by Lee Child
Then you turn the car around and idle back through the lot, checking it out, and your smile dies. You don’t like it. You don’t like it at all. It’s completely overlooked. Every storefront has a direct view. It’s badly lit now, but you’re thinking about daylight. So you drive around behind the arm of the C, and your smile comes back again. There’s a single row of overspill parking back there, facing plain painted delivery doors in the back walls of the stores. No windows. You stop the car and look around. A complete circle. This is your place. No doubt about it. It’s perfect.
Then you drive back into the main lot and you park up alongside a small group of other vehicles. You kill the motor and wait. You watch the through road. You wait and watch ten minutes, and then you see the Bureau Buick heading by, not fast, not slow, reporting for duty.
“Have a nice night,” you whisper.
Then you start your car again and wind around the parking lot and drive off in the opposite direction.
LEIGHTON RECOMMENDED A motel a mile down Route 1 toward Trenton. He said it was where the prisoners’ visitors stayed, it was cheap, it was clean, it was the only place for miles around and he knew the phone number. Harper drove, and they found it easily enough. It looked fine from the outside, and it had plenty of vacancies.
“Number twelve is a nice double,” the desk clerk said.
Harper nodded.
“OK, we’ll take it,” she said.
“We will?” Reacher said. “A double?”
“Talk about it later,” she said.
She paid cash and the desk guy handed over a key.
“Number twelve,” he said again. “Down the row a piece.”
Reacher walked through the rain, and Harper brought the car. She parked it in front of the cabin and found Reacher waiting at the door.
“What?” she said. “It’s not like we’re going to sleep, is it? We’re just waiting for Leighton to call. May as well do that in here as in the car.”
He just shrugged and waited for her to unlock the door. She opened up and went inside. He followed.
“I’m too excited to sleep, anyway,” she said.
It was a standard motel room, familiar and comforting. It was overheated and the rain was loud on the roof. There were two chairs and a table at the far end of the room by a window. Reacher walked through and sat in the right-hand chair. Put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Kept very still. Harper moved around, restlessly.
“We’ve got him, you know that?” she said.
Reacher said nothing.
“I should call Blake, give him the good news,” Harper said.
Reacher shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Let Leighton finish up. Quantico gets involved at this point, they’ll pull him off. He’s only a captain. They’ll haul in some two-star asshole, and he’ll never get near the facts for the bullshit. Leave it with Leighton, let him get the glory.”
She was in the bathroom, looking at the rack of towels and the bottles of shampoo and the packets of soap. She came out and took her jacket off. Reacher looked away.
“It’s perfectly safe,” she said. “I’m wearing a bra.”
Reacher said nothing.
“What?” she asked. “Something’s on your mind.”
“It is?”
She nodded. “Sure it is. I can tell. I’m a woman. I’m intuitive.”
He looked straight at her. “Truth is I don’t especially want to be alone in a room with you and a bed.”
She smiled, happily, mischievously. “Tempted?”
“I’m only human.”
“So am I,” she said. “If I can control myself, I’m sure you can.”
He said nothing.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said.
“Christ,” he muttered.
IT’S A STANDARD motel room, like a thousand you’ve seen coast to coast. Doorway, bathroom on the right, closet on the left, queen bed, dresser, table and two chairs. Old television, ice bucket, awful pictures on the wall. You hang your coat in the closet, but you keep your gloves on. No need to leave fingerprints all over the place. No real possibility of them ever finding the room, but you’ve built your whole life on being careful. The only time you take your gloves off is when you’re washing, and motel bathrooms are safe enough. You check out at eleven, and by twelve a maid is spraying cleaner all over every surface and wiping everything with a wet cloth. Nobody ever found a meaningful fingerprint in a motel bathroom.
You walk through the room and you sit in the left-hand chair. You lean back, you close your eyes, and you start to think. Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. You plan the timing by working backward. You need dark before you can get out. That’s the fundamental consideration. That drives everything else. But you want the daytime cop to find her. You accept that’s just a whim on your part, but hey, if you can’t brighten things up with a little whimsy, what kind of life is that? So you need to be out after dark, but before the cop’s last bathroom break. That specifies a pretty exact time, somewhere between six and six-thirty. Call it five-forty, for a margin. No, call it five-thirty, because you really need to be back in position to see the cop’s face.
OK, five-thirty. Twilight, not really dark, but it’s acceptable. The longest time you spent in any of the previous places was twenty-two minutes. In principle this one won’t be any longer, but you’re going to allow a full half hour. So you need to be inside and started by five. Then you think it through from her point of view, and it’s pretty clear you need to be making the phone call at about two o’clock.
So, check out of this dump before eleven, you’re over there before twelve, you wait and watch, you make the call at two. It’s decided. You open your eyes and stand up. Undress and use the bathroom. Pull back the covers and slide into bed, wearing nothing but your gloves.
HARPER CAME OUT of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. Her face was scrubbed and her hair was wet. Under the weight of the water, it hung down past her waist. Without makeup, her face looked vulnerable. Cornflower-blue eyes, white teeth, cheekbones, skin. She looked about fourteen, except she was more than six feet tall. And that kind of height made a standard-issue motel towel seriously deficient in terms of length.
“I think I better call Blake,” she said. “I should really check in.”
“Don’t tell him anything,” Reacher said. “I mean it, things will spin out of control.”
She nodded. “I’ll just tell him we’re close.”
He shook his head. “Vaguer than that, OK? Just say we’re seeing some guy tomorrow who might have something connected.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said. She sat down at the mirror. The towel rode up. She started looking at her hair.
“Can you get my phone out of my pocketbook for me?” she called.
He walked to the bed and slipped his hand into her bag. Things in there released faint fragrance as they moved. He found the phone and slipped it out and carried it over to her.
“Be real vague, OK?” he said again.
She nodded and opened the phone.
“Don’t worry,” she said.
“I guess I’ll shower too.”
She smiled. “Enjoy. I won’t come in, I promise.”
He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Harper’s clothes were hanging from the hook on the back. All of them. The underwear was white and lacy. He thought about setting the shower icy cold, but decided to rely on willpower alone. So he set it hot and stripped off his clothes. Dumped them in a pile on the floor. Took the folding toothbrush from his jacket pocket and cleaned his teeth with plain water. Then he stood under the shower and washed with the same soap and shampoo Harper had used. He stood for a long time, trying to relax. Then he gave it up and turned the handle to cold. He held it there, gasping. One minute. Two. Then he shut it off and groped for a towel.
She knocked on the door.
“Are you done?” she called. “I need my clothes.”
>
He unfolded the towel and wrapped it around his waist.
“OK, come in,” he called.
“Just pass them out,” she called back.
He bunched them into his hand and lifted them off the hook. Cracked the door and passed them through. She took them and walked away. He toweled himself almost dry and dressed, awkward in the narrow space. Combed his hair with his fingers. He stood still for a minute. Then he rattled the door handle and came out. She was standing by the bed, wearing some of her clothes. The rest of them were folded over the back of the dresser chair. Her hair was combed back. Her phone was closed, lying next to the ice bucket.
“What did you tell him?” he asked.
“Just what you said. We’re meeting some guy in the morning, noting specific.”
She was wearing the shirt, but the tie was draped over the chair. So was the bra. And the suit trousers.
“He have anything to say?” he asked.
“Poulton’s in Spokane,” she said. “The Hertz thing came to nothing, just some woman on business. But the UPS guy is coming through with stuff. They’re talking tonight, but they’re three hours behind, so we won’t hear anything until morning, probably. But they identified the date from the baseball thing and UPS is pulling the records.”
"Won’t say LaSalle Kruger on the paperwork, that’s for sure.”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? We found him.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her back to him.
“Thanks to you,” she said. “You were absolutely right, a smart guy with a good solid plain-vanilla motive. ”
She stood up again, restless. Paced the small area between the bed and the table. She was wearing the underpants. He could see that, through the shirttails. Her ass was wonderful. Her legs were lean. And long. Her feet were small and delicate, for her height.
“We should celebrate,” she said.
Reacher propped the pillows on the far side of the bed and leaned back against them. Looked up at the ceiling and concentrated on the sound of the rain battering on the roof.
“No room service in a place like this,” he said.
She turned to face him. The first two buttons on her shirt were undone. Thing like that, the effect depends on how far apart the buttons are. If they’re close together, it doesn’t mean much. But these were well spaced out, maybe three or four inches between each of them.
“It’s Jodie, isn’t it?” she said.
He nodded. “Of course it is.”
“Wasn’t for her, you’d want to, right?”
“I do want to,” he said.
Then he paused.
“But I won’t,” he said. “Because of her.”
She looked at him, and then she smiled.
“I like that in a guy, I guess,” she said.
He said nothing.
“Steadfastness,” she said.
He said nothing. There was silence. Just the sound of the rain on the roof, relentless and insistent.
“It’s an attractive characteristic,” she said.
He looked at the ceiling.
“Not that you’re short of attractive characteristics,” she said.
He listened to the rain. She sighed, just a tiny sound. She moved away, just an inch. But enough to ease the crisis.
“So you’re going to stick around New York,” she said.
He nodded again. “That’s the plan.”
“She’ll be pissed about the house. Her father willed it to you.”
“She might be,” he said. “But she’ll have to deal with it. The way I see it, he left me a choice, more than anything. The house, or the money I’d get for it. My choice. He knew what I was like. He wouldn’t be surprised. Or upset either.”
“But it’s an emotional issue.”
“I don’t see why,” he said. “It wasn’t her childhood home or anything. They never really lived there. She didn’t grow up there. It’s just a wooden building.”
“It’s an anchor. That’s how she sees it.”
“That’s why I’m selling it.”
“Therefore naturally she’ll worry.”
He shrugged. “She’ll learn. I’ll stick around, house or no house.”
The room went quiet again. The rain was easing. She sat down on the bed, opposite him. Tucked her bare knees up under her.
“I still feel like celebrating,” she said.
She put her hand palm down in the space between them and leaned over.
“Celebration kiss,” she whispered. “Nothing more, I promise.”
He looked at her and reached around with his left arm and pulled her close. Kissed her on the lips. She put her hand behind his head and pushed her fingers into his hair. Tilted her head and opened her mouth. He felt her tongue on his teeth. In his mouth. He closed his eyes. Her tongue was urgent. Deep in his mouth. It felt good. He opened his eyes and saw hers, too close to focus on. They were shut tight. He let her go and pulled away, full of guilt.
“Something I need to tell you,” he said.
She was breathless, and her hair was a mess.
“What?”
“I’m not being straight with you,” he said.
“How not?”
“I don’t think Kruger’s our guy.”
“What?”
There was silence. They were inches apart, on the bed. Her hand was still laced behind his head, in his hair.
“He’s Leighton’s guy,” Reacher said. “I don’t think he’s ours. I never really did.”
“What? You always did. This was your theory, Reacher. Why back away from it now?”
“Because I didn’t really mean it, Harper. I was just thinking aloud. Bullshitting, basically. I’m very surprised there even is such a guy.”
She pulled her hand away, astonished.
“But this was your theory,” she said again.
He shrugged. “I just made it up. I didn’t mean any of it. I just wanted some kind of a plausible excuse to get me out of Quantico for a spell.”
She stared at him. “You made it up? You didn’t mean it?”
He shrugged. “It was halfway convincing, I guess. But I didn’t believe in it.”
“So why the hell say it?”
“I told you. I just wanted to get out of there. To give myself time to think. And it was an experiment. I wanted to see who would support it and who would oppose it. I wanted to see who really wants this thing solved.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“We all want it solved,” she said.
“Poulton opposed it,” Reacher said.
She stared at him, from a foot away.
“What is this to you? A game?” she said.
He said nothing. She was silent, a minute, two, three.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said. “There are lives at stake here.”
Then there was pounding at the door. Loud, insistent knocking. She pulled away from him. He let her go and put his feet on the floor and stood up. Ran his hand through his hair and walked toward the door. A new barrage started up. A heavy hand, knocking hard.
“OK,” he called. “I’m coming.”
The pounding stopped. He opened the door. There was an Army Chevrolet parked at an angle outside the room. Leighton was standing on the stoop, his hand raised, his jacket open, raindrops on the shoulders.
“Kruger’s our guy,” he said.
He pushed past, inside the room. Saw Harper buttoning her shirt.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“It’s hot in here,” she said, looking away.
Leighton looked down at the bed, like he was surprised.
“He’s our guy, for sure,” he said. “Everything fits like a glove.”
Harper’s mobile started ringing. It was over by the ice bucket, on the dresser, squawking like an alarm clock. Leighton paused. Gestured I can wait. Harper scrambled over the bed and flipped the phone open. Reac
her heard a voice, feathery and distorted and faraway. Harper listened to it and Reacher watched the color drain out of her face. Watched her close the phone and put it down like it was fragile as crystal.
“We’re recalled to Quantico,” she said. “Effective immediately. Because they got Caroline Cooke’s full record. You were right, she was all over the place. But she was never anywhere near weapons. Not ever. Not within a million miles, not for a minute.”
“That’s what I’m here to tell you,” Leighton said. “Kruger’s our guy, but he isn’t yours.”
Reacher just nodded.
26
LEIGHTON WALKED THE length of the room and sat down at the table, in the right-hand chair. Same chair as Reacher had used. He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Same gesture.
“First thing, there was no list,” he said. He looked up at Harper. “You asked me to check thefts where the women worked, so I needed a list of the women to do that, obviously, so I tried to find one, but I couldn’t, OK? So I made some calls, and what happened was when your people came to us a month ago, we had to generate a list from scratch. It was a pain in the ass, trawling through all the records. So some guy had a bright idea, took a shortcut, called one of the women herself, some bullshit pretext. We think it was actually Alison Lamarr, and she supplied the list. Seems they’d set up a big support group among themselves, couple of years ago.”
“Scimeca called them her sisters,” Reacher said. “Remember that? She said four of my sisters are dead.”
“It was their own list?” Harper said.
“We didn’t have one,” Leighton said again. “And then Kruger’s records started coming in, and the dates and places didn’t match. Not even close.”