16
'SO YOU’RE GOING to Portland, Oregon,” Blake said. “You and Harper.”
“Why?” Reacher asked.
“So you can visit with your old friend Rita Scimeca. The lady lieutenant you told us about? Got raped down in Georgia? She lives near Portland. Small village, east of the city. She’s one of the eleven on your list. You can get down there and check out her basement. She says there’s a brand-new washing machine in there. In a box.”
“Did she open it?” Reacher asked.
Blake shook his head. “No, Portland agents checked with her on the telephone. They told her not to touch it. Somebody’s on the way over right now.”
“If the guy’s still in the area, Portland could be his next call. It’s close enough.”
“Correct,” Blake said. “That’s why there’s somebody on the way over.”
Reacher nodded. “So now you’re guarding them? What’s that thing about barn doors and horses bolting? ”
Blake shrugged. “Hey, only seven left alive, makes the manpower much more feasible.”
It was a cop’s sick humor in a car full of cops of one kind or another, but still it fell a little flat. Blake colored slightly and looked away.
“Losing Alison gets to me, much as anybody,” he said. “Like family, right?”
“Especially to her sister, I guess,” Reacher said.
“Tell me about it,” Blake said. “She was burned as hell when the news came in. Practically hyperventilating. Never seen her so agitated.”
“You should take her off the case.”
Blake shook his head. “I need her.”
“You need something, that’s for damn sure.”
“Tell me about it.”
SPOKANE TO THE small village east of Portland measured about three hundred and sixty miles on the map Blake showed them. They took the car the local agent had used to bring them in from the airport. It still had Alison Lamarr’s address handwritten on the top sheet of the pad attached to the windshield. Reacher stared at it for a second. Then he tore it off and balled it up and tossed it into the rear footwell. Found a pen in the glove box and wrote directions on the next sheet:
“Call it six hours,” Harper said. “You drive three and I’ll drive three.”
Reacher nodded. It was completely dark when he started the engine. He turned around in the road, shoulder to shoulder, spinning the wheel, exactly like he was sure the guy had done, but two days later and two hundred yards south. Rolled through the narrow downhill curves to Route 90 and turned right. Once the lights of the city were behind them the traffic density fell away and he settled to a fast cruise west. The car was a new Buick, smaller and plainer than Lamarr’s boat, but maybe a little faster because of it. That year must have been the Bureau’s GM year. The Army had done the same thing. Staff car purchasing rotated strictly between GM, Ford, and Chrysler, so none of the domestic manufacturers could get pissed at the government.
The road ran straight southwest through hilly terrain. He put the headlights on bright and eased the speed upward. Harper sprawled to his right, her seat reclined, her head tilted toward him. Her hair spilled down and glowed red and gold in the lights from the dash. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting down in his lap. He could see lights in his mirror. Halogen headlights, on bright, swinging and bouncing a mile behind him. They were closing, fast. He accelerated to more than seventy.
“The Army teach you to drive this fast?” Harper asked.
He made no reply. They passed a town called Sprague and the road straightened. Blake’s map had shown it dead straight all the way to a town called Ritzville, twenty-something miles ahead. Reacher eased up toward eighty miles an hour, but the headlights behind were still closing fast. A long moment later a car blasted past them, a long low sedan, a wide maneuver, turbulent slip-stream, a full quarter-mile in the opposite lane. Then it eased back right and pulled on ahead like the FBI’s Buick was crawling through a parking lot.
“
“Maybe that’s the guy,” Harper said sleepily. “Maybe he’s heading down to Portland too. Maybe we’ll get him tonight.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Reacher said. “I don’t think he drives. I think he flies.”
But he eased the speed a little higher anyway, to keep the distant taillights in sight.
“And then what?” Harper said. “He rents a car at the local airport?”
Reacher nodded in the dark. “That’s my guess. Those tire prints they found? Very standard size. Probably some anonymous midsize midrange sedan the rental companies have millions of.”
“Risky,” Harper said. “Renting cars leaves a paper trail.”
Reacher nodded again. “So does buying airplane tickets. But this guy is real organized. I’m sure he’s got cast- iron false ID. Following the paper trail won’t get anybody anywhere.”
“Well, we’ll do it anyway, I guess. And it means he’s been face-to-face with people at the rental counters. ”
“Maybe not. Maybe he books ahead and gets express pickup.”
Harper nodded. “The return guy would see him, though.”
“Briefly.”
The road was straight enough to see the fast car a mile ahead. Reacher found himself easing up over ninety, pacing himself behind it.
“How long does it take to kill a person?” Harper asked.
“Depends how you do it,” Reacher said.
“And we don’t know how he’s doing it.”
“No, we don’t. That’s something we need to figure. But whatever way, he’s pretty calm and careful about it. No mess anywhere, no spilled paint. My guess is it’s got to be twenty, thirty minutes, minimum.”
Harper nodded and stretched. Reacher caught a breath of her perfume as she moved.
“So think about Spokane,” she said. “He gets off the plane, picks up the car, drives a half hour to Alison’s place, spends a half hour there, drives a half hour back, and gets the hell out. He wouldn’t hang around, right?”
“Not near the scene, I guess,” Reacher said.
“So the rental car could be returned within less than two hours. We should check real short rentals from the airports local to the scenes, see if there’s a pattern.”
Reacher nodded. “Yes, you should. That’s how you’ll do this thing, regular hard work.”
Harper moved again. Turned sideways in her seat. “Sometimes you say
“I liked Alison, I guess, what I saw of her.”
“And?”
“And I like Rita Scimeca too, what I remember of her. I wouldn’t want anything to happen.”
Harper craned her head and watched the taillights a mile ahead.
“So keep that guy in sight,” she said.
“He flies,” Reacher said. “That’s not the guy.”
IT WASN’T THE guy. At the far limit of Ritzville he stayed on Route 90, swinging west toward Seattle. Reacher peeled off south onto 395, heading straight for Oregon. The road was still empty, but it was narrower and twistier, so he took some of the urgency out of his pace and let the car settle back to its natural cruise.
“Tell me about Rita Scimeca,” Harper said.
Reacher shrugged at the wheel. “She was a little like Alison Lamarr, I guess. Didn’t look the same, but she had the same feel about her. Tough, sporty, capable. Very unfazed by anything, as I recall. She was a second lieutenant. Great record. She blitzed the officer training. ”
