Make Me

“No, we’re thinking about Keever’s client now. So far we’re picturing a passionate person with time on his hands. We have evidence that he called Keever repeatedly. We get the feeling he’s that type of guy. And clearly there’s an issue he feels strongly about. I said I bet he’s called everyone from the White House downward. And I bet he has. Hundreds of people. Including you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re the science editor of a big newspaper. Maybe you wrote something that had a bearing on his issue. I think maybe he found your number on the internet not to pass on to Keever, not originally, but to talk to you direct. I think he has some weird-ass scientific beef, and he thinks you would understand it. So I think maybe he called you. I think maybe you’ve spoken to him.”

There was a short pause, thousands of miles away, and then Westwood’s voice came back, a little strangled, as if he was fighting a smile. He said, “I work for the LA Times. In Los Angeles. Which is in California. And my number can be found on the internet. All of which on balance is a good thing, but it means I get strange calls all the time. All day and all night. I’ve heard every weird-ass scientific beef there is. People call to talk about aliens and flying saucers and birth and suicide and radiation and mind control, and that’s only the last month alone.”

“Do these calls go in the database?”

“They’re most of the database. Ask any reporter.”

“Can you search by subject?”

“We get lazy about details. These guys ramble on. We use categories, mostly. This type of crank, that type of crank. Sooner or later I block their calls. When they outstay their welcome. I have to sleep sometimes.”

“Try Mother’s Rest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the name of a town. Two words. Like your mom sitting down in a chair. Capital letters.”

“Why is it called that?”

“I don’t know,” Reacher said.

They heard keyboard keys clicking, loud on the speakerphone. The database search, presumably. By subject.

Westwood said, “Nothing there.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a fairly distinctive name.”

Reacher said nothing.

Westwood said, “Hey, I’m not saying your guy’s client didn’t call me. He probably did. We all know people like that. I’m saying, how would I know which one he was?”

They drove out of Keever’s dead-end street, and out of his development, and past an outlet mall, to the highway entrance. Five hours to the right was Mother’s Rest, and ten minutes to the left was downtown Oklahoma City, with steakhouses and barbecue, and decent hotels.

But Chang said, “No, we have to go back.”

Chapter 18

Instead of a steakhouse or a barbecue pit they ate in chilly fluorescent silence in a rest-stop facility run by a third-best national chain. Reacher got a cheeseburger in a paper wrapper and coffee in a foam cup. Chang got a salad, in a plastic container as big as a basketball, with a clear lid at the top, and a white bowl underneath. She was stressed and maybe a little tired from driving, but even so she was good company. She put her hair behind her shoulders and turned attacking her salad into a shared misadventure, with widened eyes and about six different kinds of half-smiles, ranging from rueful and self-effacing to amused anticipation, as Reacher picked up his burger and tried to take a bite.

She said, “Thank you for your help so far.”

He said, “You’re welcome.”

“We need to think about a more durable arrangement.”

“Do we?”

“We shouldn’t start out working as a team if I’m going to finish up working alone.”

He said, “You should call 911.”

“It would be a missing persons report. That’s all, at this point. An independent adult, gone for two days, in a business where there’s a lot of short-notice travel. They wouldn’t do anything. We have no evidence to give them.”

“His door.”

“Undamaged. An unlocked door is evidence of homeowner negligence, not foul play.”

“So you want to hire me? How does that work, with the low overhead thing?”

“I just want you to tell me your intentions.”

He said nothing.

She said, “You could get a ride back to OC from here. There would be no hard feelings.”

“I was heading over to Chicago. Before the weather gets cold.”

“Same answer. Hitch back to OC and get the train. Same train you got before. Won’t get delayed again, I’m sure.”

He said nothing. He had come to like her lace-up shoes. They were practical, but they looked good, too. Her jeans were soft and old, and they rode low on her hips. Her T-shirt was black, neither tight nor loose. Her eyes were on his.

He said, “I’ll ride with you. But only if you want me to. This is your business, not mine.”

“I feel bad asking.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“I can’t pay you.”

“I already have everything I need.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“A few bucks in my pocket, and four points on the compass.”

“Because I would need to understand your reasons.”

“For what?”

“For helping me.”

“I think people should always help each other.”

“This could go above and beyond.”

“I’m sure we’ve both seen worse.”

She paused a beat.

“Last chance,” she said.

He said, “I’ll ride with you.”