Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [81]
Mahmeini’s man said, “I’m looking for someone.”
The barman said, “I guess we all are, sir. That’s the very essence of human nature, isn’t it? It’s an eternal quest.”
“No, I’m looking for someone I know. A friend of mine.”
“A lady or a gentleman?”
“He looks like me.”
“Then I haven’t seen him. I’m sorry.”
“He has a yellow car.”
“Cars are outside. I’m inside.”
Mahmeini’s man turned and scanned the room, and thought about the red taillights in the north, and turned back and asked, “Are you sure?”
The barman said, “I don’t want to be rude, sir, but really, if two of you had been in here tonight, someone would have called Homeland Security already. Don’t you think?”
Mahmeini’s man said nothing.
“Just saying,” the barman said. “This is Nebraska. There are military installations here.”
Mahmeini’s man asked, “Then was someone else just here?”
“This is a bar, my friend. People are in and out all night long. That’s kind of the point of the place.”
The barman turned back to his current customer. Interaction over. Mahmeini’s man turned and scanned the room, one more time. Then he gave it up and moved away, between the tables, back to the door. He stepped into the lot and took out his phone. No signal. He stood still for a second and glanced north at where the red lights had gone, and then he climbed back into the taxi. He closed the door against a yowling hinge and said, “Thank you for waiting.”
The driver looked back over his shoulder and asked, “Where to now?”
Mahmeini’s man said, “Let me think about that for a minute.”
Reacher kept the Malibu at a steady sixty. A mile a minute. Hypnotic. Power line poles flashed past, the tires sang, the motor hummed. Reacher took the fresh bottle of water from the cup holder and opened it and drank from it one-handed. He switched his headlights to bright. Nothing to see ahead of him. A straight road, then mist, then darkness. He checked the mirror. Nothing to see behind him. He checked the dials and the gauges. All good.
Eleanor Duncan checked her watch. It was a small Rolex, a present from Seth, but probably real. She had counted ahead an hour and six minutes from when she had hung up the phone, and she had forty-five minutes still to go. She stepped out of the living room into the hallway, and stepped out of the hallway into her husband’s den. It was a small square space. She had no idea of its original purpose. Maybe a gun room. Now it was set up as a home office, but with an emphasis on gentlemanly style, not clerical function. There was a club chair made of leather. The desk was yew. It had a light with a green glass shade. There were bookshelves. There was a rug. The air in the room smelled like Seth.
There was a shallow glass bowl on the desk. From Murano, near Venice, in Italy. It was green. A souvenir. It had paper clips in it. And her car keys, just sitting there, two small serrated lances with big black heads. For her Mazda Miata. A tiny red two-seat convertible. A fun car. Carefree. Like the old British MGs and Lotuses used to be, but reliable.
She took one of the keys.
She stepped back to the hallway. Eleven miles. She thought she knew what Reacher had in mind. So she opened the coat closet and took out a silk headscarf. Pure white. She folded it into a triangle and tied it over her hair. She checked the mirror. Just like an old-fashioned movie star. Or an old-fashioned movie star after a knockout round with an old-fashioned heavyweight champion.
She left by the back door and walked through the cold to the garage, Seth’s empty bay to the right, hers in the middle, the doors all open. She got in her car and unlatched the clips above the windshield and dropped the top. She started up and backed out and turned and waited in the driveway, the motor running, the heater warming, her heart beating hard. She checked her watch. Twenty-nine minutes to go.
Reacher cruised onward, sixty miles an hour,