No Middle Name: The Complete Collected Jack Reacher Short Stories

No Room at the Motel

It was snowing when Reacher got out of the bus, in a part of America where it didn’t snow often. It was late in the afternoon, and the street lights were on. People looked both excited and anxious at the unaccustomed weather. There was about six inches of slushy pack on the ground, and the flurries were coming down hard. Some folks looked itching to go sledding or snowballing, and others looked convinced the power was about to go out and vehicular transportation was about to become impossible for months. Context, Reacher thought. What was a mere sprinkle by northern standards was a big deal in the South.

He sloshed his way across the sidewalk to a humped patch of what he guessed was grass. Like a village green, with a flagpole, which had a frozen and matted Stars and Stripes hanging limply from it. The town was a mile from the interstate highway, and knew it. It was all gas stations and fast food and inns and motels. A pit stop, nothing more, all geared to what random travelers wanted. Especially that day. Already cars were pulling off and splashing through the downtown slush, searching for a place to stay an unexpected night. Anything to avoid certain death in the raging blizzard ahead.

Context, Reacher thought again. And melodrama. He figured he better snag a room before the panic turned into a rush. He had seen news video from time to time, of stranded travelers sprawled in motel lobbies. No room at the inn.

Which made him remember it was Christmas Eve. December twenty-fourth.

He chose the cheapest-looking place, which was a falling-down motel next to a Shell station big enough for eighteen-wheel trucks. It was a twelve-room dump with ten already taken, which made Reacher think maybe the rush had already started. The place could have been no one’s first choice. It wasn’t The Ritz. That was for sure.

He paid cash and got a key and walked along the row to his room, all hunched under his collar to ward off the blowing snow. Ten rooms had cars parked outside, all rimed with snow and streaked with salt, all with plates from states to the south, all laden with luggage and packages. Families, Reacher guessed, aiming to get together for the holidays, their journeys interrupted, their plans ruined, their gifts undelivered.

He unlocked his door and stepped into his room, which looked adequate in every respect. There was a bed and a bathroom. Even a chair. He shook meltwater off his shoes and sat down, and watched the flurries through a fogged window, as they whirled through yellow halos of vapor light. He figured drivers would be chickening out in waves. But they would look for accommodation first, not food, which meant the diners wouldn’t crowd out for another couple of hours. He switched on the bedside light and took a paperback book from his pocket.

Ninety minutes later he was in a diner, waiting for a cheeseburger. The place was filling up and service was slow. There was a kind of manic energy in the room, from a lot of forced high spirits. Folks were trying to convince themselves they were having an adventure. Eventually his food came and he ate. The place got more and more crowded. People were coming in and just standing there, somehow defeated. The motels were full, Reacher realized. No more room at the inn. People were eyeing the diner floor. Like in the news footage. He ordered peach pie and black coffee, and settled in to wait for it.

He walked back to the motel pretty late in the evening. The snow was still coming down, but lighter. Tomorrow would be a better day. He turned in at the motel office and stopped short, to avoid walking straight into a very pregnant woman. She was with a guy, huddled aimlessly, and she had been crying.

An idling car stood by, an old three-door, rimed with snow and streaked with salt, and full of luggage and packages.

No room at the inn.

Reacher said, “Are you guys OK?”

The man said nothing, and the woman said, “Not exactly.”

“Can’t get a room?”

“The whole town is full.”

“Should have kept on going,” Reacher said. “The weather is letting up.”

“I made him pull off. I was worried.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

The woman didn’t answer, and the man said, “I guess we’ll sleep in the car.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“What choice do we have?”

Reacher said, “When is the baby due?”

“Soon.”

Reacher said, “I’ll trade.”

“What for what?”

“I’ll sleep in your car, and you can have my room.”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“I’ve slept in cars before. But never while pregnant. I imagine that wouldn’t be easy.”

Neither the man or the woman spoke. Reacher took his key out of his pocket and said, “Take it or leave it.”

The woman said, “You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be just fine.”

And then they all stood around for a minute more, shuffling in the cold, but soon enough the woman took the key, and she and her partner crabbed away to the room, a little embarrassed but basically very happy, wanting to look back but not letting themselves. Reacher called a happy Christmas after them, and they turned and wished him the same. Then they went inside, and Reacher turned away.

He didn’t sleep in their car. He walked over to the Shell station instead, and found a guy with a tanker with five thousand gallons of milk in it. Which had a use-by date. And the weather was clearing. The guy was willing to go for it, and Reacher went with him.