Worth Dying For

her left, out to the hallway. A stubborn woman, hung up on quaint old notions of objectivity.
    Duncan said, ‘That’s a very strong basement door. I know, because I installed the same one myself, when we remodelled. It has a steel core, and it fits into a steel frame, and it has oversized hinges and a burst-proof lock. It’s rated for a category five storm. It can withstand a three-hundred-mile-an-hour gust. It carries a FEMA seal of approval. So if, just hypothetically, there was a person in the basement right now, you may rest assured that he’s staying there. Such a person could not possibly escape. Such a person might as well not exist at all.’
    Dorothy Coe asked, ‘If the door is so good, why do you have a football player leaning on it?’
    ‘He has to be somewhere,’ Duncan said. Then he smiled. ‘Would you prefer it if he was in the bedroom? Maybe he could kill some time in there, with your little friend, while you answer my questions.’
    Dorothy Coe glanced the other way, at the doctor’s wife.
    Duncan asked, ‘Did you ever meet a man named Reacher?’
    Dorothy Coe didn’t answer.
    Duncan said, ‘The calendar rolls on. It will be spring before you know it. You’ll be ploughing and planting. With a bit of luck the rains will be right and you’ll have a good harvest. But then what? Do you want it hauled? Or do you want to put a gun in your mouth, like your worthless husband?’
    Dorothy Coe said nothing.
    Duncan asked, ‘Did you ever meet a man named Reacher?’
    Dorothy Coe said, ‘No.’
    ‘Did you ever
hear
of a man named Reacher?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Was he ever at your house?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you ever give him breakfast?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Was he here when you arrived tonight?’
    ‘No.’
    Out in the hallway, three inches from the second Cornhusker’s hip, the handle on the basement door turned, a quarter circle, and paused a beat, and turned back.
    No one noticed.
    In the dining room, Duncan asked, ‘Did any kind of stranger come here this winter?’
    Dorothy Coe said, ‘No.’
    ‘Anyone at all?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Any local troubles here?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did anything change?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you want anything to change?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘That’s good,’ Duncan said. ‘I like the status quo, very much, and I’m glad you do too. It benefits all of us. No reason why we can’t all get along.’ He got up, leaving the bag of peas on the table, a little meltwater beading on the wax. He said, ‘You three stay here. My boys will look after you. Don’t attempt to leave the house, and don’t attempt to use the phone. Don’t even answer it. The phone tree is off-limits tonight. You’re out of the loop. Punishments for non-compliance will be swift and severe.’
    Then Duncan put his parka on, awkwardly, leading with his left hand, and he stepped past the guy with the Remington and headed for the front door. The others heard it open and close and a minute later they heard the Mazda drive away, the sound of its exhaust ripping the night air behind it.
    * * *
    Mahmeini’s man drove the Cadillac south on the two-lane, five gentle miles, and then he turned the lights off and slowed to a walk. The big engine whispered and the soft tyres rustled over the pavement. He saw the three old houses on his right. There was a light burning in one of the downstairs windows. Beyond that, there were no signs of life. There were three vehicles parked out front, vague moonlit shapes, all of them old, all of them rustic and utilitarian pick-up trucks, none of them a new blue Chevrolet. But the Chevrolet would come. Mahmeini’s man was absolutely sure of that. Half of Rossi’s attention was fixed on leapfrogging Safir and Mahmeini himself, which meant the other half was fixed on securing his rear. His relationship with the Duncans had to be protected. Which meant his boys would be checking in with them often, calming them, stroking them, reassuring them, and above all making sure no one else was getting close to them. Standard commonsense precautions, straight out of the textbook.
    Mahmeini’s man rolled past the end of the Duncans’ driveway and U-turned and parked a hundred yards south on the opposite shoulder, half on the blacktop, half on the dirt, his lights off, the big black car nestled in a slight natural dip, about as invisible as it was possible to get without a camouflage net. There would be a dull moonlit glow from some of the chrome, he figured, but there was mist in the air, and