She stopped just before room five.
She looked in through the crack between the curtains, just briefly, a duck of her head out and back. Then again, much longer, a careful survey of the sliver of the room she could see. No feet on the end of the bed. He's in the bathroom, she was thinking. Reacher checked left again. No lights in the north. No noise, no movement. He checked to his right too, just to be sure. The back-up could have looped around a square on the chequerboard. Which would have been smart tactics. But there were no lights in the south, either. No noise, no movement. The woman wasn't using her phone. No communication. No coordination. They wouldn't have left her exposed for so long.
She was alone.
No back-up, no SWAT team.
Reacher saw her knock on room five's door. He saw her wait, and knock again, harder. He saw her put her ear against the crack.
He stood up and started walking towards her, across the frozen dirt. He saw her put a key in the lock and turn it. He saw her enter the room, her gun up and ready. Twenty seconds later she came back out again.
She stood on the sidewalk next to the lawn chairs, glancing left, glancing right, staring straight ahead. Her gun was still in her hand, but down by her side. Reacher crunched onward over the frozen stubble. He stepped out of the field and on to the road.
She heard him. Her face turned towards him, blindly locating the sound.
'Hello,' he said.
Her gun came up. A two-handed stance, feet braced. He saw her eyes lock on. He was looming up at her out of the dark. He said, 'We spoke on the phone. I'm unarmed.'
The gun stayed where it was.
He crossed the road. He stepped into the motel's front lot. The light from the dim bulkhead fixtures reached him.
The woman said, 'Stop right there.'
He stopped right there.
The gun was a Glock 17. Black, boxy, with a dull polycarbonate sheen. Behind it her head was turned slightly to the side, as if quizzically. A strand of hair was across one eye. She was a lot better looking than Don McQueen. That was for damn sure.
She said, 'Get down on the ground.'
He spread his fingers and held his hands out from his sides, his palms towards her. He said, 'No need to get all excited. We're on the same side here.'
'I'll shoot.'
'No, you won't.'
'Why wouldn't I?'
Reacher looked to his left. Her car was still all lit up under the porte cochere. She hadn't killed the strobes. They were flashing red and blue from secret little mouse-fur mouldings on the rear parcel shelf. Further down the road there was nothing but darkness. In the other direction there was a new light on the horizon. Very far away. Not moving. Not a vehicle. Just a very faint orange glow, like a distant bonfire.
He said, 'You won't shoot because you don't want to do the paperwork.'
She said nothing. 'And it wouldn't be righteous. I'm unarmed and I'm not offering an imminent threat. You'd lose your job. You'd go to jail.'
No response.
'And you want to find Karen Delfuenso. You don't have descriptions of the two guys. You don't have the names they're using. You don't know the things they let slip. But I do. You need to keep me alive long enough to ask me questions, at least.'
The gun stayed where it was. But she stepped and shuffled to her left, turning all the way, keeping the front sight hard on him. She backed off twenty feet, until his path to room five's door was covered but unobstructed. At first he thought she wanted him to go inside, but she said, 'Sit down, in the lawn chair.'
He walked forward. The Glock's muzzle tracked him all the way, from twenty feet. A confident markswoman. McQueen had missed from eight. He stopped next to the left-hand lawn chair. He turned around. He backed up, butt first. He sat down.
She said, 'Lean back. Stick your legs out straight. Hang your arms over the sides.'
He complied, and ended up about as ready for instant action as his granddad's granddad waking up from an afternoon nap. She was evidently a smart woman. A good improviser. The chair was cold against the backs of his thighs. White plastic, thoroughly chilled.
She stayed where she was, but she lowered the gun.
He was not what Sorenson had been expecting. Not exactly. He wasn't a gorilla and he wasn't like something out of a slasher movie. But she could see why he had been described that way. He was huge, for a start. He was one of the largest men she had ever seen outside the NFL. He was extremely tall, and extremely broad, and long-armed, and long-legged. The lawn chair was regular size, but it looked tiny under him. It was bent and crushed out of shape. His knuckles were nearly touching the ground. His neck was thick and his hands were the size of dinner plates. His clothes were creased and dirty. His hair was matted. His facial injury was awful. His nose was split and swollen and bruising had spread under his eyes.
A wild man. But not really. Underneath everything else he seemed strangely civilized. He had moved with a kind of considered grace, calm and contained. He had spoken the same way, thinking ahead whole paragraphs and essays in the split-second pauses between sentences. You won't shoot because you don't want to do the paperwork. Straight to the heart of the matter. Knowledgeable, and confident. His gaze was both wise and appealing, both friendly and bleak, both frank and utterly cynical. His focus was shifting fractionally in and out, his brows rising and falling a little, the shape of his mouth always changing, as if he was constantly thinking. As if there was a computer behind his eyes, running at full speed.
She raised her gun again.
She said, 'I'm sorry, but I'm under orders to arrest you on sight and take you back to Nebraska.'
THIRTY-FIVE
SORENSON'S WORDS JUST hung there in the cold night air. I'm under orders to arrest you on sight and take you back to Nebraska. The big guy paused a beat, and then he smiled, politely, generously, as if pretending to be amused by a joke he had in fact heard many times before, and he said, 'Well, best of luck with that.'
He didn't move. He just stayed there in the shaky chair, leaning back, legs straight out, arms dangling.
Sorenson said, 'I'm serious.'
He said, 'They were very disorganized, weren't they?'
She said, 'Who were?'
'The two guys. I expect you've got a fairly substantial forensic trail.'
'Who are you?'
'I mean, jacking a car is always a sign of desperation, isn't it? You can't rely on it. There might be no traffic. You might pick the wrong victim and get shot in the face.'
'What's your point?'
'They told me their names. And I think they were their real names. They didn't sound like prepared aliases. And I don't think they were. Because nothing else about those guys seemed very prepared.'
'What names did they give you?'
'Alan King and Don McQueen.'
'King and McQueen? Those sound totally made up.'
'Exactly. If they really were made up, they'd have chosen better. And it was OK if I knew. I wasn't supposed to survive.'
'What's your point?' Sorenson asked again.
'The one calling himself Alan King said he had a brother who had been in the army, name of Peter King. That might be a good place to start.'
'With what?'
'Tracing them.'
'Who are you?' Sorenson asked again.
'Tell me about your boss.'
'Why would I?'
'He's ambitious, right? He wants a pat on the head. He thinks an arrest before the sun comes up is going to look good. And he might be right. It might look good. But flexibility would be a much better tactic here.'
'Are you negotiating with me?'
'I'm just saying there's very little point in rushing back to Nebraska when Karen Delfuenso was last seen heading in the opposite direction. Your boss will understand that eventually. Delayed gratification is a good thing. It's what built the middle class.'