Read Online Make Me by Lee Child - Free Book Online

There was a phone number, and the words 200 deaths .
    Reacher asked, “Is this Keever’s handwriting?”
    Chang said, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen Keever’s handwriting. And it isn’t a great sample. So we can’t be certain. Think like a defense attorney. There’s no unbroken chain of custody. Anyone could have left this here. At any time.”

    “Sure,” Reacher said. “But suppose it’s Keever’s. What would it be?”
    “Be? A note, probably made during a phone call. In his office. His spare bedroom, anyway. Maybe an initial contact, or a follow-up call. High stakes, with two hundred deaths, and a phone number, which might be either the client, or a source of independent corroboration. Or a source of further information.”
    “Why would he throw it away?”
    “Because later he wrote it up in longer form, so he didn’t need it anymore. Maybe he was standing here at the mirror, checking himself over, like people do. Maybe he dumped his old Kleenex and took new, and maybe he checked his other pockets at the same time. Maybe he hadn’t used those pants for a while.”
    The phone number’s area code was 323. Reacher said, “Los Angeles, right?”
    Chang nodded and said, “Either a cell or a land line.”
    “Two hundred deaths. That would qualify as serious danger.”
    “If it’s Keever’s. If it was about this current case. It could be anybody’s about anything.”
    “Who else would pass through here with two hundred deaths on his mind?”
    “Who says they did? Even if it’s Keever’s, it could have been an old case. Or a different case. Or it could have been a liability lawyer a year ago, chasing ambulances. How could there even be two hundred deaths here? That’s twenty percent of the population. Someone would have noticed. You wouldn’t need a private investigator.”
    “Let’s call the number,” Reacher said. “Let’s see who answers.”
    —
    Reacher locked up the room, and they went down the metal stairs, and a hundred feet away the one-eyed guy came out of his office and bustled across toward them, waving and gesturing. When he arrived he said, “Excuse me, sir, but 215 is not your registered room.”

    Reacher said, “Then amend your register. The room was paid for by an associate of ours, and I’m going to be using it until he returns.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    “No such word.”
    “How did you get the key?”
    “I found it under a bush. Just lucky, I guess.”
    “This is not allowed.”
    “Then call the cops,” Reacher said.
    The guy said nothing. He just huffed and puffed for a moment, and then he turned around and headed back, without another word.
    Chang said, “Suppose he does call the cops?”
    “He won’t,” Reacher said. “He would have made a big point of telling us he was about to, yes sir, right there and then. Plus the cops are probably fifty miles away. Or a hundred. They wouldn’t come out for a room that was already paid for. Plus if these people have something to hide, the last thing they’ll do is call the cops.”
    “What will he do instead?”
    “I’m sure we’ll find out.”
    They stepped out to the wide street and walked past the front of the diner, to the general store. The sun was up and the town was quiet. No activity, and no big crowds. There was a pick-up truck fifty yards ahead, making a turn into a side street. There was a kid throwing a tennis ball against a wall, and hitting the rebound with a stick. Like baseball practice. He was pretty good. Maybe he should have his picture in a magazine. There was a FedEx truck crossing the rails on the old trail, and heading into town.
    The general store was a classic rural building, a plain flat-roofed structure end-on to the street, with a fancy gabled frontage made of lap boards painted dull red. There was a sign, painted in circus letters colored gold: Mother’s Rest Dry Goods . There was a single door, and a single window, which was small, and purely for light, rather than for the