Lee Child - A Wanted Man

‘Then at least let me pump it. You shouldn’t have to do all the work.’

‘You’re about to drive three hundred miles. That’s work enough.’

‘It’s cold out there.’

King said, ‘I think you want to see how much gas goes in the car. Am I right? You don’t believe my gauge is busted?’

Reacher said nothing.

King said, ‘I believe it would be minimally courteous to trust a simple factual statement made by the guy who has offered to get you a considerable part of the way to your destination.’

Reacher said nothing.

‘Coffee,’ King said. ‘Two with cream and one spoonful of sugar, plus whatever Karen wants.’

Delfuenso didn’t speak. There was a beat of silence, and King said, ‘Nothing for Karen, then.’

Reacher climbed out of the car and headed across the two-lane.

Sheriff Goodman’s call went straight to voice mail. He said, ‘The waitress’s phone is switched off.’

‘Of course it is,’ Sorenson said. ‘She’s fast asleep. She’s tired after a long evening’s work. Does she have a landline?’

‘The cell was the only number Missy Smith gave me.’

‘So call the Smith woman back and get an address. We’ll have to go bang on her door.’

‘I can’t call Missy Smith again.’

‘I think you can.’ But right then Sorenson’s own cell started ringing. A plain electronic sound. No tune. No download. She answered, and listened, and said, ‘OK,’ and clicked off again.

‘The Mazda was rented at the Denver airport,’ she said. ‘By a lone individual. My people say his DL and his credit card were phony.’

‘Why Denver?’ Goodman asked. ‘If you wanted to come here, wouldn’t you fly into Omaha and rent a car there?’

‘Denver is much bigger and much more anonymous. Their rental traffic must be twenty times Omaha’s.’

Her phone rang again. The same plain electronic sound. She answered and this time Goodman saw her back go straight. She was talking to a superior. Universal body language. She said, ‘Say that again, please?’ Then she listened a little, and then she said, ‘Yes, sir.’

And then she clicked off the call.

She said, ‘Now this thing just got weird.’

Goodman asked, ‘How?’

‘My guys over at your pumping station already transmitted the dead guy’s fingerprints. And they already came back. And along the way they lit up some computer at the State Department.’

‘The State Department? They aren’t your people. That’s foreign affairs. You belong to the Justice Department.’

‘I don’t belong to anyone.’

‘But why the State Department?’

‘We don’t know yet. The dead guy could be one of theirs. Or known to them.’

‘Like a diplomat?’

‘Or someone else’s diplomat.’

‘In Nebraska?’

‘They’re not chained to their desks.’

‘He didn’t look foreign.’

‘He didn’t look like anything. He was covered in blood.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Maximum effort,’ Sorenson said. ‘That’s what they’re asking for. Where are the two guys now?’

‘Now? They could be in a million different places.’

‘So it’s time to gamble. Before I get taken off this thing. Or supervised. One or the other is sure to happen first thing in the morning. That’s what maximum effort means. So suppose the two guys are still on the road?’

‘But which road? There are a million roads.’

‘Suppose they stayed on the Interstate?’

‘Would they?’

‘They’re probably not local. They’re probably running home right now, which could be a big distance.’

‘In which direction?’

‘Either one.’

‘You said they might be travelling separately.’

‘It’s a possibility, but a small one. Statistics show most paired perpetrators stick together after the commission of a serious crime. Human nature. They don’t necessarily trust each other to deal with the aftermath.’

‘Statistics?’

‘We find them to be a useful guide.’

‘OK, if they’re still together, and if they’re still on the Interstate, and if they went west, they must be about a quarter of the way back to Denver by now. And if they went east, they must be well into Iowa.’

‘Speed?’

‘Close to eighty, probably. Most Highway Patrols don’t get very excited by anything less than that. Not around here. Unless there’s weather. But it’s pretty clear tonight.’

Maximum effort. Gamble . Sorenson thought hard for thirty seconds and then got back on her phone and called up two final Hail Mary roadblocks on the Interstate, both to be in place in less than one hour’s time, the first in the west, a quarter of the way back to Denver plus eighty miles, and the second in the east, well into Iowa plus eighty miles. Both were to be on the lookout for two men, unspecified age, average appearance, no distinguishing marks, possible bloodstained clothing, possible possession of a bladed weapon showing signs of recent use.

REACHER CAME OUT of the food shack carrying four cups of coffee in a pressed cardboard tray. He fully expected three of them to be wasted. He fully expected the car to be gone. But it wasn’t. It had moved off the pump, but it was waiting for him near the air hose and the interior vacuum, with its lights on and its engine running. Alan King was in the front passenger seat and Karen Delfuenso was behind him. Don McQueen was out of the car, standing near the driver’s door, looking cold and tired. Reacher had been right about his height and build. The guy was about six feet and slender, all arms and legs.

Reacher carried the coffee across the two-lane and gave one of the cream-and-sugars to McQueen. Then he tracked around the hood and gave the other to Alan King. Then he opened Delfuenso’s door and held out the third cup. He said, ‘Black, no sugar.’

Delfuenso hesitated a second, and then she took the cup. She said, ‘Thank you. That’s how I like it. How on earth did you know?’

Thirteen words. Which was eight more than he had heard from her so far, ever since they had met. He thought: Everyone knows thin women in their early forties don’t use cream or sugar . He said, ‘It was just a lucky guess.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

He stepped over to the trash barrel next to the vacuum and dumped the cardboard tray. Don McQueen opened the driver’s door for him, like a little ceremony. He slid into the seat and put his coffee in the cup holder. McQueen got in behind him.

Reacher found the lever and racked the seat back for legroom. It hit McQueen in the knees. Reacher looked at Alan King and said, ‘Why don’t you trade places with Mr McQueen? We’ve got the two tallest people one behind the other here.’

King said, ‘I always ride in front.’

‘Always?’

‘Without exception.’

So Reacher shrugged and adjusted the mirror and fastened his seat belt and got himself comfortable. Then he nudged the lever into Drive, and touched the gas, and eased out on to the two-lane, and drove the hundred feet, and took the ramp, and got back on the highway.

More proof they hadn’t been driving three hours.

No one had used the restroom.

Sheriff Goodman clicked off his cell and said, ‘Now Missy Smith has got her phone shut down.’

Sorenson nodded. ‘It’s late. The civilians are asleep. Do you know where she lives?’

No answer from Goodman. Wariness in his silence.

‘Obviously you know where she lives,’ Sorenson said. ‘She’s been here for ever. She’s a well known character. We’ll have to go bang on her door, before we go bang on the waitress’s door.’

Goodman said, ‘We can’t go bang on Missy Smith’s door. Not in the middle of the night.’