‘Got to be a contact number for a doctor. There might be an emergency. Got to be some way of getting hold of the guy.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Wait,’ Reacher said. ‘I know how. Give me the Apollo Inn.’
‘Apollo like the space rocket?’
‘Exactly like the space rocket.’
The keyboard pattered and Hoag read out a number, a 308 area code for the western part of the state, and then seven more digits. Reacher repeated them once in his head and said, ‘Thanks,’ and hung up and redialled.
* * *
Ten miles south, Mahmeini’s man was dialling too, calling home. He got Mahmeini on his cell, and said, ‘We have a problem.’
Mahmeini said, ‘Specifically?’
‘Asghar has run out on us.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Well, he has. I sent him down to the car to get me a bottle of water. He didn’t come back, so I checked. The car is gone, and he’s gone too.’
‘Call him.’
‘I tried ten times. His phone is off.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to find him.’
‘I have no idea where to look.’
Mahmeini said, ‘He drinks, you know.’
‘I know. But there’s no bar in town. Just a liquor store. And it will be closed by now. And he wouldn’t have driven to the liquor store anyway. He would have walked. It’s only about three blocks away.’
‘There must be a bar. This is America. Ask the concierge.’
‘There is no concierge. This isn’t the Bellagio. They don’t even put water in the rooms.’
‘There must be someone at the desk. Ask him.’
‘I can’t go anywhere. I don’t have a car. And I can’t ask the others for help. Not now. That would be an admission of weakness.’
‘Find a way,’ Mahmeini said. ‘Find a bar, and find a way of getting there. That’s an order.’
Reacher listened to the ring tone. It was loud and sonorous and resonant in his ear, the product of a big old-fashioned earpiece maybe an inch and a half across, buried deep inside a big old-fashioned plastic handset that probably weighed a pound. He pictured the two phones ringing in the motel, fifty miles north, one at the desk, one behind the bar. Or maybe there were more than two phones. Maybe there was a third extension in a back office, and a fourth in Vincent’s private quarters. Maybe the whole place was a regular rats’ nest of wiring, just like the inside of a lunar module. But however many phones there were, they all rang for a long period, and then one of them was answered. Vincent came on and said, ‘This is the Apollo Inn,’ just like Reacher had heard him say it before, very brightly and enthusiastically, like it was a brand new establishment taking its first-ever call on its first-ever night in business.
Reacher said, ‘I need Eleanor Duncan’s phone number.’
Vincent said, ‘Reacher? Where are you?’
‘Still out of town. I need Eleanor’s number.’
‘Are you coming back?’
‘What could possibly keep me away?’
‘Are you not going to Virginia?’
‘Eventually, I hope.’
‘I don’t have Eleanor’s number.’
‘Isn’t she on the phone tree?’
‘No, how could she be? Seth might answer.’
‘OK, is the doctor there?’
‘Not right now.’
‘Slow night, then.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Do you have his number?’
‘Hold the line,’ Vincent said. There was a thump as he put the handset down, maybe on the bar, and then a pause, just about long enough for him to walk across the lounge, and then the sound of a second handset being raised, maybe at the desk. The two open lines picked up on each other and Reacher heard the room’s slow echo hissing and bouncing off the round domed ceiling. Vincent read out a number, the area code and seven more digits, and Reacher repeated them once in his head and said, ‘Thanks,’ and hung up and redialled.
The guy at the Marriott’s desk told Mahmeini’s man that yes, there was a bar, not exactly in town but ten miles north, just outside the city limit, on the left shoulder of the two-lane, called the Cell Block, a pleasant place, reasonably priced, and that yes, it was usually open late, and that yes, there was a taxi service in town, and that yes, he would be happy to call a cab immediately.
And so less than five minutes later Mahmeini’s man was sliding across stained vinyl into the rear seat of an ancient Chevy Caprice, and the driver was pulling out of the lot, and heading down McNally Street, and making the right at the end.
The doctor answered a lot faster than Vincent had. Reacher said, ‘I need Eleanor Duncan’s phone number.’
The doctor said, ‘Reacher? Where are you?’
‘Still out of town.’
‘Are you coming back?’
‘What, are you missing me?’
‘I didn’t tell the Duncans about the Cadillac.’
‘Good man. Has Seth gone home yet?’
‘He was still with his father when I left.’
‘Will he stay?’
‘People say he often does.’
‘You OK?’
‘Not too bad. I was in the truck. The Cornhuskers got me.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much. Just words, really.’
Reacher pictured the guy, maybe standing in his hallway or his kitchen, quaking, shaking, watching the windows, checking the doors. He asked, ‘Are you sober?’
The doctor said, ‘A little.’
‘A little?’
‘That’s about as good as it gets these days, I’m afraid.’
‘I need Eleanor Duncan’s number.’
‘She’s not listed.’
‘I know that.’
‘She’s not on the phone tree.’
‘But she’s your patient.’
‘I can’t.’
‘How much more trouble could you be in?’
‘It’s not just that. There are confidentiality issues too. I’m a doctor. Like you said, I took an oath.’
‘We’re making an omelette here,’ Reacher said. ‘We’re going to have to break some eggs.’
‘They’ll know it came from me.’
‘If it comes to it I’ll tell them different.’
The doctor went quiet, and then he sighed, and then he recited a number.
‘Thanks,’ Reacher said. ‘Take care. Best to your wife.’ He hung up and redialled and listened to yet more ring tone, the same languid electronic purr, but this time from a different place, from somewhere inside the restored farmhouse, among the pastel colours and the fancy rugs and the oil paintings. He figured that if Seth was home, then Seth would answer. It seemed to be that kind of a relationship. But he bet himself a buck Seth wasn’t home. The Duncans were in two kinds of trouble, and Reacher’s experience told him they would huddle together until it passed. So Eleanor was probably home alone, and would pick up. Or not. Maybe she would just ignore the bell, whatever the barman thirty feet away thought about human nature.
She picked up.
‘Hello?’ she said.
Reacher asked, ‘Is Seth there?’
‘Reacher? Where are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter where I am. Where’s Seth?’
‘He’s at his father’s. I don’t expect him home tonight.’
‘That’s good. You still up and dressed?’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to do something for me.’
THIRTY-FOUR
THE OLD CAPRICE’S REAR BENCH WAS CONTOURED LIKE TWO separate bucket seats, not by design but by age and relentless wear and tear. Mahmeini’s man settled into the right-hand pit, behind the front passenger seat, and cocked his head to the left so he could see out the windshield. He saw the blank back of a billboard in the headlight beams, and then he saw nothing. The road ahead was straight and empty. No oncomi
ng lights, which was a disappointment. One drink on Asghar’s part might be overlooked. Or even two. Or three, followed by a prompt return. But a night of it would be considered desertion.
The wheezing old motor had the needle trembling over the sixty mark. A mile a minute. Nine more miles to go. Nine minutes.
Reacher said, ‘Exactly one hour and ten minutes from now, I want you to take a drive. In your little red sports car.’
Eleanor Duncan said, ‘A drive? Where?’
‘South on the two-lane,’ Reacher said. ‘Just drive. Eleven miles. As fast as you want. Then turn around and go home again.’
‘Eleven miles?’
‘Or twelve. Or more. But not less than ten.’
‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter why. Will you do it?’
‘Are you going to do something to the house? You want me out of the way?’
‘I won’t come near the house. I promise. No one will ever know. Will you do it?’
‘I can’t. Seth took my car key. I’m grounded.’
‘Is there a spare?’
‘He took that too.’
Reacher said, ‘He’s not carrying them around in his pocket. Not if he keeps his own key in a bowl in the kitchen.’
Eleanor said nothing.
Reacher asked, ‘Do you know where they are?’
‘Yes. They’re on his desk.’
‘On or in?’
‘On. Just sitting there. Like a test for me. He says obedience without temptation is meaningless.’
‘Why the hell are you still there?’
‘Where else could I go?’
‘Just take the damn keys, will you? Stand up for yourself.’
‘Will this hurt Seth?’
‘I don’t know how you want me to answer that question.’
‘I want you to answer it honestly.’
‘It might hurt him indirectly. And eventually. Possibly.’
There was a long pause. Then Eleanor said, ‘OK, I’ll do it. I’ll drive south eleven miles on the two-lane and come back again. An hour and ten minutes from now.’
‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘An hour and six minutes from now. We’ve just been talking for four minutes.’
He hung up and stepped back to the main public room. The barman was working like a good barman should, using fast efficient movements, thinking ahead, watching the room. He caught Reacher’s eye and Reacher detoured towards him and the guy said, ‘I should get you to sign a napkin or something. Like a memento. You’re the only guy who ever came in here to use a phone, not avoid one. You want a drink?’
Reacher scanned what the guy had to offer. Liquor of all kinds, beer on tap, beer in bottles, sodas. No sign of coffee. He said, ‘No thanks, I’m good. I should hit the road.’ He moved on, shuffling sideways between the tables, and he pushed out the door and walked back to his car. He got in, started up, backed out and drove away north.
Mahmeini’s man saw a glow in the air, far ahead on the left. Neon, green and red and blue. The driver kept his foot down for a minute more, and then he lifted off and coasted. The engine coughed and the exhaust popped and sputtered and the taxi slowed. Way far up the road in the distance were a pair of red tail lights. Very faint and far away. Almost not there at all. The taxi braked. Mahmeini’s man saw the bar. Just a simple wooden building. There were two weak spotlights under the eaves at the front. They threw two pools of token light into the lot. There were plenty of parked vehicles. But no yellow rental.
The taxi pulled in and stopped. The driver looked back over his shoulder. Mahmeini’s man said, ‘Wait for me.’
The driver said, ‘How long?’
‘A minute.’ Mahmeini’s man got out and stood still. The tail lights in the north had disappeared. Mahmeini’s man watched the darkness where they had been, just for a second. Then he walked to the wooden building’s door. He entered. He saw a large room, with chairs and tables on the left and a bar on the right. There were about twenty customers in the room, mostly men, none of them Asghar Arad Sepehr. There was a barman behind the bar, serving a customer, lining up the next, glancing over at the new arrival. Mahmeini’s man threaded between the tables towards him. He felt that everyone was watching him. A small man, foreign, unshaven, rumpled, and not very clean. The barman’s customer peeled away, holding two foaming glasses of beer. The barman moved on, to the next customer, serving him, but glancing beyond him for the next in line, as if he was planning two moves ahead.
Mahmeini’s man said, ‘I’m looking for someone.’
The barman said, ‘I guess we all are, sir. That’s the very essence of human nature, isn’t it? It’s an eternal quest.’
‘No, I’m looking for someone I know. A friend of mine.’
‘A lady or a gentleman?’
‘He looks like me.’
‘Then I haven’t seen him. I’m sorry.’
‘He has a yellow car.’
‘Cars are outside. I’m inside.’
Mahmeini’s man turned and scanned the room, and thought about the red tail lights in the north, and turned back and asked, ‘Are you sure?’
The barman said, ‘I don’t want to be rude, sir, but really, if two of you had been in here tonight, someone would have called Homeland Security already. Don’t you think?’
Mahmeini’s man said nothing.
‘Just saying,’ the barman said. ‘This is Nebraska. There are military installations here.’
Mahmeini’s man asked, ‘Then was someone else just here?’
‘This is a bar, my friend. People are in and out all night long. That’s kind of the point of the place.’
The barman turned back to his current customer. Interaction over. Mahmeini’s man turned and scanned the room, one more time. Then he gave it up and moved away, between the tables, back to the door. He stepped into the lot and took out his phone. No signal. He stood still for a second and glanced north at where the red lights had gone, and then he climbed back into the taxi. He closed the door against a yowling hinge and said, ‘Thank you for waiting.’
The driver looked back over his shoulder and asked, ‘Where to now?’
Mahmeini’s man said, ‘Let me think about that for a minute.’
Reacher kept the Malibu at a steady sixty. A mile a minute. Hypnotic. Power line poles flashed past, the tyres sang, the motor hummed. Reacher took the fresh bottle of water from the cup holder and opened it and drank from it one-handed. He switched his headlights to bright. Nothing to see ahead of him. A straight road, then mist, then darkness. He checked the mirror. Nothing to see behind him. He checked the dials and the gauges. All good.
Eleanor Duncan checked her watch. It was a small Rolex, a present from Seth, but probably real. She had counted ahead an hour and six minutes from when she had hung up the phone, and she had forty-five minutes still to go. She stepped out of the living room into the hallway, and stepped out of the hallway into her husband’s den. It was a small square space. She had no idea of its original purpose. Maybe a gun room. Now it was set up as a home office, but with an emphasis on gentlemanly style, not clerical function. There was a club chair made of leather. The desk was yew. It had a light with a green glass shade. There were bookshelves. There was a rug. The air in the room smelled like Seth.
There was a shallow glass bowl on the desk. From Murano, near Venice, in Italy. It was green. A souvenir. It had paperclips in it. And her car keys, just sitting there, two small serrated lances with big black heads. For her Mazda Miata. A tiny red two-seat convertible. A fun car. Carefree. Like the old British MGs and Lotuses used to be, but reliable.
She took one of the keys.
She stepped back to the hallway. Eleven miles. She thought she knew what Reacher had in mind. So she opened the coat closet and took out a silk headscarf. Pure white. She folded it into a triangle and tied it over her hair. She checked the mirror. Just like an old-fashioned movie star. Or an old-fashioned movie star after a knockout round with an old-fashioned heavyweight champion.
&n
bsp; She left by the back door and walked through the cold to the garage, Seth’s empty bay to the right, hers in the middle, the doors all open. She got in her car and unlatched the clips above the windshield and dropped the top. She started up and backed out and turned and waited on the driveway, the motor running, the heater warming, her heart beating hard. She checked her watch. Twenty-nine minutes to go.
* * *
Reacher cruised onward, sixty miles an hour, three more minutes, and then he slowed down and put his lights back on bright. He watched the right shoulder. The old abandoned roadhouse loomed up at him, right on cue, pinned and stark in his headlight beams. The bad roof, the beer signs on the walls behind the mud, the bruised earth all around where cars had once parked. He pulled off the road and into the lot. Loose stones popped and crunched and slithered under his tyres. He drove a full circuit.
The building was long and low and plain, like a barn cut off at the knees. Rectangular, except for two separate square bump-outs added at the back, one at each end of the structure, the first for restrooms, probably, and the second for a kitchen. Efficient, in terms of plumbing lines. Between the bump-outs was a shallow U-shaped space, like a bay, empty apart from a little windblown trash, enclosed on three sides, open only to the dark empty fields to the east. It was maybe thirty feet long and twelve feet deep.
Perfect, for later.
Reacher came back around to the south gable wall and parked thirty feet from it, out of sight from the north, facing the road at a slight diagonal angle, like a cop on speed trap duty. He killed the lights and kept the motor running. He got out into the cold and looped around the hood and walked to the corner of the building. He leaned on the old boards. They felt thin and veined, frozen by a hundred winters, baked by a hundred summers. They smelled of dust and age. He watched the darkness in the north, where he knew the road must be.
He waited.
THIRTY-FIVE
REACHER WAITED TWENTY LONG MINUTES, AND THEN HE SAW light in the north. Very faint, maybe five or six miles away, really just a high hemispherical glow in the mist, trembling a little, bouncing, weakening and strengthening and weakening again. A moving bubble of light. Very white. Almost blue. A car, coming south towards him, pretty fast.
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