Make Me

“Possible,” Westwood said. “Bad guys have done that for years, to stop the government building a case. And these days citizens are learning to do the same thing. Especially the kind of citizens who call newspapers with hot tips about conspiracies. Such is the modern world.”

He dialed the third number. Another cell, according to the list of area codes, this one in Idaho.

And this one was answered.

A guy’s voice came over the speakers, loud and clear. It said, “Hello?”

Westwood sat up straight, and spoke to the screen. He said, “Good morning, sir. This is Ashley Westwood, from the LA Times, returning your call.”

“It is?”

“I apologize for the delay. I had some checking to do. But now I agree. What you told me has to be exposed. So I need to ask you some questions.”

“Well, yes, sure, that would be great.”

The voice was pitched closer to alto than tenor, and it was a little fast and shaky with nerves. A thin guy, Reacher thought, always quivering and vibrating. Thirty-five, maybe, or younger, but not much older. Could be Idaho born and bred, but probably wasn’t.

Westwood said, “First I need to start with a trust-builder. I need you to confirm the name of the private detective you hired.”

The voice said, “The name of the what?”

“The private detective.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did you hire a private detective?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it has to be stopped.”

“What does?”

“What you told me about.”

“A private detective would be no good for that. They’d do the same to him they do to everyone else. As soon as they saw him. I mean, literally. I told you, it’s a line of sight thing. No one can avoid it. You don’t understand. The beam cannot be beaten.”

“So you didn’t hire a private detective?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you use another cell phone, with a 501 area code?”

“No, I don’t.”

Westwood hung up on him without another word. He said, “I think I remember that guy. Apparently our minds are being controlled by beams.”

Reacher said, “What kind of beams?”

“Mind-controlling beams. They come off the bottom of civilian airliners. The FAA requires them. That’s why they charge for checked bags now, so people will use carry-on instead, which leaves more space in the hold for the equipment. And the operator. He’s down there too, like an old-fashioned bomb aimer, zapping people. The guy in Idaho won’t go out unless it’s cloudy. He says obviously the flyover states are especially vulnerable. All part of the elitist conspiracy.”

“Except the most-flown-over state is nowhere near Idaho.”

“Where is it?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“Really?”

Chang said, “Yes, really, because there’s a lot of regular East Coast traffic, plus all the shuttles between D.C. and New York and Boston. Now can we move on? Can we dial the next number?”

Westwood dialed the next number, which was the fourth, which was 901 for Memphis. The first land line, probably. They heard the dialing noises, and then the ring tone, loud in the room.

The call was answered.

There was a hollow clonk as a heavy handset was lifted, and a male voice said, “Yes?”

Westwood sat up straight again, and ran through the same bullshit as before, his name, the LA Times, the returned call, the apology for the delay.

The voice said, “Sir, I’m not sure I understand.”

The guy was old, Reacher figured, slow-spoken and courtly, and if he wasn’t from Memphis, he was from somewhere very close by.

Westwood said, “You called me at the LA Times, two or three months ago, with something on your mind.”

The old guy said, “Sir, if I did, I surely have no recollection of it. And if I offended you in any way at all, why then, certainly I apologize.”

“No, you didn’t offend me, sir. No apology required. I want to know more about your concerns. That’s all.”

“Oh, I have very few concerns. My situation is blessed.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“I really can’t answer that question. I’m not even certain I did.”

Westwood glanced at Chang, and back to the screen, and took a breath ready to speak again, but there was a muffled sound on the speaker, and another clonk, apparently as the handset was wrestled away, because at that point a woman’s voice came on the line and said, “Who is this, please?”

Westwood said, “Ashley Westwood, ma’am, at the LA Times, returning a call from this number.”

“A recent call?”

“Two or three months ago.”

“That will have been my husband.”

“May I speak with him?”

“You just were.”

“I see. He didn’t remember the call.”

“He wouldn’t. Two or three months is a very long time.”

“Would you have any idea what the call might have been about?”

“Don’t you?”

Westwood didn’t answer.

The woman said, “I’m not judging you. If I could tune him out, I would. Are you a political writer or a science writer?”

Westwood said, “Science.”

“Then it will have been about granite countertops being radioactive. That’s this year’s topic. Which they are, as a matter of fact, but it’s a question of degree. I’m sure he asked you to write a story about it. You and many others.”

“Do you know how many others?”