The reception area at the Riverside Lodge had a double height domed ceiling painted to look like a blue sky with a few fleeting clouds. A chandelier hung down from its highest point. It was suspended directly over the center of a compass motif that was laid into the floor with black and white tile and gold dividers. The counter was made of mahogany. It was so shiny it almost glowed after decades of being polished by maids and getting rubbed by guests checking in and out. Reacher knew the hotel must be involved with computers since Hannah had made their reservation online, but none were visible. There was just a thick ledger, bound in green leather. An old school telephone, made of Bakelite with a brown braided cable. And a brass bell to summon attention when no one was waiting to help.
Reacher tapped the plunger on top of the bell and a moment later a guy scurried out from a back room. He looked like he was maybe twenty-five. He had blond hair, a little long but swept back in a neat, tidy style. He was wearing a gray suit. The creases in the pants were razor sharp. His shirt was pressed and his tie was properly knotted.
The guy said, “How can I assist you this evening?”
Reacher said, “I need two rooms.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No. This is a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Let me see what I can do.” The guy opened the ledger and took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. “How many nights?”
“Let’s start with one. We’ll add more if we need them.”
“No problem. Our standard rate is $85 per night, per room.”
“Let’s say $100, cash, for rooms well away from your other guests.”
The guy glanced left, then right. “We only have three other guests presently. They’re all at the near end of the south wing. How about the two rooms at the far end? You won’t even know the others are there.”
“How about the north wing? Is it empty?”
“It is, but I wouldn’t recommend it. The refurbishment program hasn’t been completed yet.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
“To be honest, the refurb hasn’t actually started. The rooms are a bit of a mess.”
“Are they infested? Is there a health hazard of any kind?”
“No. They’re functional. Just a little on the scruffy side.”
“You could say the same about me.” Reacher glanced at the sign on the wall, which directed guests to the two wings. It showed that rooms 101 through 124 were to the north. “Give me 112. My friend will take 114. Assuming they’re adjacent?”
The guy nodded. “They are. Can I have your names?”
“Ambrose Burnside. Nat Kimball.”
The guy took the cap off his pen but Reacher leaned across and closed the ledger.
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.
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.