17 A Wanted Man Read online

  Understand what? Then numbers came back to him, this time specifically thirteen, and two, and three, and one, and nine. Delfuenso had blinked out those numbers, in five separate sequences, between emphatic shakes of her head.

  Why?

  Communication of some kind?

  A simple alphabetical code? The thirteenth letter of the alphabet was M. The second was B. The third was C. The first was A. The ninth was I.

  MBCAI.

  Not a word. Not a Roman numeral. A corporation? An organization? An acronym, like SNAFU or FUBAR?

  Reacher looked way ahead into the darkness and fixed the upcoming mile in his mind, all four dimensions, and then he met Delfuenso’s eyes in the mirror again and silently mouthed the letters, all lips and teeth and tongue and exaggerated enunciation: ‘M, B, C, A, I?’

  Delfuenso glared back at him, eyes bright, half ecstatic that he was trying, half furious that he wasn’t getting it, like a thirsty woman who sees an offered drink snatched away.

  She shook her head. No. She jerked her chin once to the left, and then once to the right. She stared hard at him, eyes wide, as if to say, ‘See?’

  Reacher didn’t see. Not immediately. Except to grasp that maybe the jerk to the left signified one thing, and the jerk to the right signified another thing. Two different categories. Perhaps the blinks preceded by the jerks to the left were letters, and the blinks preceded by the jerks to the right were numbers. Or vice versa.

  M-2-C-A-9?

  13-B-3-1-I?

  Then Alan King stirred and woke up and moved in his seat, and Reacher saw Delfuenso turn her face away and stare out her window.

  King looked at Reacher and asked, ‘You OK?’

  Reacher nodded but said nothing.

  King said, ‘You need another aspirin?’

  Reacher shook his head, no.

  King said, ‘Karen, give this guy another aspirin.’

  No answer from Delfuenso.

  King said, ‘Karen?’

  Reacher said, ‘I don’t need another aspirin.’

  ‘You look like you do. Karen, give him a couple.’

  ‘Maybe Karen needs her aspirins for herself.’

  ‘She can share.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘But you look zoned out.’

  ‘I’m just concentrating on the road ahead.’

  ‘No, you look like you’re thinking about something.’

  ‘I’m always thinking about something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Right now, a challenge,’ Reacher said.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Can you talk coherently and at normal speed for a whole minute?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  King paused.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘Can you talk coherently and at normal speed for a whole minute without using a word that contains the letter A?’

  ‘That would be tougher,’ King said. ‘Impossible, probably. Lots of words contain the letter A.’

  Reacher nodded. ‘You just used three of them. Total of eighteen since you woke up ten seconds ago.’

  ‘So it’s a stupid challenge.’

  ‘No, it’s an easy challenge,’ Reacher said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Reacher said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘No, tell me now.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Reacher said again. ‘Think of it as something to look forward to.’

  So King shrugged and then stared into space for a minute, distracted, maybe a little disgruntled, maybe even a little angry, but then he turned away and closed his eyes again.

  Reacher drove on, and started thinking about the twin roadblocks they had passed through. Eight cars and eight officers in each location, with flashlights and plenty of time for close scrutiny. He imagined himself a wanted man of average appearance, travelling alone, suddenly at risk and vulnerable, perhaps anticipating those roadblocks up ahead. What could such a man do to prepare?

  He could disguise one or other of those fatal tells, that’s what he could do.

  He could alter his average appearance, with make-up or putty or wigs or fake piercings or fake tattoos or fake scars.

  But that would not be easy, without skills and practice. And that would not be easy at short notice, either.

  So he would have to address the other tell.

  He would have to make himself no longer alone.

  Which would be easy to do, even without skills or practice. Which would be easy to do even at short notice.

  He could pick up a hitchhiker.

  NINETEEN

  SORENSON CALLED IN Delfuenso’s name and address, and less than a minute later she knew that Delfuenso’s car was a four-year-old Chevrolet Impala, dark blue in colour, and she knew its plate number. She passed on that information to the roadblock crews. Both said the plate number was not on their scribbled lists of cars carrying two men. Both said they would check their dashboard video to confirm. Both said that process could take some time.

  So Sheriff Goodman drove Sorenson back to the cocktail lounge, where the search for a dead or unconscious woman had turned up negative results. The deputies had traced ever-widening circles from the lounge’s back door and had found nothing of interest. They had checked the shadows, the abandoned doorways, the weedy fence lines, the trash bins, and all the puddles and all the potholes.

  Goodman said, ‘She could be further afield. She could have gotten up, and wandered off, and collapsed again. That kind of thing can happen, with bangs on the head.’

  One of the deputies said, ‘Or they could have bundled her into the car and then rolled her out later. In the middle of nowhere. Safer for them that way. So she could be anywhere. She could be fifty miles away.’

  Sorenson said, ‘Say that again.’

  ‘She could be fifty miles away.’

  ‘No, the first part.’

  ‘They could have bundled her into the car.’

  Her plate number was not on their scribbled lists of cars carrying two men.

  Sorenson said, ‘You know what? I think they did. And I think she’s still in the car. I think she’s a hostage. And a smokescreen. Three people. Not two. They’ve been getting a free pass all the way.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  No reply.

  ‘Come on, one of you has been in this lounge on your night off. Don’t pretend you haven’t.’

  ‘Black pants,’ Goodman said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘A black and silver top,’ Goodman said. ‘Kind of sparkly. Not much to it. Very low cut.’

  ‘Distinctive?’

  ‘Unless you’re legally blind. We’re talking about a major display here.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Well, you know.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I mean, she would be practically falling out of it.’

  ‘And this is the respectable lounge? What do they wear in the others?’

  ‘Thong underwear.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘And high-heeled shoes.’

  Sorenson got back on her cell. Long distance traffic, through Nebraska and Iowa, in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. Truckers, farmers, solid Bible-believing Midwestern citizens. A low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit would have stood out like a beacon. Bored troopers would have spent extra time on that car, for sure.

  But no Nebraska trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit.

  And no Iowa trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit either.

  Reacher drove on, his left hand resting on the bottom curve of the wheel, his right hand resting on the shifter, for variety, to stop his shoulders locking up and getting sore. He could feel a little vibration in the shifter. His right palm was registering a faint buzz. The linkage was transmitting some kind of internal commotion. He nudged th
e lever one way and the other, just fractionally, to make sure it was seated properly. He glanced down. It was squarely lined up on the D. The tiny vibration was still there. No big deal, probably. He hoped. He knew very little about cars. But army vehicles vibrated like crazy, and no one worried about it.

  Next to the shifter the sequence P-R-N-D-L was lit up with a soft glow. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, and Low. Alphabetically the sixteenth letter, then the eighteenth, then the fourteenth, then the fourth, and finally the twelfth. An unlucky and cumbersome sequence, if you had to blink it out, for instance. Three of the five letters were beyond the halfway point. Better than WOOZY or ROOST or RUSTY or TRUST, but still. Blinking or tapping or flashing a light in a linear fashion was not an efficient transmission method for a twenty-six-letter alphabet. Too time-consuming, and too easy for either the transmitter or the receiver to lose count. Or both of them together. Old Sam Morse had figured all that out a long time ago.

  Reacher glanced down again.

  Reverse.

  Karen Delfuenso had not blinked more than thirteen times. Which meant that all her letters were in the first half of the alphabet. Which was possible, but not statistically likely.

  And an amateur who didn’t know Morse Code might still understand the same basic drawbacks Samuel Morse had foreseen. Especially an amateur who was for some reason tense and anxious and who had limited time for communication. Such an amateur might have improvised, and come up with a shortcut system.

  Drive, and reverse.

  Forward, and backward.

  Maybe the jerk of the head to the left meant count forward from A, because in the Western nations people read from left to right, and therefore the jerk of the head to the right would mean count backward from Z.

  Maybe.

  Possibly.

  Right thirteen, left two, right three, right one, left nine.

  N-B-X-Z-I.

  Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. NB could be the standard Latin abbreviation for nota bene, which meant note well, or in other words pay attention, but what was XZI?

  Gibberish, that’s what.

  Reacher glanced in the mirror.

  Delfuenso was staring at him again, willing him to understand.

  In the mirror.

  Her image was reversed.

  Maybe she had anticipated that. Maybe left was right, and right was left.

  Forward thirteen, back two, forward three, forward one, back nine.

  M-Y-C-A-R.

  My car.

  Reacher looked in the mirror again and mouthed, ‘This is your car?’

  Delfuenso nodded, urgently and eagerly and desperately and happily.

  TWENTY

  SORENSON STEPPED BACK and turned and looked and said, ‘They went south first, and then they got back on the road and went north. Why?’

  Goodman said, ‘That was the way they came. Maybe they didn’t know they could get back on the road any other way.’

  ‘Bullshit. They glance north, they see the old bar and an acre of gravel, and they know they can get out that way.’

  ‘So maybe they went for gas at the other station.’

  ‘Why would they? There’s a gas station right here, at this end of the strip, staring them right in the face. Or do you think they were worried about price comparisons?’

  ‘Maybe they saw the cameras.’

  ‘If one has cameras, the other has cameras too. You can bet on that.’

  ‘The price is the same anyway, both ends. It always is.’

  ‘So why did they loop back south?’

  Goodman said, ‘For some other reason, I guess.’

  Sorenson set off walking south, fast over the frozen gravel, past the back of a closed-up diner, past the back of a no-name bar, past the back of a broken-down motel, past the back of a lit-up and open convenience store.

  She stopped.

  Ahead of her was a wide gap, and then another bar, and then another cocktail lounge, and then nothing at all until the other gas station.

  She said, ‘Let’s assume they didn’t want a drink or a meal. Let’s assume they weren’t interested in a room for the night. And if they wanted gas, they’d have used the nearer station. So why did they come back this way?’

  ‘The convenience store,’ Goodman said. ‘They needed something.’

  They hustled around to its front door and went inside to bright cold fluorescent glare and the smell of old coffee and microwaved food and antiseptic floor cleaner. A bored clerk behind the register didn’t even raise his head. Sorenson scanned the ceiling. There were no cameras.

  The aisles were close-packed with junk food and canned food and bread and cookies and basic toiletries, and automotive requirements like quarts of oil and gallons of antifreeze and screen wash and clip-on cup holders and patent self-extinguishing ashtrays and collapsible snow shovels. There were rubber overshoes for wet conditions, and tube socks, and white underwear for a dollar an item, and cheap T-shirts, and cheap denim shirts, and canvas work shirts, and canvas work pants.

  Sorenson took a close look at the clothing aisle, and then she headed straight for the register, her ID at the ready. The clerk looked up.

  ‘Help you?’ he said.

  ‘Between about twenty past and half past midnight, who was in here?’

  ‘Me,’ the guy said.

  ‘No customers?’

  ‘Maybe one.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A tall skinny guy in a shirt and tie.’

  ‘No coat?’

  ‘It was like he ran in from a car. No time to get cold. No one walks here. This is the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Did you see the car?’

  The clerk shook his head. ‘I think the guy parked around the back. He sort of came around the corner. I guess that was my impression, anyway.’

  Sorenson asked, ‘What did he buy?’

  The guy straightened out a curling helix of register tape spilling out of a slot. He traced his thumbnail over pale blue ink, in an irregular pattern, stop and go, leaping backward from one time stamp to another, then pausing at an eleven-line entry.

  ‘Six items,’ he said. ‘Plus subtotal, tax, total, tender, and change.’

  ‘He paid cash?’

  ‘He must have, if I made change.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I don’t pay much attention. This is not a dream job, lady.’

  ‘What did he buy?’

  The guy examined the tape. ‘Three of something, and three of something else.’

  ‘Three of what, and three of what else? This was tonight. This is not ancient history we’re talking about here. We’re not asking for a prodigious feat of memory.’

  ‘Water,’ the guy said. ‘I remember that. Three bottles, from the refrigerator cabinet.’

  ‘And?’

  The guy looked at the tape again.

  He said, ‘Three other things, all the same price.’

  ‘What three other things?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Sorenson said, ‘Have you been smoking tonight?’

  The guy went wary.

  He said, ‘Smoking what?’

  ‘Maybe that’s a question for Sheriff Goodman. You in shape for a search tonight?’

  The guy didn’t answer that. He just bounced his hand up and down, rehearsing a triumphant finger snap, waiting to remember. Trying to remember. Then finally he smiled.

  ‘Shirts,’ he said. ‘Three denim shirts, on special. Blue. Small, medium, and large. One of each.’

  Sorenson and Goodman walked out of the store and looped around to the back lot again. Sorenson said, ‘Karen Delfuenso was their hostage and they planned to use her as their smokescreen, so they couldn’t let her stay in the skimpy top. Too memorable. They knew there could be roadblocks. So they made her change.’

  ‘They all changed,’ Goodman said. ‘Three people, three shirts.’

  Sorenson nodded.

  ‘Bloodstains,’ she said. ‘Like the eyewi
tness told us. At least one of their suit coats was wet.’

  ‘We screwed up,’ Goodman said. ‘Both of us. I told the roadblocks two men in black suits. Then any two men. You told them any two men. But it wasn’t any two men. It was any three people, two men and a woman, all in blue denim shirts.’

  Sorenson said nothing. Then her phone rang, and the Iowa State Police told her they had rewound their dashboard video and located Karen Delfuenso’s car. It had passed through their roadblock more than an hour ago. It had not attracted their attention because it had four people in it.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SORENSON HUNCHED AWAY from Goodman and switched her phone to her other hand and said, ‘Four people?’

  The State Police captain in Iowa said, ‘It’s a kind of shadowy picture, but we can see them fairly clearly. Two in the front, and two in the back. And my sergeant remembers the driver.’

  ‘Can I talk to your sergeant?’

  ‘Can I shut down this roadblock?’

  ‘After I talk to your sergeant.’

  ‘OK, wait one.’

  Sorenson heard scratchy sounds in her ear, and the filtered rattle of an idling truck engine. She turned back to Goodman and said, ‘We were even more wrong than we knew. There are four of them in the car.’ Then she heard a cell phone change hands and a rusty voice said, ‘Ma’am?’

  She asked, ‘Who was in the car?’

  The sergeant said, ‘Mostly I remember the driver.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Male. A big guy, with a busted nose. Badly busted. I mean raw, like a very recent injury. He looked like a gorilla with its face smashed in.’

  ‘Like the result of a fight?’

  ‘He more or less admitted it. But he said it didn’t happen in Iowa.’

  ‘You talked to him?’

  ‘Briefly. He was polite enough to me. Nothing to report, apart from the nose.’

  ‘Was he acting nervous?’

  ‘Not really. He was quiet. And stoic. He had to be, with a nose like that. He should have been in the hospital.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘A winter coat.’

  ‘What about the passengers?’

  ‘I don’t really recall them very well.’