‘Nine minutes before noon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I always know what time it is.’
‘What time is check-out?’
Then they heard footsteps on the walkway outside, and an envelope slid under the door, and the footsteps reversed direction, and faded away.
‘Check-out time is noon, I guess,’ Reacher said. ‘Because I assume that envelope is our copy of the invoice, paid in full.’
‘That’s very formal.’
‘They have a computer.’
The motor noise was still there. Reacher assumed the lizard part of his brain had already screened it for danger. Were they army vehicles? Cop cars? FBI? And apparently the lizard brain had made no comment. Correctly, in this case, because they were clearly civilian vehicles outside. All gasoline engines, including an out- of-tune V-8 with a holed muffler, and at least one weak four-cylinder cheap-finance-special-offer kind of a thing, plus crashing suspensions and rattling panels. Not military or paramilitary sounds at all.
They got louder and faster.
‘What is that?’ Turner said.
‘Take a look,’ Reacher said.
She padded slender and naked to the window. She made a peephole in the drapes. She looked out, and waited, to catch the whole show.
‘Four pick-up trucks,’ she said. ‘Various ages, sizes, and states of repair, all of them with two people aboard. They’re circling the building, over and over again.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘What town are we in?’
‘Petersburg, West Virginia.’
‘Then maybe it’s an old West Virginia folk tradition. The rites of spring, or something. Like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Except they do it in pick-up trucks, in Petersburg.’
‘But it looks kind of hostile. Like those movies you mentioned, where they say it’s too quiet. The parts where the Indians ride in a circle around the wagon with the busted wheel. Faster and faster.’
Reacher looked from her to the door.
‘Wait,’ he said.
He slid out of bed and picked up the envelope. The flap was not gummed down. Inside was a piece of paper. Nothing sinister. As expected. It was a tri-folded invoice showing a zero balance. Which was correct. Room eleven, thirty bucks, less thirty bucks cash upfront.
But.
At the bottom of the invoice was a cheery printed thank-you-for-staying-with-us line, and below that the motel owner’s name was printed like a signature, and below that there was a piece of completely gratuitous information.
‘Shit,’ Reacher said.
‘What?’
He met her by the bed and showed her.
THIRTY-SIX
REACHER SAID, ‘I guess they’re really serious about that Corvette. They must have gotten on some kind of a phone tree last night. A council of war. A call to action. Hampshire County Claughtons, and Grant County Claughtons, and Claughtons from other counties, too, I’m sure. Probably dozens of counties. Probably vast swathes of the entire Mountain State. And if Sleeping Beauty in the office last night was a son or a nephew, then he’s also a cousin. And now he’s a made man. Because he dimed us out.’
‘That Corvette is more trouble than it’s worth. It was a bad choice.’
‘But it was fun while it lasted.’
‘Got any bright ideas?’
‘We’ll have to reason with them.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Spread love and understanding,’ Reacher said. ‘Use force if necessary.’
‘Who said that?’
