17 A Wanted Man

they approached it, and which finally resolved itself into the fierce neon glare of a brand new Shell station, all crisp white and yellow and orange, sitting like a mirage or a landed UFO on a quarter-acre bite out of a fallow cornfield. It had hi-tech pumps on two gondola islands, and lube bays, and a glassed-in store lit up so bright it must have been visible from outer space.
    And it was open for business.
    ‘You should have trusted me,’ McQueen said.
    Reacher slowed the car to a walk and turned in. He chose the pumps farther from the store and nearer the road and eased to a stop. He put the transmission in Park and shut down the motor. He pulled the key, casually, like a reflex, like a rote habit, and dropped it in his pocket.
    Alan King saw him do it, but said nothing.
    Reacher said, ‘Same system? I get the coffee, you get the gas?’
    ‘Works for me,’ McQueen said.
    So Reacher opened his door and got out. He stood and stretched and arched his back and then looped around the pump islands and headed for the bright lights. He could see a kid on a stool behind the register, watching him, staring at his face. The busted nose. A universal attraction, apparently. The guy wasn’t much more than twenty years old, and he looked sleepy and slow.
    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,