17 A Wanted Man

sir. That’s very useful.’
    ‘Keep in touch,’ the SAC said, and clicked off.
    Sorenson drove on for a mile, thinking, and then she eased back up to ninety miles an hour and went back to e-mail. She turned the sound system’s volume up high and played the recording one more time.
    Just connect me, now
.
    The big guy’s first sentence had been reasonable, patient, and explanatory.
I have information, probably for your field office in Omaha, Nebraska
. A scene-setter. A preamble. But it hadn’t gotten the desired results. The emergency operator hadn’t jumped right to it. So the big guy had gotten impatient.
Just connect me, now
. Urgent, breathy, frustrated. Some slight wonder and incomprehension in his voice. Some slight emphasis on the last word.
Now
. A little desperate. As if to say:
I have completed the first step of the ritual dance, and I really, really don’t have time for the second, and I really, really can’t understand why you don’t understand that
.
    Not a change of heart. The big guy had hung up because he was out of time. Because the other guy had come in to use the bathroom.
    The big guy was one of them. But he was a traitor.

THIRTY
    REACHER PUT HIS hands flat on the floor and pushed himself up off his knees. He turned and looked at the fat man in the office doorway and said, ‘I need to borrow your car.’
    The fat man stared at Reacher’s face.
    He said, ‘What?’
    ‘Your car. Right now.’
    ‘No way.’ The guy was about thirty, prematurely losing his hair, about five feet four high, and about five feet three wide. He was wearing a white shirt and a red sleeveless V-necked sweater. He said, ‘I told you, I already called the cops. They’re on their way. So don’t try anything stupid.’
    Reacher said, ‘How long will it take for the cops to arrive?’
    ‘Two minutes, max. They’re already rolling.’
    ‘From where?’
    The guy didn’t answer.
    Reacher said, ‘County?’
    The guy said, ‘At night we rely on the State Police.’
    ‘They were all on roadblock duty. On the Interstate. A long way west of here. Short notice. No time to organize replacements. I’d say they’re two hours away, minimum. Not two minutes, maximum. If they come at all, that is. No one died here.’
    ‘A shot was fired.’
    ‘And that’s a bad thing, right?’
    ‘Of course it is.’
    ‘So they’re the bad guys. Because they fired the shot. And they fired it at me. Which makes me the good guy.’
    ‘Or the even worse guy.’
    ‘Whichever,’ Reacher said. ‘If I’m the good guy you’ll help me because you’re on my side. If I’m the even worse guy you’ll help me because you’re scared of me. But either way you’ll help me. So you might as well just cut to the chase and give me your keys.’
    ‘Won’t do you any good.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I protect myself.’
    ‘Against what?’
    ‘Against people like you.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘No gas in my car.’
    ‘There has to be gas in your car. You’re thirty miles from the gas station.’
    ‘There’s a gallon or so. Good for about forty miles. And forty miles is nothing out here.’
    ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘It’s the best anti-theft protection there is. Better than an alarm, better than a tracker, better than a fancy lock.’
    ‘You’re pretty smart,’ Reacher said. ‘Or completely nuts. One or the other. What about your guests tonight? Who are they? Maybe I could borrow that pick-up truck.’
    The fat man just said, ‘Oh, man, please.’
    But Reacher didn’t push it. He just stood there, defeated. Because of numbers. Specifically four, and three, and two. Almost four minutes had passed. King and McQueen were about to hit the next road junction. It would be a T-junction, offering two choices, or a crossroads, offering three. Iowa. The chequerboard. The agricultural matrix. To be more than a field’s-length behind a fleeing fugitive meant facing endlessly escalating odds of taking the wrong turn. So far Reacher had seen T-junctions and crossroads in about a two-to-three ratio, spaced an average of about eight miles apart. The fat man’s gallon of gas might last about sixty minutes. And at the end of that hour the odds of being on the right track would have stacked up to around 650 to one against.
    Hopeless.
    Time, and geometry.
    Sorenson’s e-mail pinged again and she found an audio file from the Iowa 911 service. It was the call that had been patched through to the FBI emergency operator.
    What is your current