17 A Wanted Man

still
, the nasal guy had said, and Sorenson tried very hard to. She eased up to nearly a hundred miles an hour, which was outside her personal comfort zone. But the road was straight and wide and empty.
I never saw them before
, he had said.
I was hitching rides
. Did she believe him? Maybe. Or maybe not. It was a very neat and comprehensive explanation of the facts. Therefore perhaps suspicious in itself. Because real life was neither neat nor comprehensive. Not usually. And who hitchhiked any more? Especially in the wintertime? The guy sounded educated. And not noticeably young. Not a normal hitchhiking demographic. Statistics. The Bureau found them to be a useful guide.
    And:
They shot at me
. But:
They missed
. Either extreme good fortune, or extremely good playacting. Getting shot at by the indisputably guilty helped build credibility. Perhaps all concerned had figured that out well ahead of time.
    Then her low-fuel warning pinged at her and a little lamp lit up yellow. Dumb. Not a great time to run out of gas. Not a great place, either. Iowa was a lonely state. Exits were many miles apart. Each one was an event in its own right. She took the next she saw, a no-name turn a little east of Des Moines. She could see gas station lights ahead, blue and white in the mist. The ramp led to a two-lane county road, and she saw the gas station itself a hundred feet away to the south. It was a big place, set up for trucks as well as cars. The car part had six pumps. There was a small pay hut, and a bathroom block standing alone on the edge of the lot. Across the street was a long barn-shaped building with
Food And Drink All Day All Night
painted in white on the slope of its roof.
    She pumped the gas and heard the nasal voice in her head again:
I’ve lost them anyway. The roads out here are impossible. I’m going to have to come at this from a different direction
. Twenty-two words. Resignation, frustration, and then a new resolution. The first-person singular, used twice. The instinctive assumption of individual personal responsibility for the fate of another. And determination. And knowledge, too. She had said
One would think a BOLO for two men would logically include more than two
. A BOLO. A be-on-the-lookout. He hadn’t needed to ask what it meant. He already knew. Then he had said:
Troopers don’t infer things. They don’t take the initiative. Nine times out of ten it gets them in trouble
. Which was a perceptive comment. As was:
I think they were expecting roadblocks and they wanted cover
. Which matched her own thinking exactly.
    Resolute, responsible, determined, knowledgeable, and perceptive.
    Driving two murderers in a stolen car.
    With a hostage.
    Why am I calling you?
    Who the hell was this guy?

THIRTY-TWO
    REACHER SPILLED BROCHURES out of the tourist-attraction rack in the lobby until he found one with something approximating a map. It was not an outstanding example of the cartographer’s art. But it was the best the place had to offer. It was basically a hand-drawn rectangle with Kansas City at the bottom left, and St Louis at the bottom right, and Des Moines at the top left, and Cedar Rapids at the top right. In between those four anchoring cities was a lot of white space, with a bunch of little icons describing things Reacher wasn’t interested in.
    He was interested in the white space itself, particularly the upper half of it. The Iowa half. Thirtieth out of fifty in population, twenty-sixth out of fifty in land area, but Iowa had a quarter of America’s best-grade topsoil all to itself, and therefore it was at the head of the list when it came to corn and soybeans and hogs and cattle. Which meant spare, sparse habitation, and miles between neighbours, and lonely isolated buildings of uncertain purpose, and a kind of live-and-let-live lack of curiosity about who was doing what, and where and when and how and why they were doing it at all.
    The two worst places to search were densely populated cities, and wide open countryside. Reacher had succeeded in those environments many times, but he had failed there too. Also many times.
    Behind him the fat man said, ‘Who’s going to pay for the hole in my wall?’
    Reacher said, ‘Not me.’
    ‘Well, someone will have to.’
    ‘What are you, a socialist? Pay for it yourself. Or fix it yourself. It isn’t brain surgery. Two minutes and a tub of spackle will take care of it.’
    ‘It’s not right that a person should just burst in here and do a thing