Make Me

“I wondered if I paid extra one of you would get rid of it for me. You could dump it all the way over in Wichita or Amarillo. It would get stolen pretty quick.”

“Such a thing could be arranged. And if it ever showed up, in the barrio or wherever, it would only add to the mystery. Or make people think homicide.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“As you know, we provide end of life choices. And choice means exactly that. We don’t judge. We don’t make people state their reasons. We don’t offer counseling, and we don’t try to change your mind. But you have arrived in an unconventional manner. So we need to ask why. Exceptionally.”

Westwood said, “I’ve had enough. I never asked to be born. I haven’t really enjoyed it, to be honest.”

“Specifically?”

“I owe a lot of money. I can’t pay. I can’t face what comes next.”

“Gambling?”

“Worse.”

“The government?”

“I made some errors.”

The man with the jeans and the hair looked at his crew. All there, apart from the Moynahan brothers. Five guys. They shuffled, and grimaced thoughtfully, and nodded vague assent.

The man with the jeans and the hair looked back at Westwood and said, “I think we can help you, Mr. Torrance. But I’m afraid it will cost all of what you brought.”

Westwood said, “I want the gasoline engine. That’s how I want to do it.”

“It’s a popular option.”

“Is it leaded gas?”

“It runs on unleaded now. Special cylinder heads. The carbon monoxide is the same as it always was. It’s the catalyst that takes it away, not unleaded. And the smell is better. The benzene makes it sweet. It’s a nice way to go.”

“What do other people choose?”

“Most choose both. Certainty of outcome is considered paramount. Hence all the statistics they study.”

“Should I do both?”

“No need for it. The gasoline engine is a hundred percent effective. You can trust it.”

Then the guy looked at the street door.

He said, “Where did the Moynahans get to?”

Last in, first out.

The spare-parts guy from the irrigation store said, “I’ll go find them.”

He headed out.

The man with the jeans and the hair looked back at Westwood and said, “It’s an odd question, Mr. Torrance, but would you like to join us for breakfast?”

Westwood thought about it and then said yes, and the counterman temporarily put aside his community membership in favor of his professional duties, by stepping back there and setting up a fresh pot of coffee. The Cadillac driver said he better go check on his delivery first, back in a minute, but the store owner and the hog farmer and the one-eyed guy from the motel all sat down right away. The waitress came over and took their orders. Coffee was poured, and plates were delivered. Then the store owner got up again and said he wanted to run next door to get something. Heartburn medicine, the others thought. He too said he would be back in a minute.

But he wasn’t.

Neither was the Cadillac driver.

Or the Moynahans, or the guy gone looking for them.

The man with the jeans and the hair stared at the door. He said, “What the hell is going on here? People keep leaving and not coming back.”

He got up and stepped to the window. There was nothing out there. As in, nothing at all. Just stillness. No traffic, no pedestrians. Nothing moving. Hot sun, empty streets.

The guy said, “We have a problem. Out the back, right now. Mr. Torrance, excuse us. We’ll come by for you later.”

And then he ran, through the kitchen, followed by the hog farmer and the counterman and the one-eyed clerk, to the alley in back, where the counterman’s crew-cab was parked. They piled in and took off, back to the plaza, south to the far end, into the mouth of the narrow dirt road. Like a private driveway, twenty miles long.

Westwood stood alone in the silent diner. Until the street door opened and Chang came in, followed by Reacher.

Chapter 54

The biggest chunk of the money had gone for the helicopters. Two air limousines, touting for corporate business out of Kansas City. Like Town Cars in the sky. No chance of getting them to land. Not on unapproved sites. No chance of them letting anyone rappel out on ropes. Their insurance wouldn’t permit it. But they were happy to fly there and back empty. They were happy to add a little drama. For a video shoot, they were told. They got the exact GPS coordinates direct from Google. Timing was the tricky part. So the cameras could roll. But they had computers in the cockpits. It might be possible.

The second-biggest chunk of the money was carried by Westwood. Enough to impress. His cockpit computer was a rented Ford’s speedometer and his wristwatch. High school, not postgrad. If a car needs to travel fifteen miles in fifteen minutes, how fast must it go? All tied to the train, of course. He found an AM station with traffic-and-weather-together, which said the railroad was on or close. To schedule, presumably. He could do no better.