

  ‘Recent legislation gives us various powers. We’re authorized to use all of them.’

  ‘Without telling me what they are?’

  ‘You’re required to cooperate with us in matters of national security. And we’re required to think primarily of your own personal safety.’

  ‘Safety from what?’

  ‘You’re tangled up with things you don’t understand.’

  ‘So really you’re doing me a favour?’

  Dawson said, ‘That’s exactly what we’re doing.’

  Reacher got in their car. In the back. Loose, not handcuffed, not restrained in any way except for the seat belt they made him wear. They said it was Bureau policy to follow best practices for driver and passenger safety. He was pretty sure the rear doors wouldn’t open from the inside, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t planning on jumping out.

  Mitchell drove, east to the crossroads and then south into the hinterland. Dawson sat quiet alongside him. Reacher watched out the window. He wanted to study the route they were taking. The county two-lane heading south was pretty much the same as it was heading north. There was no direct equivalent of Sin City, but otherwise the terrain was familiar. Fallow winter fields, some trees, a few old barns, an occasional grocery store, an untidy yard with used tractor tyres for sale. There was even a repeat of the sad quarter-mile of fourth-hand farm machinery, equally lame, equally rusted. There was clearly a glut on the pre-owned market.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Reacher asked, because he thought he should, sooner or later, strictly for the sake of appearances.

  Dawson roused himself from a stupor and said, ‘You’ll see.’

  What Reacher saw was the rest of Nebraska and a good part of Kansas. Almost three hundred miles in total, the first half of that distance due south from where they had started, just shy of Nebraska’s east-west Interstate, all the way down to Kansas’s own east-west Interstate. They stopped and got very late lunches at a McDonald’s just over the state line. Dawson insisted on drive-through. The same way Sorenson had wanted to eat in Iowa. Reacher figured the FBI had an official policy. Probably a recommendation from a committee. Don’t let your prisoner starve, but don’t let him get out of the car, either. He ordered the same meal as the last time, twin cheeseburgers and apple pies and a twenty-ounce cup of coffee. He was a creature of habit where McDonald’s was concerned. The meal was passed in through Mitchell’s window and then passed over Mitchell’s shoulder to him and he ate it quite comfortably on the back seat. There was even a cup holder there. Cop cars had gotten a lot more civilized since his day. That was for sure.

  He slumbered through the rest of the two-lane mileage. Slumber was his word for a not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake state of semiconsciousness he liked a lot. Even if he hadn’t, it would have been hard to resist. He was tired, the car was warm, the seat was comfortable, the ride was soft. And neither Dawson nor Mitchell was talking. Neither one said a single word. There was no big three-way conversation. Not that Reacher wanted one. Silence was golden, in his opinion.

  Then they turned east on the Interstate, towards Kansas City, Missouri. Reacher knew his American history. Kansas City was first settled by Americans in 1831. It was first incorporated in 1853. It was called the City of Fountains, or the Paris of the Plains. It had a decent baseball team. World Champions in 1985. George Brett, Frank White, Bret Saberhagen.

  Its area code was 816.

  Its population was counted several different ways. Local boosters liked to bump it up by ranging far and wide.

  But most agreed its metro area was home to about a million and a half people.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THE INTERSTATE’S ARCHITECTURE and its appearance and its grammar were the same as its parallel twin a hundred and fifty miles to the north. It was equally straight and wide and level. Its exits were equally infrequent. They were preceded by the same blue boards, part information, part temptation. Some exits were for real, and some were deceptive. The blue Crown Vic hummed along. Dawson and Mitchell stayed resolutely silent. Reacher sat straight and comfortable, held in place by his belt. He watched the shoulder, and he watched the road ahead. It was getting dark in the east. The day was nearly over. The sun had come up over the burned-out Impala, and now it was disappearing somewhere far behind him.

  Then he felt the car slow fractionally ahead of an exit sign to a place with a name he didn’t recognize. The blue boards showed gas and food but no accommodation. But that deficiency was recent. The accommodations board was blank, but newly blank. There was a neat rectangle of new blue paint on it, not quite the same shade as the old blue paint. A bankruptcy, possibly, or a corporate realignment, or the death of a mom or a pop or of both.

  Or something more complicated, maybe.

  Up ahead the exit itself looked somewhere halfway between for real and deceptive. Plausible, but not wildly attractive. There was no gas station sign immediately visible. No lurid colours announcing fast food. But the way the land lay in the gathering gloom suggested there might be something worthwhile over the next ridge or around the next bend.

  Mitchell checked his mirror and put on his turn signal and slowed some more. Best practices for driver and passenger safety. He eased off the gas and hugged the white line and took the exit gently and smoothly. He kept his turn signal going and paused and yielded at the end of the ramp and turned right on a two-lane local road. South again, maybe a hundred miles short of the Paris of the Plains, out into open country.

  They passed a gas station a mile later, and a no-name diner a mile after that. Then a last blue board stood all alone on the shoulder, completely blank except for one horizontal patch of new blue paint and one vertical patch of new blue paint. A short motel name and an arrow pointing straight ahead, both of them recently concealed.

  Left and right of the road was nothing but dormant agriculture. Just like Iowa. Wheat, sorghum, and sunflowers. Nothing doing right then, but in six months it would all be as high as an elephant’s eye, on some of the best prairie topsoil in the world. For long miles there was no habitation to be seen. Whatever farm buildings were left were all more distant than the darkening horizons.

  Mitchell drove more than twenty miles through the lonely country, and then he slowed again. Reacher peered ahead into the gloom, looking for lights. He saw
none at all. Then the road jinked right and left around a stand of bare trees and fell away into a broad shallow valley and the last gloomy glow from the west showed a motel about a mile away, laid out like a model on a table.

  It was a fair-sized place. It had a central block, maybe for the office and the dining room, and a bunch of satellite blocks, with maybe five or six rooms in each. The blocks were all low-built but long, and they were all roofed with what looked like Spanish tiles, and they were all faced with what looked like pale stucco. There was an empty swimming pool, and there were cement paths, and parking areas, and bare flowerbeds. The whole compound was ringed by a low decorative wall done up in the same pale stucco as the buildings. From a distance the overall effect was like a seaside place. Not exactly Miami, not exactly California, not exactly Long Island, but a kind of landlocked fever-dream interpretation of all three mixed together.

  And despite the blanked-out signs, the place looked open for business.

  There were lights on in the main office block, and four of the windows in the satellite blocks were lit up too. There was steam drifting from what might have been a kitchen vent. There were two cars parked far apart in two different lots. Both were sedans, both were long and low, both were dark in colour. Fords, Reacher thought. Crown Victorias, probably.

  Exactly like the car he was riding in.

  He said, ‘Is that place where we’re going?’

  Mitchell drove on in silence, and Dawson didn’t answer either.

  As they got closer Reacher expected to see more of the place. More details. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The details never resolved. Something was obscuring his view. Not just the evening gloom. From half a mile out there seemed to be some kind of a low haze all around the edges of the compound. Like a force field, walling it in.