No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(71)

Hix said, “The Riverside Lodge. Where Reacher and the woman made a reservation but didn’t show. Did you ask about walk-ins? Anyone paying cash?”

Brockman said, “No. Why would I? We know they didn’t—damn.”

“The penny drops. It’s the perfect misdirect. Or almost perfect, given they’re dealing with me, not you. Find the clerk who was working yesterday evening. They were probably bribed. Or threatened. Or both. Go to their house. Loosen their tongue. And if Reacher is at the Lodge, send Harold and the guys. Immediately. I don’t want this dragging on any longer.”

“I’m on it. And if you think about it, this is good news. If Reacher is at the Riverside Lodge after pulling that kind of shenanigans, the asshole will think he’s safe. Harold’s job will be a lot easier.”



* * *



—

By the time the LED display on the van’s dashboard blinked around to 1:30 a.m. Lev Emerson was sitting in the driver’s seat, in the hotel parking lot up in St. Louis, waiting. Behind him, in the load space, the three old cushions were strapped away in their dedicated space. There was no danger of them getting thrown around in traffic, knocking over chemicals or damaging equipment. Two minutes later Graeber hauled open the passenger door. He had known his boss would want to drive, despite the lack of sleep, so he had taken the time to scare up a large mug of extra-strong coffee. Caffeine and conversation. Enough to keep them on the road all the way to Vicksburg, Mississippi. He hoped.



* * *



—

An hour later, at 2:30 a.m., six men walked through the main entrance of the Riverside Lodge, just outside Winson. First was the clerk who had helped Reacher the previous evening. His feet were bare. He was wearing blue-and-white-striped pajamas and his blond hair was sticking out in all kinds of crazy directions. He was followed by the two Minerva guys who had been sent to Colorado. Next came the two guys who had been keeping watch at the Greyhound station in Jackson. The guy who brought up the rear looked like he was as broad as any two of the others. He was six foot six tall. A good three hundred pounds. His chest and biceps were so big that his arms couldn’t hang straight down at his sides. He had no neck. His head was shaved. His eyes were small mean dots that sank beneath the sharp cliff of his forehead. He had a tattoo on his right forearm that once said Harold & Molly 4ever in a heart, pierced by an arrow. A cut-price attempt at laser removal had left it reading something more like larol oily leve, in an apple.

Harold barged to the front of the group and shoved the kid in the pajamas toward the mahogany counter. The kid scuttled around behind it and took a card key from its drawer. He prodded some buttons on the programming machine, dipped the card in the slot, and held it out. His hand was shaking. He said, “112.” Harold snatched the card and the kid programmed another. He said, “114.” Harold took it, too, and stared at the cards for a moment. Then he punched the kid in the face.

The kid’s body hit the floor and slid until his head was pressed against the side wall. Harold and the other four guys didn’t give him a second glance. They started moving immediately, crossed the deserted reception area, and made their way down the north corridor. One of them continued to room 114. Hannah’s room. The others lined up behind Harold outside 112. Reacher’s room.

Harold held up three fingers.

Then two.

Then one.



* * *



—

At 2:30 a.m. Jed Starmer was fast asleep. He was curled up in the Winson Volunteer Fire Department’s equipment locker at the side of the pond in the woods. The fresh air had taken its toll. So had the physical exertion. And the stress. He was absolutely out for the count.

Jed had no idea that a bobcat had wandered past half an hour earlier. And before that a black bear had been sniffing around. It had been interested in the coil of hose. The gas cans. The containers of foam. But most of all it had been intrigued by the scent escaping from the gap between the sides and the lid. The bear was easily capable of lifting the lid. It could have opened the box even if the latch had been fastened. It was inches away. It was hungry. It was curious. Then the wind changed. The bear turned around. It headed back down the track toward a spot where some teenagers had parked the evening before. They had drunk beer. Eaten burgers. Tossed the wrappers into the undergrowth. And without realizing it, they had saved Jed from the fright of his life.





Chapter 36


Harold touched the key card against the pad on the door to room 112. The mechanism gave a soft click and a small light changed from red to green. Harold slammed down on the handle, shoved the door, and charged into the room like the corridor was on fire. Three guys followed him. The other opened the door to room 114. He was slower with the key. Less violent. More cautious as he stepped inside.

Room 112 followed a standard hotel layout. There was a simple closet to the left, open, with a rail and a shelf above. There was a bathroom opposite it. The room opened up beyond that with a bed and an armchair to the right. Both were loaded with too many pillows. There was a painting of a riverboat on the wall above the headboard. A window straight ahead covered with garish curtains. A desk to the left that did double duty as a dressing table. A mirror on the wall above it. And a carpet, which was threadbare in the places that saw the heaviest traffic.

Harold lumbered around to the bed and stopped. It was empty. He tapped the guy who was following him on the shoulder and pointed to the floor. The guy ducked down and lifted the bed skirt. He peered underneath, then stood back up and shook his head. Harold pointed to the bathroom. The guy nearest to it pulled back his right fist and pushed the door with his left hand. He reached inside. Flicked on the light. Took a half step. Another. Then went all the way in and checked behind the shower curtain that hung in front of the tub.