Echo Burning (4 page)

He nodded. “Some of it.”

She paused. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“What's your name?”

“Reacher,” he said.

“Is that your first name? Or your last?”

“People just call me Reacher,” he said.

She paused again. “May I ask you another personal question?”

He nodded.

“Have you killed people, Reacher? In the army?”

He nodded again. “Some.”

“That's what the army is all about, fundamentally, isn't it?” she said.

“I guess so,” he said. “Fundamentally.”

She went quiet again. Like she was struggling with a decision.

“There's a museum in Pecos,” she said. “A real Wild West museum. It's partly in an old saloon, and partly in the old hotel next door. Out back is the site of Clay Allison's grave. You ever heard of Clay Allison?”

Reacher shook his head.

“They called him the Gentleman Gunfighter,” she said. “He retired, actually, but then he fell under the wheels of a grain cart and he died from his injuries. They buried him there. There's a nice headstone, with ‘Robert Clay Allison, 1840–1887' on it. I've seen it. And an inscription. The inscription says, ‘He never killed a man that did not need killing.' What do you think of that?”

“I think it's a fine inscription,” Reacher said.

“There's an old newspaper, too,” she said. “In a glass case. From Kansas City, I think, with his obituary in it. It says, ‘Certain it is that many of his stern deeds were for the right as he understood that right to be.'”

The Cadillac sped on south.

“A fine obituary,” Reacher said.

“You think so?”

He nodded. “As good as you can get, probably.”

“Would you like an obituary like that?”

“Well, not just yet,” Reacher said.

She smiled again, apologetically.

“No,” she said. “I guess not. But do you think you would like to
qualify
for an obituary like that? I mean, eventually?”

“I can think of worse things,” he said.

She said nothing.

“You want to tell me where this is heading?” he asked.

“This road?” she said, nervously.

“No, this conversation.”

She drove on for a spell, and then she lifted her foot off the gas pedal and coasted. The car slowed and she pulled off onto the dusty shoulder. The shoulder fell away into a dry irrigation ditch and it put the car at a crazy angle, tilted way down on his side. She put the transmission in park with a small delicate motion of her wrist, and she left the engine idling and the air roaring.

“My name is Carmen Greer,” she said. “And I need your help.”

“It wasn't an
accident I picked you up, you know,” Carmen Greer said.

Reacher's back was pressed against his door. The Cadillac was listing like a sinking ship, canted hard over on the shoulder. The slippery leather seat gave him no leverage to struggle upright. The woman had one hand on the wheel and the other on his seat back, propping herself above him. Her face was a foot away. It was unreadable. She was looking past him, out at the dust of the ditch.

“You going to be able to drive off this slope?” he asked.

She glanced back and up at the blacktop. Its rough surface was shimmering with heat, about level with the base of her window.

“I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

“I hope so, too,” he said.

She just stared at him.

“So why did you pick me up?” he asked.

“Why do you think?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I thought I just got lucky. I guess I thought you were a kind person doing a stranger a favor.”

She shook her head.

“No, I was looking for a guy like you,” she said.

“Why?”

“I must have picked up a dozen guys,” she said. “And I've seen hundreds. That's about all I've been doing, all month long. Cruising around West Texas, looking at who needs a ride.”

“Why?”

She shrugged the question away. A dismissive little gesture.

“The miles I've put on this car,” she said. “It's unbelievable. And the money I've spent on gas.”

“Why?” he asked again.

She went quiet. Wouldn't answer. Just went into a long silence. The armrest on the door was digging into his kidney. He arched his back and pressed with his shoulders and adjusted his position. Found himself wishing somebody else had picked him up. Somebody content just to motor from A to B. He looked up at her.

“Can I call you Carmen?” he asked.

She nodded. “Sure. Please.”

“O.K., Carmen,” he said. “Tell me what's going on here, will you?”

Her mouth opened, and then it closed again. Opened, and closed.

“I don't know how to start,” she said. “Now that it's come to it.”

“Come to what?”

She wouldn't answer.

“You better tell me exactly what you want,” he said. “Or I'm getting out of the car right here, right now.”

“It's a hundred and ten degrees out there.”

“I know it is.”

“A person could die in this heat.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“You can't get your door open,” she said. “The car is tilted too much.”

“Then I'll punch out the windshield.”

She paused a beat.

“I need your help,” she said again.

“You never saw me before.”

“Not personally,” she said. “But you fit the bill.”

“What bill?”

She went quiet again. Came up with a brief, ironic smile.

“It's so difficult,” she said. “I've rehearsed this speech a million times, but now I don't know if it's going to come out right.”

Reacher said nothing. Just waited.

“You ever had anything to do with lawyers?” she asked. “They don't do anything for you. They just want a lot of money and a lot of time, and then they tell you there's nothing much to be done.”

“So get a new lawyer,” he said.

“I've had four,” she said. “Four, in a month. They're all the same. And they're all too expensive. I don't have enough money.”

“You're driving a Cadillac.”

“It's my mother-in-law's. I'm only borrowing it.”

“You're wearing a big diamond ring.”

She went quiet again. Her eyes clouded.

“My husband gave it to me,” she said.

He looked at her. “So can't he help you?”

“No, he can't help me,” she said. “Have you ever gone looking for a private detective?”

“Never needed one. I
was
a detective.”

“They don't really exist,” she said. “Not like you see in the movies. They just want to sit in their offices and work with the phone. Or on their computers, with their databases. They won't come out and actually
do
anything for you. I went all the way to Austin. A guy there said he could help, but he wanted to use six men and charge me nearly ten thousand dollars a week.”

“For what?”

“So I got desperate. I was really panicking. Then I got this idea. I figured if I looked at people hitching rides, I might find somebody. One of them might turn out to be the right
type of person, and willing to help me. I tried to choose pretty carefully. I only stopped for rough-looking men.”

“Thanks, Carmen,” Reacher said.

“I don't mean it badly,” she said. “It's not uncomplimentary.”

“But it could have been dangerous.”

She nodded. “It nearly was, a couple of times. But I had to take the risk. I had to find
somebody
. I figured I might get rodeo guys, or men from the oil fields. You know, tough guys, roughnecks, maybe out of work, with a little time on their hands. Maybe a little anxious to earn some money, but I can't pay much. Is that going to be a problem?”

“So far, Carmen, everything is going to be a problem.”

She went quiet again.

“I talked to them all,” she said. “You know, chatted with them a little, discussed things, like we did. I was trying to make some kind of judgment about what they were like, inside, in terms of their characters. I was trying to assess their qualities. Maybe twelve of them. And none of them were really any good. But I think you are.”

“You think I'm what?”

“I think you're my best chance so far,” she said. “Really, I do. A former cop, been in the army, no ties anywhere, you couldn't be better.”

“I'm not looking for a job, Carmen.”

She nodded happily. “I know. I figured that out already. But that's better still, I think. It keeps it pure, don't you see that? Help for help's sake. No mercenary aspect to it. And your background is perfect. It obligates you.”

He stared at her. “No, it doesn't.”

“You were a soldier,” she said. “And a
policeman
. It's perfect. You're
supposed
to help people. That's what cops
do
.”

“We spent most of our time busting heads. Not a whole lot of helping went on.”

“But it must have. That's what cops are
for
. It's like their fundamental duty. And an army cop is even better. You said it yourself, you do what's necessary.”

“If you need a cop, go to the county sheriff. Pecos, or wherever it is.”

“Echo,” she said. “I live in Echo. South of Pecos.”

“Wherever,” he said. “Go to the sheriff.”

She was shaking her head. “No, I can't do that.”

Reacher said nothing more. Just lay half on his back, pressed up against the door by the car's steep angle. The engine was idling patiently, and the air was still roaring. The woman was still braced above him. She had gone silent. She was staring out past him and blinking, like she was about to cry. Like she was ready for a big flood of tears. Like she was tragically disappointed, maybe with him, maybe with herself.

“You must think I'm crazy,” she said.

He turned his head and looked hard at her, top to toe. Strong slim legs, strong slim arms, the expensive dress. It was riding up on her thighs, and he could see her bra strap at her shoulder. It was snow white against the color of her skin. She had clean combed hair and trimmed painted nails. An elegant, intelligent face, tired eyes.

“I'm not crazy,” she said.

Then she looked straight at him. Something in her face. Maybe an appeal. Or maybe hopelessness, or desperation.

“It's just that I've dreamed about this for a month,” she said. “My last hope. It was a ridiculous plan, I guess, but it's all I had. And there was always the chance it would work, and with you I think maybe it could, and now I'm screwing it up by coming across like a crazy woman.”

He paused a long time. Minutes. He thought back to a pancake house he'd seen in Lubbock, right across the strip from his motel. It had looked pretty good. He could have crossed the street, gone in there, had a big stack with bacon on the side. Lots of syrup. Maybe an egg. He would have come out a half hour after she blew town. He could be sitting next to some cheerful trucker now, listening to rock and roll on the radio. On the other hand, he could be bruised and bleeding in a police cell, with an arraignment date coming up.

“So start over,” he said. “Just say what you've got to say. But first, drive us out of this damn ditch. I'm very uncomfortable. And I could use a cup of coffee. Is there anyplace up ahead where we could get coffee?”

“I think so,” she said. “Yes, there is. About an hour, I think.”

“So let's go there. Let's get a cup of coffee.”

“You're going to dump me and run,” she said.

It was an attractive possibility. She stared at him, maybe five long seconds, and then she nodded, like a decision was made. She put the transmission in D and hit the gas. The car had front-wheel drive, and all the weight was on the back, so the tires just clawed at nothing and spun. Gravel rattled against the underbody and a cloud of hot khaki dust rose up all around them. Then the tires caught and the car heaved itself out of the ditch and bounced up over the edge of the blacktop. She got it straight in the lane, and then she floored it and took off south.

“I don't know where to begin,” she said.

“At the beginning,” he said. “Always works best that way. Think about it, tell me over coffee. We've got the time.”

She shook her head. Stared forward through the windshield, eyes locked on the empty shimmering road ahead. She was quiet for a mile, already doing seventy.

“No, we don't,” she said. “It's real urgent.”

 

Fifty miles southwest
of Abilene, on a silent county road ten miles north of the main east-west highway, the Crown Victoria waited quietly on the shoulder, its engine idling, its hood unlatched and standing an inch open for better cooling. All around it was flatness so extreme the curvature of the earth was revealed, the dusty parched brush falling slowly away to the horizon in every direction. There was no traffic, and therefore no noise beyond the tick and whisper of the idling engine and the heavy buzz of the earth baking and cracking under the unbearable heat of the sun.

The driver had the electric door mirror racked all the way outward so he could see the whole of the road behind him. The Crown Vic's own dust had settled and the view was clear for about a mile, right back to the point where the blacktop and the sky mixed together and broke and boiled into a silvery shimmering mirage. The driver had his eyes focused on that distant glare, waiting for it to be pierced by the indistinct shape of a car.

He knew what car it would be. The team was well briefed. It would be a white Mercedes Benz, driven by a man on his own toward an appointment he couldn't miss. The man would be driving fast, because he would be running late, because he was habitually late for everything. They knew the time of his appointment, and they knew his destination was thirty miles farther on up the road, so simple arithmetic gave them a target time they could set their watches by. A target time that was fast approaching.

“So let's do it,” the driver said.

He stepped out of the car into the heat and clicked the hood down into place. Slid back into the seat and took a ball cap from the woman. It was one of three bought from a souvenir vendor on Hollywood Boulevard, thirteen ninety-five each. It was dark blue, with
FBI
machine-embroidered in white cotton thread across the front. The driver squared it on his head and pulled the peak low over his eyes. Moved the transmission lever into drive and kept his foot hard on the brake. Leaned forward a fraction and kept his eyes on the mirror.

“Right on time,” he said.

The silver mirage was boiling and wobbling and a white shape pulled free of it and speared out toward them like a fish leaping out of water. The shape settled and steadied on the road, moving fast, crouching low. A white Mercedes sedan, wide tires, dark windows.

The driver eased his foot off the brake and the Crown Vic crawled forward through the dust. He touched the gas when the Mercedes was still a hundred yards behind him. The Mercedes roared past and the Crown Vic pulled out into the hot blast of its slipstream. The driver straightened the wheel and accelerated. Smiled with his lips hard together. The killing crew was going to work again.

 

The Mercedes driver
saw headlights flashing in his mirror and looked again and saw the sedan behind him. Two peaked caps silhouetted in the front seat. He dropped his eyes automatically to his speedometer, which was showing more than ninety. Felt the cold
oh-shit
stab in his chest. Eased off the
gas while he calculated how late he was already and how far he still had to go and what his best approach to these guys should be. Humility? Or maybe
I'm-too-important-to-be-hassled
? Or what about a sort of
come-on-guys, I'm-working-too
camaraderie?

The sedan pulled alongside as he slowed and he saw three people, one of them a woman. Radio antennas all over the car. No lights, no siren. Not regular cops. The driver was waving him to the shoulder. The woman was pressing an ID wallet against her window. It had
FBI
in two-inch-high letters. Their caps said
FBI
. Serious-looking people, in some kind of duty fatigues. Serious-looking squad car. He relaxed a little. The FBI didn't stop you for speeding. Must be something else. Maybe some kind of security check, which made sense considering what lay thirty miles up the road. He nodded to the woman and braked and eased right, onto the shoulder. He feathered the pedal and coasted to a stop in a big cloud of dust. The Bureau car eased up and stopped behind him, the brightness of its headlight beams dimmed by the cloud.