Текст книги "A Wanted Man"

Автор книги: Lee Child

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

THIRTY-EIGHT

SORENSON WAS HOLDING her Glock two-handed again, steady and straight and level, feet properly planted, weight properly braced. She was less than four yards from Reacher. Her head was turned again, to the side, just a little, the same way as it had been before, as if quizzically. The same strand of hair was over the same eye.

She said, ‘Look at it from my point of view. What’s my alternative? What else am I supposed to do? We lost the hostage, so the game has changed. Now it moves up a level. And we need to start with an arrest, or we’ll be crucified. You understand that, right?’

Reacher said, ‘Are you apologizing to me?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am. I’m very sorry. But you know how these things work. If you are who you say you are, that is.’

‘I am who I say I am. You’re a very suspicious woman. A person’s feelings could get hurt.’

‘I have to be suspicious. But I’m sorry about that too.’

Reacher smiled, just briefly. ‘I must say this is a very civilized arrest. Could be the politest ever. Apart from the gun, that is. You don’t need it. Where am I going to escape to?’

‘Forgive me. But I need the gun. You’re a legitimate suspect. And you have valuable information. I’m sure my SAC would prefer to airbrush the Omaha field office right out of this whole thing altogether, but it’s far too late for that now. So he’s got to be able to show something for a night’s work. Either a suspect, or a material witness. And you’re one or the other. Maybe you’re both.’

‘Suppose I don’t want to go to Omaha?’

‘She’ll wait.’

‘Who will?’

‘The woman in Virginia. Or maybe she won’t. Or maybe she’s already forgotten all about you. But whatever, that’s all on hold now.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about Virginia. I agree, that’s on hold now. I was thinking about Iowa. Right here, right now. This is where the trail starts. With those tyre tracks.’

Tyre tracks.

Reacher glanced behind him, at the yard-wide skim of mud on the edge of the road, but he couldn’t see what he needed to see.

Sorenson said, ‘Where the hell do you think you are, in the movies? You’re a civilian. This isn’t your trail. This isn’t my trail any more, either. We lost the hostage. Remember? An innocent woman. An innocent member of the public. A carjacking victim. A mother, for God’s sake. You get that? There’s going to be a big task force now. Dozens of people. Maybe even hundreds. An assistant SAC leading it at the very least. There’s going to be media. Cable news. It’s all going to be way above my pay grade. They’re going to hide me away like an idiot child. So there’s nothing for either one of us here in Iowa. Not now. Get used to it.’

Reacher said, ‘The trail will go cold before the task force even gets here.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about that.’

‘There is. We can stop wasting time. We can make a start.’

‘Have you got unemployment insurance?’

‘No.’

‘Neither do I. So don’t include me in your harebrained schemes.’

‘OK, I could make a start.’

‘How? You’re a civilian. You’re one man. You have no resources. What could you possibly do?’

‘I could find them.’

‘Because?’

‘I’ve found people before.’

‘And then what?’

‘I could impress upon them the error of their ways.’

‘An eye for an eye?’

‘I’m not interested in their eyes.’

‘I can’t let that happen. It would be a crime in itself. There has to be due process. Let the law take care of it. That’s the price of civilization.’

‘Civilization can go sit on its thumb. I liked Delfuenso. She was a nice woman. Brave too. And smart. And tough. She worked all evening at a shitty job, and still she was thinking right to the end.’

‘I don’t dispute any of that.’

‘They opened the wrong door, Julia. They get what they get.’

‘From you? How so? Who died and made you king of the world?’

‘Someone has to do it. Are you guys going to?’

Sorenson didn’t answer.

Reacher said, ‘I’ll take that as a no, shall I?’

Sorenson shrugged, and then she nodded, reluctantly, as if despite herself. She said, ‘There’s another call I have to make.’

‘To who?’

‘A county sheriff back in Nebraska. Delfuenso’s daughter is about to wake up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So I need to put the cuffs on you. I need to put you in the back of the car.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘This is not a game.’

‘It’s going to rain,’ Reacher said. ‘We’re going to lose the tyre marks.’

‘Turn around,’ Sorenson said. ‘Hold your hands out behind you.’

‘Have you got a camera?’

‘What?’

‘A camera,’ Reacher said. ‘Have you got one?’

‘Why?’

‘We need pictures of the tyre marks. Before it rains.’

‘Turn around,’ Sorenson said again.

‘Let’s make a deal.’

‘What kind of a deal?’

‘You lend me your camera, and I’ll take pictures of the tyre marks, while you make your call to the county sheriff.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then we’ll talk some more.’

‘About what?’

‘About my personal situation.’

‘What’s my other option?’

‘You don’t have another option.’

‘I’m the one with the gun here.’

‘Except you’re not going to use it. We both know that. And you have my word. I won’t run. You can trust me. I swore an oath too. In the army. A bigger oath than yours.’

‘I have to take you back with me. You understand that, right? Omaha has to do something right tonight.’

‘You could say you never found me.’

‘The motel keeper knows I did.’

‘You could shoot him in the head.’

‘I was tempted.’

‘Do we have a deal?’

‘You have to come back with me afterwards.’

‘That wasn’t in the deal. Not yet. Not technically. That was to be decided later. I said, and then we’ll talk some more.’

‘If you’re telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about.’

‘You still believe stuff like that?’

Sorenson said, ‘Yes, I do.’

Reacher said nothing.

‘Weigh it up,’ Sorenson said. ‘Think about it. Make a choice. You have no car, no phone, no contacts, no support, no help, no back-up, no budget, no facilities, no lab, no computers, and you have absolutely no idea where those guys have gone. You need food and rest. You need medical attention for your face. But I could leave you here like that. Right here, right now, alone, in the middle of nowhere, with the rain coming. Then I’d be fired, and guess what? You’d be hunted down like a dog anyway.’

Reacher said, ‘What’s my other option?’

‘Come back with me to Omaha, help us out, and maybe even pick up some information as you go along. To do with as you wish.’

‘Information from where?’

‘From who, not from where.’

‘OK, from who?’

‘From me.’

‘Why would you?’

‘Because I’m improvising here. I’m trying to find a way to get you in the car.’

‘So now you’re the one offering a deal.’

‘And it’s a good deal. You should take it.’

Reacher took his photographs while Sorenson called the county sheriff back in Nebraska. It was a digital camera. He half remembered maybe once taking a picture with a cellular telephone, but apart from that vague possibility the last time he had handled a camera had been back in the age of film. Not that it made much difference, he assumed. In both cases there was a lens, and a little button to press, and a little thing to look through. Except there wasn’t. There was no viewfinder hole. Instead the operator had to do the whole thing on a tiny television screen. Which meant working with the camera held out at arm’s length, and walking backward and forward. Like a man in a hazard suit with a Geiger counter.

But he got the two shots he wanted, and he headed back to the car. Sorenson was through with her call by then. It hadn’t been fun, by the look of it. Not a barrel of laughs. She said, ‘OK, let’s go. You can ride in the front.’

He said, ‘Look at the pictures first.’

The rain started to fall. Big heavy drops, some of them vertical, some of them sideways on the gusting wind. They got in the car, and he passed her the camera. She knew how to use it. She toggled forward, and then back again.

‘You only took two pictures?’ she said.

‘Two was all I needed.’

‘Two of the same thing?’

‘They’re not of the same thing.’

The rain hammered on the Crown Vic’s roof. Sorenson looked at the first photograph, very carefully, and then the second, just as carefully. They were both close-ups of tyre marks in the mud. Apparently the same tyre, and the same mud. She went back and forth between them, once, twice, three times. She said, ‘OK, they’re identical. And they’re from the car that U-turned, correct? So what are they, left and right? Or front and rear?’

‘Neither,’ Reacher said.

‘So what are they?’

‘Only one is from the car that U-turned.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘That’s from your car.’

THIRTY-NINE

SORENSON LOOKED AT the pictures again, first one, and then the other, back and forth, over and over. The same tyre, and the same mud. She said, ‘This doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

‘I agree,’ Reacher said. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘I was never here before.’

‘I believe you.’

‘And the Bureau doesn’t have its own make of tyres. I’m sure we just buy them, like anyone else. Probably from Sears. I’m sure we look for something cheap and reliable. Something generic. Whatever’s on sale. Like everyone does. So these go on all the big sedans. There must be half a dozen different makes and models. Fleet vehicles, rentals, the big things old people drive. I bet there are a million tyres like this in the world.’

‘Probably more,’ Reacher said.

‘So what are we saying?’

‘We’re saying we know for sure what kind of tyres the bad guys have on their car. The same kind as yours. Which means their car is probably a big domestic sedan. It’s a start.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Anything else would be speculation.’

‘We’re allowed to speculate.’

‘Then I would say they are urban. Or at least suburban. Big sedans are rare in farm country. It’s all pick-up trucks and four wheel drives out here.’

‘How urban?’

‘From the kind of place that has taxi companies and car services. And offices and maybe an airport. The local market has to be right. I’m sure you couldn’t buy tyres like these out here, for instance. Why would anyone keep them in stock?’

‘So you’re not saying there’s Bureau involvement here?’

‘I’m sure there isn’t.’

‘But?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But?’

‘But I’m pretty much a black and white kind of a person, and I like things confirmed yes or no, beyond a reasonable doubt.’

‘Then no. It’s confirmed. Right now. Straight from the horse’s mouth. For absolute sure. Beyond any kind of doubt. It is completely inconceivable the Bureau was involved with this. That’s the worst kind of crazy thinking.’

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Let’s go. Tell me if you want me to drive for a bit. I know the way.’

Sorenson pulled a big wide U-turn of her own, and then she hit it hard and hurried north through the rain. They passed the motel doing about sixty. It looked different by day. The low bulkhead lights were off, and the siding looked paler.

Reacher said, ‘I paid for two nights in there. And I spent about thirty seconds in the room.’

Sorenson said, ‘Why did you pay?’

‘I was feeling guilty about the guy’s wall.’

‘Not your fault.’

‘That was my impression at the time.’

‘So you shouldn’t feel guilty. Not about him, anyway. I didn’t like him.’

‘Well, I’ve still got his key. It’s in my pocket. Maybe I’ll mail it back, and maybe I won’t.’

Then they came to the first junction, and Sorenson braked late and made the left with all kinds of squealing and sliding on the slick surface. She came off the gas and got straightened out and hit it again.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

Reacher said nothing. He was in no position to complain. They were still on the road. He would have been in a field.

‘The tyres are worn,’ she said. ‘I noticed on the way out here.’

Reacher said nothing.

She said, ‘Which means the bad guys’ tyres are worn too. If the pictures are identical, that is. Which is step two. We know what kind of tyres they have, and we know approximately how old they are. Maybe an older car. Maybe an older driver. Could be some old person around here, with one of those big old cars.’

‘I doubt it,’ Reacher said. ‘I don’t think old people really love to come out in the middle of the night to watch women burn to death. Because you realize that fire was started when they were all still there? They didn’t set a fuse. It wasn’t spontaneous combustion. They lit it and they all stood around and watched and waited until they were sure it was going well.’

‘OK,’ Sorenson said. ‘It wasn’t a local senior. It was someone from somewhere urban.’

‘With taxi companies and car services and offices and an airport,’ Reacher said. ‘And maybe with a metro-area population around a million and a half. That’s something Alan King let slip. He said a million and a half people live where he lives.’

‘That’s potentially interesting. Unless it was misdirection.’

‘I don’t think it was. I don’t think they had a script. They were generally fast and smart, but it was a random question and an instant answer. No thinking time. Too fluid for a lie. Their other lies were slower and more clumsy.’

‘Anything else?’

‘At one point McQueen used what I felt was an odd word choice. I was sceptical about the gas station being where the highway sign said it was, and when we got there McQueen said You should have trusted me. I think most people would have said believed instead. Don’t you think? You should have believed me?’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I’m not sure. In the service we were taught to listen out for odd words. The Russians had language schools, with perfect accents, and slang and so on and so forth, and sometimes the only tells were odd words. So for a minute I wondered if McQueen was foreign.’

Sorenson drove on and said nothing.

She was thinking: The shirt was bought in Pakistan, or possibly the Middle East. She asked, ‘Did McQueen have an accent?’

Reacher answered, ‘None at all. Very generic American.’

‘Did he look foreign?’

‘Not really. Caucasian, six feet, maybe one-sixty, fair hair, pale blue eyes, slender, long arms and legs, kind of gangly, but when it came to pulling the gun out of his pocket and running up the path and jumping in the car he turned out to be plenty athletic. Gymnastic, even.’

‘OK,’ Sorenson said. ‘So the word choice was probably innocent.’

‘Except you have to look at the victim. He will have had dealings with foreigners.’

‘As a trade attaché? I suppose that’s the point.’

‘Have you ever met a trade attaché?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither,’ Reacher said. ‘But I met a few folks who claimed they were trade attachés.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘How much help does Coca-Cola really need to sell its stuff around the world? Not very much, right? Generally speaking American products speak for themselves. Yet every embassy has a trade attaché.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Have you ever seen a trade attaché’s office? I’ve been in two. Both had courtyard windows, not street windows, both were lined with lead and Faraday cages, and both were swept for bugs four times a day. I know the Coke formula is a secret, but that’s ridiculous.’

‘Cover for something?’

‘Exactly,’ Reacher said. ‘Every CIA head of station on the planet calls himself a trade attaché.’

Sheriff Goodman was dog tired. And he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to take Delfuenso’s daughter out of school for the day. Or for a couple of days, or a week, or a month, or whatever Special Agent Sorenson might have in mind. His attitude was the opposite. He felt work and structure and familiarity were useful crutches in stressful times. He encouraged his own people to come in as normal no matter what had happened. Bereavement, divorce, illness in the family, whatever. In his experience routine helped people cope. Obviously he had to go through the compassionate motions, telling people to take all the time they needed, stuff like that, but he always added that no one would think less of them if they stuck to their tasks. And most of them seemed grateful for it. Most of them worked on as usual, and they seemed to benefit in the long term.

But those were grown-ups, and Delfuenso’s kid was a kid.

He drove out to the short row of ranch houses slowly and reluctantly. Four times in his career he had been required to tell a parent a child had died. He had never had to tell a child its parent had died. Not a ten-year-old, anyway. He didn’t really know how. Just the facts, Sorenson had said, in an earlier conversation. Don’t say anything more until we know for sure. Not very helpful. The facts were tough. Hey kid, guess what? Your mom burned to death in a car. There was no easy way to say it. Because there was no easy way for the kid to face it. She goes to bed one night all hunky dory, and she wakes up the next morning with a different life.

Although: Just the facts. Don’t say anything more until we know for sure.

What were the facts? What did they actually know for sure? He had seen burned bodies. House fires, barn fires. You had to get dental records. Or DNA. For the death certificate, and the insurance. A couple of days, at least. Medical opinions, which had to be signed off and notarized. So as far as Delfuenso was concerned, nobody really knew anything for sure. Not yet. Except that she was missing, apparently carjacked.

And maybe a two-stage process would be better, with a ten-year-old. First, I’m sorry, but your mom is missing. Then, a couple of days later, when they were really sure, I’m sorry, but your mom died. Drip, drip. Maybe better than one massive blow. Or was that just cowardice on his own part?

He parked in front of the neighbour’s house and concluded, yes, it was cowardice on his own part, no question, but it was also the best approach, probably, with a ten-year-old kid. Kids were different.

Just the facts. Don’t say anything more until we know for sure.

He got out of his car, slow and reluctant. He closed the door and stood for a second, and then he tracked around the hood and stepped over the muddy gutter and walked up the neighbour’s short driveway.

FORTY

SORENSON GOT THROUGH the chequerboard and back to the Interstate without further incident. The car stayed on the road. The rain kept on falling. It was a gloomy day. The sky was low and the colour of iron. Traffic was heavier than Reacher had seen it the night before. Each vehicle was trailing a long grey Zeppelin of spray. Sorenson had her wipers on fast. She was sticking to seventy miles an hour. She asked, ‘What’s the fastest way of finding Alan King’s brother from the army?’

‘King claimed he was a red leg,’ Reacher said. ‘Probably just a dagby. The Gulf, the first time around. Mother Sill will know.’

‘I didn’t understand a word of that.’

‘A red leg is an artilleryman. Because way back they had red stripes on their dress pants. And their branch colour is still red. A dagby is a 13B MOS. Which is a cannon crewmember’s military occupational specialty. In other words, a dagby. A dumb-ass gun bunny. Mother Sill is Fort Sill, which is artillery HQ. Someone there will have a record. The Gulf the first time around was the thing with Saddam Hussein, back in 1991.’

‘I knew that part.’

‘Good.’

‘The brother’s first name was Peter, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘And you still think King was his real last name?’

‘More likely than not. Worth a try, anyway.’

‘Dumb-ass gun bunny isn’t very polite.’

‘But very necessary,’ Reacher said. ‘Unfortunately Frederick the Great once said that field artillery lends dignity to what would otherwise be a vulgar brawl. It went to their heads. They started calling themselves the kings of battle. They started to think they’re the most important part of the army. Which obviously isn’t true.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the military police is the most important part of the army.’

‘What did they call you?’

‘Sir, usually.’

‘And?’

‘Meatheads. Monkey patrol. And chimps, but that was an acronym.’

‘For what?’

‘Completely hopeless in most policing situations.’

‘Where is Fort Sill?’

‘Lawton, Oklahoma.’

She speed-dialled her phone in its cradle. Reacher heard the ring tone loud and clear through the stereo. A voice answered, male, low and fast and without preamble. A duty officer, probably, with Sorenson’s number front and centre on his caller ID, and therefore instantly on the ball and ready for business. The night guy, most likely, still there at the end of his watch. He didn’t sound like a guy who had just gotten out of bed. Sorenson said to him, ‘I need you to call the army at Fort Sill in Lawton, Oklahoma, and get what they have on an artilleryman named Peter King, who was on active service in 1991. Present whereabouts and details of family would be especially appreciated. Give them my cell number and ask them to call me back direct, OK?’

‘Understood,’ the guy said.

‘Is Stony in his office yet?’

‘Just arrived.’

‘What’s the word?’

‘Nothing is happening yet. It’s weird.’

‘No three-ring circus?’

‘Phones are quiet. No one has even asked for the night log yet.’

‘Weird.’

‘Like I said.’

The eyewitness was not kept waiting at the reception desk. There was no line. He had been given a cup of coffee and he had eaten a breakfast muffin. The woman at the desk took his name and asked what kind of bed he preferred. She was a plump, motherly type, seemingly very patient and capable. The eyewitness didn’t really understand her question.

He said, ‘Bed?’

The woman said, ‘We have rooms with kings, queens, and twins.’

‘I guess anything will do.’

‘Don’t you have a preference?’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘Honestly, I think the rooms with the queens are ideal. Overall they feel a little more spacious. With the armchairs and all? Most people like those rooms the best.’

‘OK, I’ll take one of those.’

‘Good,’ the woman said, brightly. She marked it up in a book and took a key off a hook. She said, ‘Room fourteen. It’s easy to find.’

The eyewitness carried the key in his hand and left the lobby. He stood for a moment in the chill air and looked up at the sky. It was going to rain. It was probably already raining in the north. He set off down the path and saw a knee-high fingerpost for rooms eleven through fifteen. He followed the sign. The path wound its way through sad winter flowerbeds and came out at a long low block of five rooms together. Room fourteen was the last but one. There was an empty leaf-strewn swimming pool not far from it. The eyewitness thought it would make a nice facility in the summer, with blue water in it, and the flowers all around it in bloom. He had never been in a swimming pool. Lakes and rivers, yes, but never a pool.

Beyond the pool was the perimeter wall, a waist-high decorative feature made of stucco over concrete blocks. Ten feet beyond that was the security fence, all tall and black and angular and topped with canted-in rolls of razor wire. The eyewitness figured it must have been very expensive. He knew all about the price of fencing, being a farmer. Labour and materials could kill you.

He unlocked room fourteen. He stepped inside. The bed was a little wider than the one he shared at home. There were clothes on it, in neat piles. Two outfits, both the same. Blue jeans, blue shirts, blue sweaters, white undershirts, white underwear, blue socks. There were pyjamas on the pillow. There were toiletries in the bathroom. Soap, shampoo, shaving cream. Some kind of lotion. Deodorant. There were razors. There was toothpaste, and a toothbrush sealed in cellophane. There was a comb. There was a bathrobe. There were lots of towels.

He looked at the bed but sat down in an armchair. He had been told lunch was available from twelve o’clock onward. Nothing to do until then. So he figured he might start his day with a nap. Just a short doze. It had been a long night.

Reacher waited until Sorenson was safely past a howling semi truck, and then he said, ‘Tell me about how the fingerprint thing worked with the dead guy.’

‘Standard procedure,’ Sorenson said. ‘It’s the first thing they do, before decomposition starts to make it difficult. They take the prints and upload them to the database.’

‘By satellite?’

‘No, over the regular cell phone networks.’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘You bet it is. We love cell phones. We love them to death. For all kinds of reasons. I mean, can you imagine? Suppose twenty years ago Congress had proposed a law saying every citizen had to wear a radio transponder around his neck, all day and all night, so the government could track him wherever he went. Can you imagine the outrage? But instead the citizens went right ahead and did it to themselves. In their pockets and purses, not around their necks, but the outcome is the same.’

‘Were there prints in the bright red car?’

‘Plenty. Those guys took no care at all.’

‘Did you upload them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Any results?’

‘Not yet,’ Sorenson said. ‘Which almost certainly means those guys aren’t in the database. The software will hunt for hours, until it’s sure, but it never takes this long. They must be virgins.’

‘Therefore not foreign,’ Reacher said. ‘There are no foreign fingerprint virgins, right? Everyone gets fingerprinted at the port of entry. Or for their visas. Unless they’re illegals. They could have come over the Canadian border, I guess. People say it’s full of holes.’

‘Except how did they get into Canada? We have access to their databases too. And Canada has no other borders. Unless they hiked across the North Pole or swam the Bering Strait.’

‘There’s Alaska.’

‘But to get into Alaska from overseas you have to be fingerprinted.’

‘No chance of errors or glitches?’

‘Not for the last ten years.’

‘OK, they’re not foreign.’

Sorenson drove on. She had driven the opposite way just hours before, but she didn’t really recognize the terrain. The highway looked different. It was lit up a dull grey and there was no view to the sides and no horizon ahead or behind. It was like passing through an endless cloud. The rain was easing but the road was still streaming. There was spray everywhere.

By her side Reacher said, ‘Where did the State Department guy come from?’

She said, ‘I don’t know. He just showed up in a car. But he was for real. I saw his ID.’

‘Does the State Department have field offices, like you guys?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘So where did he come from? Obviously not D.C., because he got there too quick.’

‘Good question. I’ll ask my SAC. He got a message that the guy was coming. And I know he spoke to State during the night. That’s how we found out the dead guy was a trade attaché.’

‘Or not. It feels to me like State was keeping its eye on something. Like standing by, in the vicinity. If the guy really was from State, that is. He could have been CIA too.’

Sorenson said nothing. Nothing about the checked shirt from Pakistan or the Middle East, nothing about the night-time calls from the CIA, nothing about their insistent requests for constant updates. She didn’t know why, beyond a kind of basic superstition. Some things just shouldn’t be mentioned out loud, and in her opinion the idea of the CIA roaming America’s heartland by night was one of them.