No Plan B

Reacher was a patient man. He could outwait anybody. It was a skill he learned during his years in the army. A skill he had honed in the years since then. But he was also realistic. He knew some things never happen, however long you wait for them. The guy in the Corolla had looked at his phone. So he had a picture, or at least a description. That must have come from the guys Reacher had encountered earlier. They might have outlined what happened. Or the four might have gotten together for a debrief. The current pair might have seen the result with their own eyes. They could be cautious. They could be smart enough to hold out for somewhere safer to make their move.

Or somewhere they thought would be safer.

That was fine with Reacher. He was a patient man. He carried the plank back to the scaffolding and slid it into place. Then he stepped out onto the sidewalk and continued on his way.

—

One of the hotels on the outskirts of the town looked pretty new. It was part of a chain. And therefore anonymous, which usually appealed to Reacher. The other place was on the opposite side of the main street. It must have dated back to the 1930s. The building was long and low with a flat roof. The external walls were rendered and painted pink. It had twelve rooms, each with a number on its door in a mirrored, art deco frame. The office was at the end farther from town. A pole rose from its roof. At the top there was a cartoon figure. A pineapple in a dress, picked out in yellow and turquoise neon. It had a wild grin on its face. Reacher wasn’t sure if it looked friendly or demonic.

Reacher came down in favor of The Pineapple. In his experience small independent places were better suited to his needs. They were less likely to fuss about expired IDs or to insist on credit cards for payment. He headed for the office and found himself surrounded by mirrors and neon and art deco shapes. The reception desk was covered with them, too. A guy appeared from somewhere in the back corner. He was thin. Unhealthily so, with patchy gray hair, which made it tough to guess how old he was. His shirt was covered with pictures of parrots and palm trees. His turquoise shorts were baggy on his shriveled hips and their brightness made his pasty legs look almost blue.

The skinny guy offered Reacher a room for $60. Reacher countered with $80 in cash for a room with no one on either side. The guy happily agreed. He pocketed the extra twenty and handed Reacher the key to room twelve followed by a dog-eared ledger and a pen for him to sign in with. Reacher scrawled a name and a signature then walked the length of the building and let himself into his room. There was a bed. A closet. A chair. A bathroom. Standard motel fare. The fruit theme didn’t extend to the inside of the building. It was a little scruffy in places but Reacher didn’t mind. He kept the light on for ten minutes then switched it off and crossed to the bed.

Chapter 9

Ticket first, Jed Starmer thought, then something to eat.

Not that Jed was any kind of an expert traveler. This was only going to be the second time he’d left Los Angeles County since his mother brought him there when he was a baby. Now he was leaving for good and so far he wasn’t enjoying the experience. He’d had to pack, which was a problem because he didn’t have a suitcase or a duffel. He didn’t want to steal one from his foster parents or the other kids he lived with and there was nowhere in his neighborhood that sold them. So he did the only thing he could think of. He opened up his school backpack and dumped all the institutional crap into the trash. He replaced it with clothes. Just the basics, snatched at random from his closet, as many as would fit. He grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom, more or less as an afterthought, and jammed it in his pocket. Then he took a final look around the house. He had hated the building the moment he first set foot through the door. He had been miserable pretty much every minute he had spent there. Now it seemed like the most welcoming place in the world.

Now that he was never going to see it again.

Next up was an issue with the bus that Jed needed to catch. It didn’t show up when it was supposed to. Which wasn’t a concern in terms of time. Jed had built plenty of slack into his schedule. It was a question of exposure. Jed’s foster mother got off work early on Tuesdays. She drove home down the street where the bus stop was located. Jed was standing there alone. He was totally exposed. There was no way she could miss him. And if she caught him there with a pocket full of her cash, he would have hell to pay.