eight officers in each location, with flashlights and plenty of time for close scrutiny. He imagined himself a wanted man of average appearance, travelling alone, suddenly at risk and vulnerable, perhaps anticipating those roadblocks up ahead. What could such a man do to prepare?
He could disguise one or other of those fatal tells, that’s what he could do.
He could alter his average appearance, with make-up or putty or wigs or fake piercings or fake tattoos or fake scars.
But that would not be easy, without skills and practice. And that would not be easy at short notice, either.
So he would have to address the other tell.
He would have to make himself no longer alone.
Which would be easy to do, even without skills or practice. Which would be easy to do even at short notice.
He could pick up a hitchhiker.
NINETEEN
SORENSON CALLED IN Delfuenso’s name and address, and less than a minute later she knew that Delfuenso’s car was a four-year-old Chevrolet Impala, dark blue in colour, and she knew its plate number. She passed on that information to the roadblock crews. Both said the plate number was not on their scribbled lists of cars carrying two men. Both said they would check their dashboard video to confirm. Both said that process could take some time.
So Sheriff Goodman drove Sorenson back to the cocktail lounge, where the search for a dead or unconscious woman had turned up negative results. The deputies had traced ever-widening circles from the lounge’s back door and had found nothing of interest. They had checked the shadows, the abandoned doorways, the weedy fence lines, the trash bins, and all the puddles and all the potholes.
Goodman said, ‘She could be further afield. She could have gotten up, and wandered off, and collapsed again. That kind of thing can happen, with bangs on the head.’
One of the deputies said, ‘Or they could have bundled her into the car and then rolled her out later. In the middle of nowhere. Safer for them that way. So she could be anywhere. She could be fifty miles away.’
Sorenson said, ‘Say that again.’
‘She could be fifty miles away.’
‘No, the first part.’
‘They could have bundled her into the car.’
Sorenson said, ‘You know what? I think they did. And I think she’s still in the car. I think she’s a hostage. And a smokescreen. Three people. Not two. They’ve been getting a free pass all the way.’
No one spoke.
‘What was she wearing?’
No reply.
‘Come on, one of you has been in this lounge on your night off. Don’t pretend you haven’t.’
‘Black pants,’ Goodman said.
‘And?’
‘A black and silver top,’ Goodman said. ‘Kind of sparkly. Not much to it. Very low cut.’
‘Distinctive?’
‘Unless you’re legally blind. We’re talking about a major display here.’
‘Of what?’
‘Well, you know.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I mean, she would be practically falling out of it.’
‘And this is the respectable lounge? What do they wear in the others?’
‘Thong underwear.’
‘Is that all?’
‘And high-heeled shoes.’
Sorenson got back on her cell. Long distance traffic, through Nebraska and Iowa, in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. Truckers, farmers, solid Bible-believing Midwestern citizens. A low cut sparkly cocktail- waitress outfit would have stood out like a beacon. Bored troopers would have spent extra time on
But no Nebraska trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit.
And no Iowa trooper had seen a low cut sparkly cocktail-waitress outfit either.
Reacher drove on, his left hand resting on the bottom curve of the wheel, his right hand resting on the shifter, for variety, to stop his shoulders locking up and getting sore. He could feel a little vibration in the shifter. His right palm was registering a faint buzz. The linkage was transmitting some kind of internal commotion. He nudged the lever one way and the other, just fractionally, to make sure it was seated properly. He glanced down. It was squarely lined up on the D. The tiny vibration was still there. No big deal, probably. He hoped. He knew very little about cars. But army vehicles vibrated like crazy, and no one worried about it.
Next to the shifter the sequence P-R-N-D-L was lit up with a soft glow. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive, and Low. Alphabetically the sixteenth letter, then the eighteenth, then the fourteenth, then the fourth, and finally the twelfth. An unlucky and cumbersome sequence, if you had to blink it out, for instance. Three of the five letters were beyond the halfway point. Better than WOOZY or ROOST or RUSTY or TRUST, but still. Blinking or tapping or flashing a light in a linear fashion was not an efficient transmission method for a twenty-six-letter alphabet. Too time-consuming, and too easy for either the transmitter or the receiver to lose count. Or both of them together. Old Sam Morse had figured all that out a long time ago.
Reacher glanced down again.
Karen Delfuenso had not blinked more than thirteen times. Which meant that all her letters were in the first half of the alphabet. Which was possible, but not statistically likely.
And an amateur who didn’t know Morse Code might still understand the same basic drawbacks Samuel Morse had foreseen. Especially an amateur who was for some reason tense and anxious and who had limited time for communication. Such an amateur might have improvised, and come up with a shortcut system.
Drive, and reverse.
Forward, and backward.
Maybe the jerk of the head to the left meant count forward from A, because in the Western nations people read from left to right, and therefore the jerk of the head to the right would mean count backward from Z.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Right thirteen, left two, right three, right one, left nine.
N-B-X-Z-I.
Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. NB could be the standard Latin abbreviation for
Gibberish, that’s what.
Reacher glanced in the mirror.
Delfuenso was staring at him again, willing him to understand.
Her image was reversed.
Maybe she had anticipated that. Maybe left was right, and right was left.
Forward thirteen, back two, forward three, forward one, back nine.
M-Y-C-A-R.
