Lee Child - Make Me

Chang said, “The agent who dealt with Mr. McCann is missing, I’m afraid. And the first thing we need to do in a case like this is make sure the client is safe. That’s our standard operating procedure. But we’re going to need help finding him.”

The old guy said, “What’s this about?”

“We don’t know exactly. Maybe you can help us there too. We think Mr. McCann is all worked up about something. Maybe he mentioned it.”

“I know he’s not a happy man.”

“Do you know why?”

“We aren’t close. We don’t exchange confidences. We have a working relationship. We talk about library matters, of course, often at length, and we agree on most of them, but I recall very little personal conversation. I get the impression he has family problems. That’s as much as I can tell you. I think his wife is long dead and his grown-up son is an issue. Or a challenge, as they would say nowadays.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No, he never told me.”

Reacher said, “Isn’t that unusual? Don’t people normally talk about where they live? The stores on their block, or how far they have to go for a cup of coffee?”

The old guy said, “I got the strong impression he was ashamed of where he lived.”

They left the old guy in the room, and found the inquiries lady at work at her desk outside. She had showed up, just in time. Chang renewed their acquaintance, and showed one of her defunct FBI cards, and it was all going as smoothly as could be, but still the woman wouldn’t give up McCann’s address. She was unmovable. She was passionate on the subject of privacy. She said a request could be made to the director. But Reacher figured the director would be equally passionate, maybe not on the subject of privacy, but certainly on the subject of possible litigation, and therefore just as unmovable.

He said, “OK, don’t tell me the address. But at least tell me if Mr. McCann has an address.”

The woman said, “Of course he has.”

“And you know what it is?”

“Yes, I do. But I can’t tell you.”

“Is it local?”

“I can’t give you the address.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t care about the address anymore. I wouldn’t listen if you told me. I just want to know if it’s local. That’s all. Which doesn’t give anything away. Every neighborhood has thousands of people.”

“Yes, it’s local.”

“How local? Does he walk here, the days he works?”

“You’re asking me for his address.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t want his address. I wouldn’t even let you tell me now. I would stick my fingers in my ears and sing la-la-la. I just want to know if it’s walking distance. It’s a geography question. Or physiology. How old would you say Mr. McCann is?”

“How what?

“Old. His age is different than his address. You’re free to talk about it. You’re free to share your impressions.”

“He’s sixty. He was sixty last year.”

“Is he in good shape?”

“Hardly. He looks terrible.”

“That’s too bad. In what way?”

“He’s too thin. He doesn’t look after himself. He takes no care at all.”

“Is he lacking in energy?”

“Yes, I would say so. He’s kind of down all the time.”

“Then he wouldn’t want to walk too far, would he? Let’s say three blocks maximum. Would that be a fair conclusion?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“A three block radius is thirty-six square blocks. That’s bigger than Milwaukee. You wouldn’t be telling me anything.”

“OK, yes, he walks to work, and yes, it’s a short walk. But that’s it. I can’t tell you anything else.”

“What’s his first name? Can you tell us that?”

“It’s Peter. Peter McCann.”

“What about his wife? How long has he been widowed?”

“I think that was all a long time ago.”

“What’s his son’s name?”

“It’s Michael, I think. Michael McCann.”

“Is there an issue with Michael?”

“We didn’t talk about it.”

“But you must have pieced something together.”

“I would be betraying a confidence.”

“Not if he didn’t tell you himself. You would be sharing your own conclusions. That’s all. That’s a big difference.”

“I think Mr. McCann’s son Michael has a behavioral issue. I don’t know what, exactly. Not something to be proud of, I think. That would be my conclusion.”

Reacher made a sympathetic face, and tried one last time, but still she wouldn’t give up McCann’s address. So they took their leave and detoured to the reference desk and checked the Chicago phone books. There were too many P. McCanns and too many M. McCanns to be useful. They stepped back out to the street armed with precisely nothing except impressions and guesses.

They turned left on the sidewalk outside the library door, and found the mom-and-pop pharmacy exactly where it should have been, which was directly adjacent. It was a narrow storefront, with an awning and a door and a small display window, which was full of not-very-tempting items, including elastic bandages and heat pads and a toilet seat for folks having difficulty with mobility. Pharmacy windows were a marketing challenge, in Reacher’s opinion. It was hard to think of a display liable to make people rush inside with enthusiasm. But he saw one item of interest. It was a burner cell, in a plastic package, hanging on a peg on a board. The phone looked old-fashioned. The plastic package looked dusty. The price was advertised as super-low.

They went inside and found six more identical phones pegged to a panel otherwise covered with two-dollar cases and two-dollar chargers, and car adapters, and wires of many different descriptions, most of them white. The phones themselves were priced a penny shy of thirteen dollars. They came pre-loaded with a hundred minutes of talk time.

Reacher said, “We should buy one.”

Chang said, “I was thinking of something more modern.”

“How modern does it need to be? All it has to do is work.”

“It won’t get the internet.”

“You’re talking to the wrong person. That’s a feature, as far as I’m concerned. And it’s a karma thing. We’ll have the same phone as McCann. It might bring us luck.”

“Doesn’t seem to have worked for him,” Chang said. But she unhooked a phone from the display anyway, and carried it to the counter, where an old lady waited behind the register. She had steel-gray hair in a bun, and she was dressed with last-century, old-country formality. Way in the back of the store was an old guy working on prescriptions. Same kind of age, same kind of style. A white coat over a suit and tie. Same kind of hair, apart from the bun. Mom and Pop, presumably. No other staff. Low overhead.

Reacher asked the woman, “Do these phones have voice mail?”

She repeated the question, much louder, not directed at him, he realized, but at Pop in back, who called out, “No.”

The woman said, “No.”

Reacher said, “A friend of ours bought one here. Peter McCann. Do you know him?”

She called out loudly, “Do we know Peter McCann?”

The old guy in back shouted, “No.”

“No,” the woman said.

“Do you know his son Michael?”

“Do we know his son Michael?”

“No.”

“No.”

“OK,” Reacher said. He found a ten and a five in his pocket, and paid for the phone. His change came in coins, expertly reckoned and deftly dispensed. They stopped on the sidewalk outside the store and wrestled the package open. Wasn’t easy. In the end Reacher gave up on finesse and tore it in half down the middle. He put the charger in his pocket and passed the phone itself to Chang. She looked it over, and figured it out, and turned it on. It came up with a welcome screen, small, blurred, and black and white. It showed its own number. Area code 501, plus seven more digits. It showed a battery icon, at about fifty percent capacity. Charged at the factory, but not all the way. The icon was like a tiny flashlight battery, tipped over on its side, solid at one end and hollow at the other. Reacher said, “Try McCann again. Maybe this time he’ll answer. Maybe his phone will recognize a kindred spirit.”