Reacher paused before going in, and checked back. Alan King had dipped a credit card and was getting ready to pump the gas. McQueen was still in the rear seat. Delfuenso was still next to him.
Reacher went inside. The kid behind the register looked up and nodded a cautious greeting. Reacher waited until the door sucked shut and said, 'Got a pay phone?'
The kid blinked and opened his mouth and closed it again, like a goldfish.
'Not a difficult question,' Reacher said. 'A simple yes or no answer will suffice.'
'Yes,' the kid said. 'We have a pay phone.'
'Where is it?'
'By the restrooms,' the kid said.
'Which are where?'
The kid pointed.
'In back,' he said.
Reacher looked the other way, out the window.
Don McQueen's door was open.
But he was still in the car. Just sitting there, facing forward.
Reacher turned back and saw a door in the rear wall of the store. It had two stick figures on it, one in a skirt and one in pants. He stepped over to it and pulled it open. Behind it was a small lobby, with two more doors, one with the pants figure on it, and the other with the skirt. On the wall between the two was a pay phone, shiny and new, with an acoustic hood over it.
Reacher checked back. King was pumping the gas. McQueen was twisted sideways in his seat. He had both feet out of the car. They were planted on the ground. But that was all. He was stretching his legs. For comfort. He wasn't moving.
Not yet, anyway.
Reacher checked the ladies' room. No windows. No alternate exit.
He checked the men's room. No windows. No alternate exit. He pulled a wad of towels from the dispenser and came back out to the lobby and folded the towels twice and jammed them between the lobby door and its frame, on the hinge side, so that the door held itself open a few inches. A little less than four inches, to be exact. Reacher ducked back and checked the view from the phone. He could see a small sliver of the store. He could see a tiny slice of the main door. Not much, but he would know if it opened.
He hoped.
He lifted the receiver and dialled 911.
More or less instantly a dispatcher asked, 'What is your current location?'
Reacher said, 'Give me the FBI.'
'Sir, what is your current location?'
'Don't waste time.'
'Do you need fire, police, or ambulance?'
'I need the FBI.'
'Sir, this is the 911 emergency service.'
'And since about September the twelfth 2001 you've had a direct button for the FBI.'
'How did you know that?'
'Just a lucky guess. Hit the button, and hit it now.'
Reacher stared through the gap at the tiny slice of the main door. Nothing happening. Not yet. The sound in his ear changed. Dead air, then a new dial tone.
Then a new voice.
It said, 'This is the FBI. What is the nature of your emergency?'
Reacher said, 'I have information, probably for your field office in Omaha, Nebraska.'
'What is the nature of your information?'
'Just connect me, now.'
'Sir, what is your name?'
Reacher knew all about night-time duty officers. He had talked to thousands during his years in the service. They were always either on the way down, and therefore insecure, or on the way up, and therefore ambitious. He knew what worked with them, and he knew what didn't. He had learned the right psychological approach.
He said, 'Connect me now or you'll lose your job.'
A pause.
Then dead air.
Then a new dial tone.
Then the outer door swept open. Reacher heard the loud swish of its rubber seal and saw part of its bright white frame flash through the limits of the narrow gap. He got a glimpse of a blue shoulder. He heard the fast click of heels on tile.
He hung up the phone.
He stepped forward and grabbed the folded towels with one hand and pushed the lobby door with the other and tossed the towels behind him and came face to face with Don McQueen.
TWENTY-SEVEN
REACHER AND MCQUEEN stepped mutely around each other, chest to chest, like guys do at restroom doors. McQueen went in and Reacher headed through the store to the coffee station, which was a complex push-button one-cup-at-a-time machine, a yard wide, all chrome and aluminium, brand new, probably Italian. Or French. European, certainly. It seemed to grind a separate batch of beans after each push of the button, and it was so slow that McQueen was out of the men's room before Reacher was through with the last cup. Which was a good thing, in that McQueen was then more or less obligated to carry two cups back to the car, which meant his hands were full, and armed men with full hands were better than armed men with empty hands, in Reacher's considered opinion.
Reacher carried the other two cups, black no sugar, one for himself and one for Karen Delfuenso. Alan King was still out of the car. The car was still next to the pump. The readout showed that less than four gallons had gone in the tank.
King said, 'I'll drive from here, Mr Reacher.'
Reacher said, 'Really? I haven't done my three hundred miles yet.'
'Change of plan. We're going to head for the motel and hole up for the night.'
'I thought you wanted to get to Chicago.'
'I said our plans have changed. What part of that don't you understand?'
'Your call,' Reacher said.
'Indeed,' King said. 'So I'll need the car key.'
Four-dimensional planning. Reacher was on the near side of the car, and King and McQueen were on the far side. Delfuenso was still in her seat. Her door was wide open. Her head was inches away from King's right hand. It would take part of a second for King and McQueen to drop their cups of coffee. Part of another second for them to get to their guns. Reacher could throw his own cup like a scalding grenade at one head or the other, but not both. He could scramble around the trunk, or over it, but not fast enough.
No chance.
Geometry, and time.
He rested his cup on the Chevy's roof and fished in his pocket for the key.
He held it out.
Come and get it.
But King wasn't the dumbest guy in the world. He said, 'Just drop it on the seat. I'll be right there.'
Don McQueen got in the front. He twisted counterclockwise, like a friendly guy just checking all his pals were going to get properly settled and comfortable. But the position kept his right hand free and clear, close to his right pants pocket, close to the right side of his pants waistband.
King was still near the gas cap, with his own right hand free and clear, still inches from Karen Delfuenso's head.
Geometry, and time.
Reacher climbed in behind the driver's seat, and leaned over and dropped the key.
McQueen smiled at him.
King closed Delfuenso's door for her from the outside, and then he tracked around the trunk and closed Reacher's door for him. He picked up the key and climbed in and scooted his seat six inches forward. He started the engine and eased back to the road and drove onward into the darkness, south, away from the Interstate, towards the promised motel.
The FBI emergency response operator had stayed on the line and listened in to the aborted call to Omaha. He had heard the ring tone. He had heard the receiver go down. He was a rookie, hence the routine night duty. But he was a fast-tracked rookie, hence the D.C. assignment and the important post. He was fast-tracked because he was smart.
He was smart enough to follow up.
He called the Omaha field office and spoke to the duty agent. He asked, 'Have you guys got something going on there tonight?'
The agent in Nebraska yawned and said, 'Kind of. There's a single-victim knife-crime homicide in the back of beyond miles from anywhere, which doesn't sound like a very big deal, but for some reason the SAC is on it, and the CIA and the State Department are sniffing around, and we've had a bunch of roadblocks on the Interstate.'