No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(13)

Reacher waited for the guy to uncurl himself a little then said, “Who do you work for?”

The guy shook his head.

Reacher stamped on the guy’s right knee. He screamed, long and loud.

Reacher said, “I can go on all night. Can you? The other two. Where are they?”

The guy said, “They left town.”

“Where are they going?”

“Home. Winson, Mississippi.”

“Why did you stay?”

“We were told to find you.”

“Why?”

“Find out what you know.”

“About?”

The light filtering through the drapes switched from dull gray to pulsing red and blue. Reacher peered out of the window. There were two police cars in the parking lot. One outside his room. One at the far end. An officer was already on foot, heading for the office. To talk to the clerk. To check on numbers and dispositions. And to get a passkey. None of those things would take long. Reacher figured he had sixty seconds at best. He hauled the first guy up onto his feet and turned him so that his back was to the door. He punched the side of the guy’s head and let him fall to the floor again. He grabbed the second guy. Pulled him away from the wall. Smashed the back of his head into the floor. Pinched one of his earlobes to make sure he was unconscious. Dragged him forward until his feet were almost touching the first guy’s. They were lying like the hands of a clock at close to 3:00 p.m. He wiped his prints off the first guy’s gun and tossed it onto the floor. Went into the bathroom. Opened the window. And climbed out.

The area at the back of the hotel was not promising. There was a small pool and a bunch of white plastic lounging chairs all surrounded by a rickety wooden fence. It was eight feet tall. Ancient. No way would it take his weight. The only way out was through the office, and a pair of cops would be coming the other way any second. Two at the front. Two at the back. That was the obvious way to do it. He was trapped. And there was nowhere to hide. Not at ground level, anyway.

Reacher moved back to his bathroom window and lifted one foot onto the sill. He pushed up and grabbed the edge of the roof. Pulled with his arms. Scrambled over the lip. Rolled to the center. And lay completely still. He heard footsteps on both sides of the building. They were close. The ones at the front stopped moving. Someone thumped on the door.

“Gerrardsville Police Department. Open up.”

The officers at the rear were poking around the pool furniture. One of them took a chair and set it next to the fence. He climbed up and looked over and quartered the area on the far side with his flashlight. Then he jumped down and called, “Clear.”

Reacher heard the whirr of the lock and then a thump as the door to his room hit one of the unconscious guy’s heels. There was a pause, the door closed, then he heard the cop’s voice through the bathroom window. It sounded like he was on his radio.

“We have two male suspects, nonresponsive. Two guns secured at the scene.”

A second voice said, “Looks like they got into it over something. Got into it pretty good. No ID. No smell of booze. Better send a bus right away.”

The first voice came back, quieter. “They can stay in the hospital overnight. The detective can question them in the morning, if he wants to. We better seal this place, just in case.”



* * *



—

Reacher lay on the roof and watched an ambulance arrive. A pair of paramedics rolled the two guys out on gurneys, loaded them up, and drove off. The cops left a couple of minutes later. Reacher stayed where he was for another hour, until he was satisfied that there were no cops lurking and no nosey guests snooping around. Then he climbed down and walked to the office. A couple was leaving as he went in. They looked young. Flushed. Happy. And a little bit furtive.

The same guy was at the counter, wearing the same ridiculous clothes and looking just as sickly and malnourished. He saw Reacher and said, “You’re OK?”

Reacher said, “I’m fine. Why?”

“The cops let you out already?”

“They never took me in. I went for a walk. Came back and found my door sealed up with crime scene tape. What’s that all about?”

“It wasn’t my fault. Two guys came. Made me give them a passkey.”

“Then you dialed 911?”

“I guess the guy in 11 did that. He’s a real asshole.”

“I told you I didn’t want any neighbors.”

The guy pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Reacher. “He comes here all the time. With his girlfriend. She’s also an asshole. That’s their favorite room. He insisted. I’m sorry.”

Reacher handed the twenty back. “Give me another room. No one on either side. And this time, no excuses.”





Chapter 11


Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.

That’s what Lev Emerson was told by his father, years ago when he was still in high school. It wasn’t an original concept. It wasn’t the result of radical new thinking. But nonetheless, the advice was sound. Old Mr. Emerson had followed it himself. He had died happy at the age of seventy-four, at his workbench, after a lifetime making ladies’ hats in the corner of a little workshop in Brooklyn. Lev Emerson walked the same talk. Just as enthusiastically. Although it led him down a path his father could never have anticipated.