Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [80]
The wheezing old motor had the needle trembling over the sixty mark. A mile a minute. Nine more miles to go. Nine minutes.
Reacher said, “Exactly one hour and ten minutes from now, I want you to take a drive. In your little red sports car.”
Eleanor Duncan said, “A drive? Where?”
“South on the two-lane,” Reacher said. “Just drive. Eleven miles. As fast as you want. Then turn around and go home again.”
“Eleven miles?”
“Or twelve. Or more. But not less than ten.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter why. Will you do it?”
“Are you going to do something to the house? You want me out of the way?”
“I won’t come near the house. I promise. No one will ever know. Will you do it?”
“I can’t. Seth took my car key. I’m grounded.”
“Is there a spare?”
“He took that too.”
Reacher said, “He’s not carrying them around in his pocket. Not if he keeps his own key in a bowl in the kitchen.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Reacher asked, “Do you know where they are?”
“Yes. They’re on his desk.”
“On or in?”
“On. Just sitting there. Like a test for me. He says obedience without temptation is meaningless.”
“Why the hell are you still there?”
“Where else could I go?”
“Just take the damn keys, will you? Stand up for yourself.”
“Will this hurt Seth?”
“I don’t know how you want me to answer that question.”
“I want you to answer it honestly.”
“It might hurt him indirectly. And eventually. Possibly.”
There was a long pause. Then Eleanor said, “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll drive south eleven miles on the two-lane and come back again. An hour and ten minutes from now.”
“No,” Reacher said. “An hour and six minutes from now. We’ve just been talking for four minutes.”
He hung up and stepped back to the main public room. The barman was working like a good barman should, using fast, efficient movements, thinking ahead, watching the room. He caught Reacher’s eye and Reacher detoured toward him and the guy said, “I should get you to sign a napkin or something. Like a memento. You’re the only guy who ever came in here to use a phone, not avoid one. You want a drink?”
Reacher scanned what the guy had to offer. Liquor of all kinds, beer on tap, beer in bottles, sodas. No sign of coffee. He said, “No, thanks, I’m good. I should hit the road.” He moved on, shuffling sideways between the tables, and he pushed out the door and walked back to his car. He got in, started up, backed out, and drove away north.
Mahmeini’s man saw a glow in the air, far ahead on the left. Neon, green and red and blue. The driver kept his foot down for a minute more, and then he lifted off and coasted. The engine coughed and the exhaust popped and sputtered and the taxi slowed. Way far up the road in the distance were a pair of red taillights. Very faint and far away. Almost not there at all. The taxi braked. Mahmeini’s man saw the bar. Just a simple wooden building. There were two weak spotlights under the eaves at the front. They threw two pools of token light into the lot. There were plenty of parked vehicles. But no yellow rental.
The taxi pulled in and stopped. The driver looked back over his shoulder. Mahmeini’s man said, “Wait for me.”
The driver said, “How long?”
“A minute.” Mahmeini’s man got out and stood still. The taillights in the north had disappeared. Mahmeini’s man watched the darkness where they had been, just for a second. Then he walked to the wooden building’s door. He entered. He saw a large room, with chairs and tables on the left and a bar on the right. There were about twenty customers in the room, mostly men, none of them Asghar Arad Sepehr. There was a barman behind the bar, serving a customer, lining up the next, glancing over at the new arrival. Mahmeini’s man threaded between the tables toward him. He felt that everyone was watching him. A small man, foreign, unshaven, rumpled, and not very clean. The barman’s customer peeled away,