He said, “Until nine-thirty, do I need to lock him up?”
Davison looked at Reacher.
He said, “Does he?”
“Not really necessary.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t want anything bad to happen, either. All I want is coffee.”
Davison turned back to the night guy.
He said, “Find him an office to wait in, and get him a cup of coffee.”
Then ahead of them the double doors swung open and Brenda Amos walked through.
“We’ll use my office,” she said.
Chapter 23
The first arrival happened well before dawn. A repeat customer. He lived in the far northern part of Maine, in a wooden house in the center of eighty square miles of forest, all of which he owned. As always he drove only by night, in a beat-up old Volvo wagon, not worth a second glance, but just in case it got one, it was also fitted with fake Vermont plates made up with an unissued number. His phone told him where to turn, but of course he remembered the place anyway. From his first visit. How could he forget? He recognized the mouth of the track, and the sketchy blacktop, and the fat rubber wire. Which rang a bell somewhere, to scare up a welcome.
Which this time was offered in the motel office. By Mark only. The others were nowhere to be seen. Watching the security cameras, the new guest assumed. And hoped. Mark offered him room three, and he took it. Mark watched him as he parked the wagon. Watched him as he carried his bags inside. He was wondering which bag held his money, the new guest assumed. He set his stuff down near the closet and stepped outside again, to the predawn darkness. To the soft misty air. He couldn’t contain himself. He crept along the boardwalk, past room four, past five, toward a dead-looking Honda Civic, crouching blackly in the moonlight. He stepped out into the lot at that point and looped around behind it, so he could take in the whole of room ten from a distance. The first look. It was occupied. The e-mail said so. But it was currently blank and quiet. The window blind was down. There was no light inside. No sound. Nothing was happening.
The new guest stood for a minute, and then he walked back to room three.
* * *
—
Reacher took coffee from the squad room pot, and then Amos walked him back to her office. The same as before. The old structure, the new contents. The desk, the chairs, the cabinets, the computer.
She said, “I asked you to play it safe, for my sake.”
He said, “Something woke me up.”
“Is there a law that says therefore automatically you have to get up?”
“Sometimes.”
“They could have been arriving right then.”
“Exactly. I thought I should at least get my pants on. Then I went out to take a look. Nothing doing, except an excellent performance from Patrolman Davison. With which I had no problem. I’m happy to wait here. All good. Except I’m sorry you had to get up early.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Amos said. “You also went out for dinner.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Take a guess.”
Because of blood on the street, he thought, or a random traffic stop a block or two later, or both. The guys from the apple farm. Had to be.
But out loud he said, “I don’t know.”
“Carter Carrington told us,” she said. “You walked eight blocks to the same bistro he was in. And eight blocks back. That wasn’t playing it safe.”
“At the time I thought it was, in a roundabout way.”
“You should have called me. I gave you my card. I would have brought pizza to your room.”
“Why did you ask Carrington about me?”
“We didn’t. We needed a legal opinion. Your dinner plans came up in the subsequent conversation.”
“What kind of legal opinion?”
“Who we can detain, before they’ve actually done anything wrong.”
“And what was the answer?”
“These days, practically anybody.”
“Maybe no one is coming,” Reacher said. “The kid was an asshole.”
“No chance whatsoever.”
“OK, but maybe it’s not top of their list. Maybe they have to pick up the dry cleaning first. I’ll be out of here at half past nine. They’ll find me gone.”
“I sincerely hope every part of what you just said is true.”
“Let’s hope some of it is.”
“We got some news,” she said. “Slightly encouraging for us. Not so much for you.”
“What is it?”
“Current thinking has downgraded the risk of drive-by casualties. Now we think they’re somewhat unlikely. Chief Shaw was on the phone with the Boston PD. They think the attempt will not be made here. They think their preferred tactic will be to get you in their car, so they can drive you back to Boston, where they’ll throw you off an apartment building. That’s what they do. Like a signature. Like a press release. Makes a splash, in every way. I would prefer that didn’t happen to you.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“Purely as a professional responsibility.”
“I won’t get in the strange man’s car,” Reacher said. “I think I can pretty much guarantee that.”
Amos didn’t reply.
Her door opened a crack and a head stuck in and said, “Ma’am, we have reports on the radio of a Massachusetts plate incoming from the southwest, on a black Chrysler 300 sedan, which according to Mass DMV seems to be registered to a freight forwarding operation based out of Logan Airport, in Boston.”
“What are the demographics on a black Chrysler 300?”
“Some limo companies, some rentals, but definitely a go-to gangster car.”
“Where is it now?”
“Still south of downtown. With a squad car right behind it.”
“Can he see inside?”
“The windows are tinted.”
“Dark enough to pull him over?”
“Ma’am, we can play this any way you tell us.”
Amos said, “Not yet. Stay with him. Make it obvious. Show the flag.”
The head ducked out and the door closed again.
“So,” Amos said. “Here we go.”