No Plan B

Chapter 33

Hannah was the one with a credit card so she took care of the check-in process at the Winson Garden. Reacher was the one with the suspicious nature so he kept watch over the parking lot. The cop was the one with the orders to observe the stranger so he parked where he had a good view of the hotel’s entrance. Where he could make sure the stranger and his unexpected companion did go in. And didn’t come back out.

When she was done with the form filling and the bill paying, Hannah wheeled her suitcase across the reception area and handed a card key in a little cardboard wallet to Reacher. He took it and slipped it into his back pocket. Almost immediately a phone rang on the counter behind them.

The desk clerk answered it after one ring. “Winson Garden, Winson’s premier guest accommodations. How may I be of assistance today?” He listened for a moment then said in a much quieter voice, almost a whisper, “Yes, Officer. The woman did. The name on her card is Hannah Hampton. Her home address is in Gerrardsville, Colorado. She paid for two people. Two rooms. One night.” Then he nodded to no one in particular and dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

Reacher could feel the desk clerk staring at him. He could practically hear what the guy was thinking. He was wondering why the police were interested in these particular guests. Whether he would have a story to tell in the morning. And whether there would be any kind of a mess to clear up.

It took the Minerva IT guy ten seconds to get Bruno Hix’s computer display set up the way he wanted it.

The guy had been forced to leave his cats to eat their dinner alone. He had been made to come back to the prison on his own time. And he had still brought his A game. No one could have solved the problem more quickly or efficiently. That was for sure. So he couldn’t understand why the big boss seemed even more annoyed when the job was finished than he had been at the start.

The guy was part offended, part confused. He had done a great job, which wasn’t appreciated, but he must also have committed some kind of appalling faux pas. Hix’s attitude made that obvious. The problem was, he had no idea what he’d done that was so bad. He started to summon the courage to ask Hix what the problem was, but before he could speak one of his mother’s favorite expressions started to echo in his head: When you’re in a hole, stop digging. He figured that meant the smart move would be to get out of the office before he made things any worse, so he muttered a vague apology and hurried to the door. He pulled it open, glanced back at Hix, and almost blundered straight into Damon Brockman, who was heading the opposite way.

Brockman waited for the IT guy to scurry off down the corridor then said, “Good news. We just dodged a bullet.”

Hix switched off his computer monitor and said, “We did? How?”

“Our guys not intercepting Reacher at the truck stop? Or at the construction zone? That was a blessing in disguise. Turns out Reacher’s not working alone. He has a partner. A woman. If our guys had put Reacher on ice the way we told them to, we wouldn’t know anything about her. She’d still be out there, invisible, free to do who knows what tomorrow.”

“How did you find out?”

“One of Moseley’s guys spotted the truck Reacher was using. Just outside of town. He pulled it over, expecting to find Reacher on his own, but a woman was driving. Reacher was in the passenger seat.”

“The cop found Reacher? Where is he now?”

“At the Winson Garden. With the woman.”

“You sure?”

Brockman nodded. “The cop directed them there. Followed them. Confirmed they checked in.”

Hix drummed his fingers on the desktop, then said, “What about this woman? Who is she? What do we know about her?”

“The cop got her ID. Her name’s Hannah Hampton. She’s Sam Roth’s ex-wife. She told the cop they were still close. Before he died. That she had permission to use his truck.”

Hix got up, crossed to the window, and looked out through the fence toward the curved parking lot. “I don’t get it. We thought Reacher was only involved because of some fluky chance encounter.”

“Right.”

“We bought into the idea he just happened to be in Gerrardsville. Saw what happened to Angela St. Vrain. Stuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“That is what happened.”

“Then how come he’s hooked up with Sam Roth’s widow? That can’t be a coincidence.”

Brockman shrugged. “Reacher stuck his nose in a bit deeper. That’s all. He heard about Roth’s death. He decided it didn’t pass the smell test. So he started to dig. It’s natural he would talk to Roth’s widow. Especially given that she found the body.”

“What if there’s another explanation? We didn’t know Roth was close to his ex. It didn’t cross my mind. All the divorced people I know hate their exes. I certainly do. I’d happily grind both of mine into hamburger meat and feed them to the dogs if I could get away with it.”

“I know you would. But what does it matter who Roth was close to?”

“People confide in the people they’re close to. What if Roth told his ex what Angela had told him? What if the three of them figured out what’s going to happen tomorrow? They would know they couldn’t go to the police. So maybe they hired Reacher. He could have been in Gerrardsville specifically to meet them. Not because of some random chance. Our whole theory could be way off the mark.”

“I don’t see it. Why would they hire Reacher? How would they know about him? And how would they get hold of him? The guy’s a drifter.”

“Is he? Maybe he just wants people to think that. As cover. He’s a retired cop. Lots of those guys set up as private detectives when they turn in their badges.”

“He was an MP. Not a regular cop.”

“So what? Same skill set. And he’s capable. That’s clear. Ask the guys we sent after him.”

Brockman shrugged. “OK. Say you’re right. He came here because the woman hired him. What difference does it make?”

“The difference is that we now have two people to take care of.”

“Which is no biggie. We know exactly where they both are. The only question is whether to stick Harold and the boys on them in their rooms while they sleep, or wait till the morning and jump them when they come outside.”

“Do it in their rooms. As soon as possible. Have the bodies brought out on gurneys, in case there are any other guests snooping around.”

“I’ll set it up with Harold.”

“Good. And in the meantime, who’s watching the hotel?”

“The cop.”

“Too obvious. Send one of our guys.”

“We haven’t got anyone. Only the guys we sent to Jackson and they’ve been working since 3:00 a.m. We need them to back Harold up, tonight. Better for them to grab some rest. Come back fresh.”

“If Reacher sees a patrol car out front, he’ll know something’s up. He’ll–”

“If Reacher was watching he’d have seen the patrol car leave. I had Moseley send his guy back, and tell him to stay out of sight. On the street.”

“Send him back? He left?”

“Only for a minute. He’s supposed to be on patrol. He started to go back out. Reported to Moseley. Moseley called me. I took care of it.”

“You sure?”

Brockman nodded. “Moseley had his guy check with the hotel when he got back on station. The clerk confirmed he saw Reacher and the woman heading to the elevators. He was certain they hadn’t come down. He swore he would have noticed if they’d come back through reception. He knew the police were interested in them after the first phone call so he was extra vigilant.”

“OK. Just make sure Harold knows he has two targets now. And tell him to take the insurance with him. The envelope. He needs to make sure it’s somewhere Reacher will find it if he comes out on top.”

“Harold won’t like that. He’ll think it shows you don’t have faith in him.”

“Why would I give a rat’s ass what Harold thinks? Tell him anyway.”

“You’d give more than a rat’s ass if you’d seen the size of him. He’s not the kind of guy you want mad at you. Whether you’re the CEO or not.”

Reacher had waited for the police car to pull a wide, lazy turn and disappear toward the center of town. Then he started along the corridor that led to the elevators and the guest rooms. Hannah followed, still towing her suitcase. They passed the elevators and continued to the end of the corridor. To the emergency exit. A sign said the door was alarmed. Reacher was annoyed by that. An inanimate object couldn’t experience trepidation. It was a ridiculous proposition. And if the claim was meant as a warning, that didn’t work, either. The hotel’s owners wanted to keep costs to a minimum. The desk clerk’s ill-fitting uniform made that clear. So did the generic prints on the walls. The coarse carpet on the floor. The flimsy handles on the bedroom doors. The kind of people who were satisfied with such low-level junk wouldn’t want to get fined for false alarms. There was too much risk that a drunken guest would take a wrong turn and blunder into the latch. Or a smoker would sneak out for a crafty cigarette. Or someone would want to get outside without being seen. Someone like Reacher or Hannah.

Reacher pushed the release bar. The door swung open. No lights flashed. No klaxons sounded.

If you don’t want a thing to come back and bite you in the ass, do it yourself.

That was a principle Curtis Riverdale had lived by his whole career. It meant more hours with his sleeves rolled up, for sure, but it had been worthwhile. It had always served him well. In the past. But that afternoon, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

Riverdale had made the arrangements for the next day’s ceremony himself, as usual. He had lined up the outdoor seating. The temporary fences. The podium for the TV cameras. Refreshments for the journalists. The stage, for Bruno Hix to strut and preen. A tent to shroud the prison’s entrance, for security. Fierce-looking guards to be seen in the watchtowers. And the protestors. He was sure not to forget about them.

Riverdale had covered all the bases. He had double-checked everything, personally. But something else was worrying him. He’d just gotten word from his old buddy Rod Moseley, the chief of police. Reacher had made it all the way to the town. Reacher was a wild card. A factor Riverdale could not control. And a lack of control was kryptonite to a guy whose whole world was shaped by rules and procedures and timetables. Plus fences and cell blocks and steel bars.

Riverdale’s fingers moved subconsciously to his chest. They traced the outline of an object beneath his undershirt. A key. It hung from a chain he wore around his neck. The chain was fine enough to be discreet but it was made from high tensile steel. It wasn’t ornate. It wasn’t a piece of jewelry. Nor was the key. Which was for a padlock. The strongest, most secure, most weatherproof kind available anywhere in the world.

Riverdale still hoped that the ceremony would be a success. That it would garner more kudos for the company. More business, down the line. And another special visit from the new inmate’s pretty wife, the same afternoon. But if it wasn’t, if the whole thing went sideways, he was ready. He would disappear. No one would ever find him. And Hix and Brockman and everyone who sneered at his sense of caution? They could burn for all he cared.