17 A Wanted Man

location?
    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
.
    The same nasal voice. The same measured urgency. No panic, but not much patience, either. The same insight. As a matter of fact 911 dispatchers had not gotten an FBI button on September twelfth 2001. The installations had started a week or so later. But in principle the guy was right. He was clued in.
    But how?
    She played the file again, and had got as far as
I need the FBI
when her ring tone cut in over it. Another live call. The plain electronic tone, loud and thrilling through the speakers. It was her duty officer again, at his desk in Omaha. He said, ‘I don’t know if it means anything, but the Iowa State Police are saying they just got a 911 call about a gunshot fired in a motel lobby, about thirty-some miles south and east of that gas station.’
    The fat man hovered nervously behind the reception counter and Reacher took a look at the bullet hole in his wall. It was directly above the office door, maybe nine inches left of centre, close to the ceiling, maybe an inch and a half below the crown moulding. It looked like the round had hit near a stud or a screw. The impact had blasted off a large shallow flake of plaster, about the size of a teacup saucer, and the flake had left a corresponding crater. The centre of the crater was drilled with the .22 hole, neat and precise, a little smaller than a pencil.
    Reacher backed off and stood where McQueen had stood. He turned sideways. He bent his knees and lowered himself five inches, to make himself McQueen’s height. He raised his arm and straightened it and pointed his index finger at the hole.
    He closed one eye.
    He shook his head.
    It had been a bad miss, in his opinion. Because it would have missed even if he hadn’t fallen down on the floor. It would have missed even if he had stretched up high on tiptoes. It would have missed even if he had jumped up in the air. It might have grazed a seven-five NBA star, but at six-five Reacher would have been OK under any circumstances.
    If he was going to miss, he was going to miss high
.
    Civilian marksmanship was appalling, for a population obsessed with guns.
    Reacher straightened up again and turned back to the fat man and said, ‘I need to use your phone.’

THIRTY-ONE
    JULIA SORENSON DROVE some fast minutes uninterrupted, and then her phone rang again, loud over the speakers. Her duty officer, in Omaha. He said, ‘It’s your lucky night. I think.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘The same guy is on the line again.’
    ‘The nasal guy?’
    ‘Right now, live and in person.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘On the same phone that just called in the 911 in Iowa.’
    ‘The motel lobby thing?’
    ‘You got it.’
    ‘How far out are the Iowa cops?’
    ‘A long way. The roadblocks screwed them up.’
    ‘OK, put the guy on.’
    ‘You sure? Stony will want this one.’
    ‘My case,’ Sorenson said. ‘Put the guy on. I’ll deal with Stony later.’
    She heard clicks and hiss and then a new acoustic. A room, not large. Hard surfaces. Probably an office. Laminate desks, metal cabinets. She heard the nasal voice. It said, ‘Hello?’
    She said, ‘This is FBI Special Agent Julia Sorenson. What is your name, sir?’
    Reacher put an elbow on the fat man’s laminate desk and trapped the receiver against his shoulder. He said, ‘I’m not going to tell you my name. Not yet, anyway. We need to talk first.’
    The woman named Sorenson said, ‘About what?’
    She was from Minnesota, Reacher thought. Originally. She sounded a little Scandinavian, like her name. And she seemed businesslike. She didn’t waste words. She was direct and to the point. He said, ‘I need to understand my personal situation.’
    ‘Is Karen Delfuenso still alive?’
    ‘As far as I know.’
    ‘Then it’s her personal situation we should be considering.’
    ‘I am considering it,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s my point. Are you going to slow me down or help me out?’
    ‘With what?’
    ‘Finding her.’
    ‘You’re no longer with her?’
    ‘No. They shot at me and drove off. Delfuenso is still in the car.’
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I’m not going to tell you my name.’
    ‘No, I mean I need to