in front of him. The first bag carried just one item, and the second bag carried two items. From the first bag came a belt sander, already loaded with a fresh loop of coarse-grain abrasive. From the second bag came a propane blowtorch and a roll of duct tape.
Tools of the trade.
And therefore an unmistakable message, to a guy in Rossi's world. In Rossi's world victims were taped naked to chairs, and belt sanders were fired up and applied to tender areas like knees or elbows or chests. Or faces, even. Then blowtorches were sparked to life for a little extra fun.
Nobody spoke.
Rossi dialled his phone. Three rings, and Roberto Cassano answered, in Nebraska. Rossi said, 'What the hell is happening up there? This thing really can't wait.'
Cassano said, 'We're chasing shadows.'
'Chase them harder.'
'What's the point? Who knows whether this guy has anything to do with anything? You told us you figure he's an excuse. So whatever happens to him isn't going to make the shipment show up any faster.'
'Have you ever told a lie?'
'Not to you, boss.'
'To anyone else?'
'Sure.'
'Then you know how it goes. You arrange things to make sure you don't get caught out. And I think that's what those Duncan bastards are going to do. They're going to hold the shipment somewhere until the guy gets caught. To make it look like they were telling the truth all along. Like cause and effect. So whether we want to or not, we're going to have to play their game their way. So find this asshole, will you? And fast. This thing can't wait.'
Rossi clicked off the call. One of the Lebanese guys had been unrolling the belt sander's cord. Now he bent down and plugged it in. He flicked the switch, just a blip, just a second, and the machine started and whirred and stopped.
A test.
A message.
Reacher drove to the motel and parked next to the doctor's wrecked Subaru. It was still there, outside cabin six. He got out and squatted down front and rear and used the smaller screwdriver from his pocket to take the plates off the pick-up truck. Then he took the plates off the Subaru and put them on the pick-up. He tossed the pick-up's plates into the load bed and put the screwdriver back in his pocket and headed for the lounge.
Vincent was in there, behind the bar, wiping it with a rag. He had a black eye and a thick lip and a swelling the size of a mouse's back on his cheek. One of the mirrors behind him was broken. Pieces of glass the shape of lightning bolts had fallen out. Old wallboard was exposed, taped and yellowing, earthbound and prosaic. The room's cheerful illusion was diminished.
Reacher said, 'I'm sorry I got you in trouble.'
Vincent asked, 'Did you spend the night here?'
'Do you really want to know?'
'No, I guess I don't.'
Reacher checked himself in the broken mirror. One ear was scabbing over, where he had scraped it on the rock. His face had scratches from the thorns. His hands, too, and his back, where his coat and shirt and sweater had ridden up. He asked, 'Did those guys have a list of places they were looking?'
Vincent said, 'I imagine they'll go house to house.'
'What are they driving?'
'A rental.'
'Colour?'
'It was something dark. Dark blue, maybe? A Chevrolet, I think.'
'Did they say who they were?'
'Just that they were representing the Duncans. That's how they put it. I'm sorry I told them about Dorothy.'
'She did OK,' Reacher said. 'Don't worry about it. She's had bigger troubles in her life.'
'I know.'
'You think the Duncans killed her kid?'
'I would like to. It would fit with what we think we know about them.'
'But?'
'There was no evidence. Absolutely none at all. And it was a very thorough investigation. Lots of different agencies. Very professional. I doubt if they missed anything.'
'So it was just a coincidence?'
'It must have been.'
Reacher said nothing.
Vincent asked, 'What are you going to do now?'
'A couple of things,' Reacher said. 'Maybe three. Then I'm out of here. I'm going to Virginia.'
He walked back out to the lot and climbed into the pick-up truck. He fired it up and took off, out to the road, towards the doctor's house.
TWENTY-THREE
MAHMEINI'S TWO TOUGH GUYS ARRIVED IN SAFIR'S LAS VEGAS office about an hour after Safir's own two tough guys had left it. Mahmeini's men were not physically impressive. No straining shirt collars, no bulging muscles. They were small and wiry, dark and dead-eyed, rumpled, and not very clean.