Page 36 of No Plan B

Brockman started to feel better. Car theft was the best option, but it was likely to be off the table for Reacher. Then he started to feel worse. He thought of Curtis Riverdale, of all people. Of something he had said. About Reacher being a former military cop. Some kind of a crack investigator. Reacher had witnessed Angela St. Vrain’saccident. He had spoken to the police in the town. Maybe he had caught the local news. He could have picked up on Sam Roth’s death. He could have connected the dots.

There was no danger of Reacher finding any evidence that led back to Minerva. Brockman was sure about that. But there was another problem. Dead men can’t report car thefts.

Brockman took out his phone and hit the speed-dial for Rod Moseley. The chief of the local police department.

Moseley answered on the first ring. “What now? Tell me you have good news for a change.”

Brockman said, “It’s about Sam Roth. The other guy we offed in Colorado. We need to know the make and model of his vehicle.”

—

Hannah Hampton andReacher had been in Sam Roth’s truck for approaching seven hours.

For nearly six of those hours neither of them had spoken. Hannah was focused on driving. It was a useful distraction for her. She was struggling to keep a lid on her grief. That was clear. At the same time Reacher was focused on nothing in particular. He had tipped his seat back a little. His eyes were closed. He was playing music in his head. There was nothing he could do to make the truck go faster. He couldn’t bring their destination any closer. So listening to a few of his favorite bands was the most pleasant way he could think of to pass the time.

Hannah nudged Reacher and when he opened his eyes she pointed to a sign at the side of the road. It gave the name of a town neither of them had heard of before. Behind it the land was as flat as a board for as far as they could see. It looked dull and brown in the setting sun. A few sparse bushes poked through a crust of scrubby, scorched grass. There were a couple of stunted trees. A set of powerlines wasrunning dead straight toward the horizon. Above them the cloud was gray and it was stretched thin like there wasn’t quite enough to cover the massive expanse of sky.

Hannah said, “Time to call it a day?”

They were still heading due south so Reacher figured they hadn’t gotten as far as Amarillo yet. That wasn’t necessarily a problem. The sign listed the nearby town’s amenities. They seemed adequate. Apparently everything came in pairs. There were two gas stations. Two diners. And two hotels. Hannah took the turnoff and a quarter of a mile after the intersection she pulled onto the first gas station’s forecourt. She went inside to use the restroom. Reacher pulled the truck up to the nearest pump and filled it with diesel. He went inside to pay and when he came out Hannah was back in the driver’s seat. He climbed in and she steered across the street to the first hotel. She parked in a spot at the edge of the lot, midway between the hotel and the first diner. There were only two other cars in sight so they figured competition for rooms wasn’t going to be an issue. Food seemed like a more urgent priority.

The diner was set up to look like an old-world cattle station. It had rustic shingles on the roof. The walls were covered with fake logs. There were branding irons hanging from rusty pegs along with all kinds of antique tools Reacher didn’t know the purpose of. Inside, the floor was covered with sawdust. The tables and chairs were made of wood. The chairs had leather seat covers the same color as the saddles in the paintings of cowboys on the walls. The tabletops were crisscrossed with burn marks and pocks and dents. They looked ancient but even so, Reacher suspected the damage had been done in a factory rather than by decades of genuine use.

There were no other customers in the place so a waitress with gray hair and a pink gingham dress gestured for them to pick where theywanted to sit. They took the table in the far corner. Reacher liked it because it let him keep an eye on the entrance as well as the corridor leading to the restrooms. The waitress handed them a couple of menus and left them to make their selections. That didn’t take long. There wasn’t a great deal of choice. Steak lovers were well catered for. Everyone else was pretty much out of luck.

Hannah and Reacher ordered their food. They waited in silence for it to come. Hannah’s appetite for conversation had well and truly dried up. Reacher didn’t have anything new to say, either. Ten minutes crawled by and then the waitress dropped off their meals. Big heaps of meat and potatoes with no vegetables in sight. Reacher was happy. Hannah, less so. She nibbled halfheartedly at the edge of her steak. Managed to swallow a couple of fries. Then pushed her plate away.

“I’m sorry.” Hannah stood up. “I don’t mean to be a party pooper but I’m bushed. I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m going to check in next door. Get some sleep. See you by the truck in the morning?”

Reacher said, “Sure. Sixa.m.sound about right?”

“Works for me. Good night.”

—

Reacher grabbed anewspaper from a holder made of horseshoes on the wall near the door and read it while he finished his dinner. He ate the untouched food on Hannah’s plate. Polished off his coffee, followed by a refill. Then he left sufficient cash to cover both meals and a tip and headed outside.

—

Four of thestops on the Greyhound route between El Paso and Dallas were brief. Just long enough for new passengers to join the bus orexisting ones to get off. Three of the stops were longer. Twenty minutes. Or twenty-five. Sufficient for anyone who was stiff or hungry to stretch their legs or go and get some food.

Jed Starmer didn’t leave his seat during any of the stops, long or short. Because he had something on his mind. The police. Officers had shown up in El Paso. With a picture of him. Only one person in the world could have supplied that picture. So only one person could have called 911. His foster mother. She had reported him missing. Or she had reported him as a thief. She was worried about him. Or she was mad at him. Jed knew which option his money was on. And he also knew that the reason didn’t matter. The only question that counted was what the police would do next. They could assume that if he wasn’t on the bus in El Paso, then the route was a dead end. In which case he was safe. For a while, at least. Or they could keep on looking for him, all the way down the line. All the way to his final destination. In which case he was doomed.

Jed didn’t know what the police would do. And the uncertainty was eating him alive. Every time the bus came to a standstill Jed panicked. Even if it was just at an intersection. Even if it was just because of other late-night traffic. Jed pictured the door swinging open. He imagined a cop bounding up the steps. Making his way down the aisle. Shining his flashlight in every passenger’s face. Asleep or awake. Comparing everyone with his photograph. Which was old. His appearance had changed in the last four or five years. He supposed. He hoped. But he wasn’t even kidding himself. The guy at the back of the bus had spotted the resemblance. There was no way the police would miss it. They were trained for that kind of thing. He would be identified. Grabbed up. Dragged off the bus. And taken back to L.A. To his foster mother. Or to jail.

The bus stopped properly seven times. Seven times the door opened. Three times someone climbed on board. But every time theyturned out to be passengers. Not cops. Which meant the cops were no longer looking for him.

Or that they would be there, waiting, when the bus stopped in Dallas.

—

Lev Emerson’s alarmwent off at 2:45a.m., Thursday morning.

It played the theme from Handel’sFireworks Music.Loudly. Emerson shut off the sound. He lay still for a moment, in the dark, gathering his thoughts. He was on a couch in the corner of his office in his warehouse in Chicago. He felt at home with the smell of the rough, battered leather. With how the worn surface of the cushion felt against his cheek. He had slept there many, many times over the years. But not for any of the typical reasons married men spent nights away from their beds. It wasn’t because of a row he’d had with his wife. He wasn’t drunk. He didn’t reek of another woman’s perfume. He wasn’t there to take drugs or watch porn. He was there because of the nature of his work.

When someone with a regular job had an appointment in a faraway town, early in the morning, they could travel the night before. Stay the night in a convenient hotel. Eat a hearty breakfast and show up at their meeting bright-eyed and raring to go. But that wasn’t an option for Emerson. Not if he had to take the tools of his trade with him. They weren’t things he could fly with. They had to be transported by road. In one of his special panel vans. And he didn’t like the idea of leaving one of those vans in a public parking lot. Where an idiot could crash into it. Or try to steal it. Or take too close an interest in its contents. Which meant he had to carefully calculate his travel time. Set his alarm. And get up whenever it was necessary to leave, however early the hour.

As his business took off Emerson had brought people on board tohandle the bulk of the early departures. People he trusted. But he wasn’t above doing the heavy lifting himself. Particularly when the job was personal. And given that his guys were currently in New Jersey, watching a ship moored twelve miles out to sea, he didn’t have any option. It was down to him. And Graeber, who was asleep in the next-door storeroom. Emerson rolled off the couch. He crossed to his workbench and fired up his little Nespresso machine. He figured they both could use a good hit of caffeine before they got on the road.

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