No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(70)
Reacher said, “$110 per night. You pocket the extra and save yourself the trouble of writing anything down.”
The guy said, “Sorry. Can’t do that.”
“There’s no such word as can’t. You have a simple choice. Pocket fifty dollars for doing absolutely nothing. Or—you don’t want to know about the alternative. Trust me. Be sensible. Take the money.”
The guy was still for a moment. Then he put the cap back on his pen. “It’s $110 every night, if you stay longer. Per room. In cash. To me only. None of my co-workers get to hear about this.”
Reacher counted out $220 and placed the cash on the counter. The guy scooped it up and slipped it into his back pocket. Then he took two white plastic rectangles out of a drawer. “One key each?”
Reacher shook his head. “Two.”
The guy shrugged and pulled out another pair. He poked some buttons on a little machine that was tucked almost out of sight on a low shelf and fed each card in turn into a slot. Then he slid the cards into a pair of cardboard wallets and handed them to Reacher. “Breakfast’s from six till eight. Enjoy your stay.”
* * *
—
Reacher led the way down the north corridor. Hannah followed, towing her suitcase. The even numbers were on the left. The odd numbers were on the right. Halfway along they passed room 112, then stopped outside 114. Reacher handed one cardboard wallet to Hannah. He opened the other and took out both keys. He put them in one back pocket, and slid the wallet into the other, where the keys to the room at the Winson Garden still were.
Hannah worked the lock on her door and said, “I’m going to call Danny Peel. See if he can meet us in the morning before he goes to work.”
Reacher said, “Good idea. And, Hannah—do me one favor. Don’t unpack just yet.”
“Why not? You getting fussy about the state of the décor after all?”
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll explain then.”
* * *
—
Reacher walked back to reception, tapped the bell, and waited for the smart-looking guy to reappear. Then he laid one of the key cards down on the counter.
He said, “This one doesn’t work. Can you reprogram it?”
The guy said, “Did you put it next to your cellphone? Or your credit cards?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, what about the other one?”
“It worked fine. I went into my room. Then I put it down and came out to speak to my friend. I figured I could get back in with this one, but no luck.”
“Weird.” The guy picked up the card. “No problem, though. I can fix it right away.”
Reacher said, “Room 121.”
The guy worked the buttons on the little machine, dipped the key into the slot, and handed it back. Reacher slipped it into his pocket. Then the guy said, “Wait a minute. You’re in 112. I remember because your friend is next door. Room 114.”
Reacher nodded. “Correct. Room 112.”
“You said 121.”
“I’m good with numbers. I know exactly what I said.”
“Well, whatever you said, I programmed it for 121. My mistake, I guess. You better let me have it back. Do it over.”
Reacher shrugged, pulled out the other card, and gave it to the guy. The guy worked the machine again and handed the card back.
The guy said, “I’m really sorry about that. Stupid of me.”
Reacher said, “No problem. Same digits. Easy to mix them up. Forget it even happened.”
* * *
—
The hands on the alarm clock crept around to 1:30 a.m. Friday morning. Bruno Hix was in bed. He had been there for hours. But he hadn’t gotten a moment of sleep. He had just lain there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the stranger who had invaded his town. First, he had thought about the operation to take care of the guy. And his female companion. Harold and the others were going to hit them in their rooms at the hotel. But that had been due to happen at 1:00 a.m. Another half hour had passed. It should have been a simple procedure. He should have heard something. Confirmation that the problem had been eliminated. Unless— Hix’s phone rang. He snatched it up from the nightstand. The display showed Brockman’s number. Hix hit the answer key. “Tell me we got them.”
Brockman said, “It’s better than that. Getting stopped by that cop must have spooked them. They’ve gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“They’re not in their rooms at the Winson Garden. The beds haven’t been touched. And their truck’s not in the lot. They must have sneaked away, somehow.”
“They must be staying somewhere else.”
“Not in Winson. They did have a reservation at the Riverside Lodge, prepaid, in Hannah Hampton’s name, but they didn’t show up. We called all the B&Bs in town and they’re not at any of them. We checked their names and descriptions. They’re nowhere. They’re history. They’re no longer a problem.”
* * *
—
Hix dropped the phone on the pillow and closed his eyes. He breathed freely for the first time that night. He felt his heart rate slow down. He began to drift toward sleep. Then he sat up. He was wide awake again. He grabbed his phone and hit the key to call Brockman back.