Reacher backtracked four short steps and then headed for the front corner of the building on an exact forty-five-degree angle. Invisible from any window. He touched the wall and dropped to his knees. He kept his right palm on the brick and shuffled north and stretched out his left arm as far as it would go and very carefully laid his rifle on the ground directly under the west-facing window. He put it tight against the base of the wall where the shadows were deep. Then he shuffled south and stood up again and backed away on the same angle and checked. He couldn't see the rifle. Nobody would find it, unless they tripped over it.
He backed away until he was clear of the light spill and looped through the lot. Headed for the front door. Opened it up and stepped into the foyer. The low beams, the patterned carpet, the ten thousand brass ornaments. The shiny reception desk.
The register.
He stepped to the desk. To his right he could hear sociable silence from the public bar. The farmers, drinking, not saying much. The bartender, working quietly. To his left he could hear Kowalski's voice, muffled by the closed door. He couldn't make out what he was saying. He couldn't hear individual words. Just a low drone. Occasional rising intonations. Short barks of contempt. Old soldier's bullshit, probably.
He turned the register through a hundred and eighty degrees. It moved easily, leather on shiny varnish. He opened it up. Leafed through the pages until he found his own entry. Two nights previously, J amp; L Bayswater, East 161st Street, Bronx, New York, USA, Rolls-Royce, R34-CHR. Then he scanned ahead. The following night three guests had registered: C. Groom, A. Burke, L. Kowalski. They had been less shy than Reacher himself about supplying personal information. Their business address had been accurately given as One 72nd Street, New York, New York, USA, which was the Dakota Building. Make of Vehicle had been given as Toyota Land Cruiser. There was a plate number entered, a British seven-character mix of letters and numbers that meant nothing to Reacher beyond the fact that the car had to be a rental from London.
No Toyota Land Cruiser in the lot.
And where were Lane, Gregory, Perez, and Addison?
He leafed backward through the book and saw that on any given night the Bishop's Arms had a maximum of three rooms to let. So assuming that Groom and Burke and Kowalski had been given a room each, there had been no room at the inn for the others. They had gotten back into their rented Toyota and driven someplace else.
But where?
Reacher glanced at the saloon bar's door but went the other way. Into the public bar. The bartender looked up at him and the four farmers turned slowly on their stools and started up with their complacent who-are-you barroom stares until they recognized him. Then they nodded guarded greetings and turned back to their pint glasses. The bartender stayed poised and polite, ready for fast service. Instant acceptance, for less than thirty bucks.
Reacher asked, "Where did you send the other four?"
The bartender said, "Who?"
"Seven guys showed up yesterday. Three of them are here. Where did you send the other four?"
"We've only got three rooms," the guy said.
"I know that," Reacher said. "Where's your overspill recommendation?"
"I sent them down to Maston Manor."
"Where's that?"
"The other side of Bishops Pargeter. About six mile beyond."
"I didn't see another inn on the map."
"It's a country house. She takes paying guests."
One of the farmers half-turned and said, "It's a bed and breakfast hotel. Very nice. Classier than this place. I reckon they all drew lots and the losers stayed here."
His friends laughed, low and slow. Barroom humor, the same the world over.
"It's more expensive there," the bartender said, defensively.
"It should be," the farmer said.
"Is it on this road?" Reacher asked.
The bartender nodded. "Straight through Bishops Pargeter, past the church, past Dave Kemp's shop, keep on about six mile. You can't miss it. She's got a sign. Maston Manor."
"Thanks," Reacher said. He headed back to the foyer. Closed the door behind him. Stepped across the patterned carpet and stopped in front of the saloon bar's door. Kowalski was still talking. Reacher could hear him. He put his hand on the knob. Paused a beat and then turned it and pushed the door open.
Chapter 72
CARTER GROOM WAS facing the door on the far side of the table. He looked up just like the bartender had but Kowalski and Burke moved a lot faster than the farmers. They spun around and stared. Reacher stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door gently behind him. Stood completely still.
"We meet again," he said, just to break the silence.
"You've got some nerve," Groom said.
The room was decorated in the same style as the foyer. Low ceiling beams, dark varnished wood, ornate wall sconces, thousands of brass ornaments, a wall-to-wall carpet patterned in a riot of red and gold swirls. Reacher moved toward the fireplace. Tapped the toes of his shoes against the edge of the hearth to shed some mud. Took a heavy iron poker from a hook and used the end of it to scrape dirt off his heels. Then he hung the poker back up and flapped at the bottom of his pant legs with his hands. Altogether he spent more than a minute cleaning up, with his back turned, but he was watching a clear convex reflection of the table in a bright copper bucket that held kindling sticks. And nobody was moving. The three guys were just sitting there, waiting. Smart enough not to start anything in a public place.
"The situation has changed," Reacher said. He moved on, toward the west-facing window. It had open drapes and a sliding storm pane on the inside and a regular wooden frame on the outside that would open like a door. He pulled out a chair from the table nearest to it and sat down, six feet away from the three guys, four feet and two panes of glass away from his rifle.
"Changed how?" Burke said.
"There was no kidnap," Reacher said. "It was faked. Kate and Taylor are an item. They fell in love, they eloped. Because they wanted to be together. That was all. And they took Jade with them, obviously. But they had to dress the whole thing up, because Lane is a psychopath where his marriages are concerned. Among other things."
"Kate's alive?" Groom said.
Reacher nodded. "Jade too."
"Where?"
"Somewhere in the States, I guess."
"So why is Taylor here?"
"He wants a showdown with Lane on his own turf."
"He's going to get one."
Reacher shook his head. "I'm here to tell you that's a bad idea. He's on a farm, and it's surrounded by ditches too deep to drive through. So you'd be going in on foot. And he's got a lot of help there. He's got eight of his old SAS buddies with him, and his brother-in-law was a kind of Green Beret for the Brits, and he's brought in six of his guys, too. They've got Claymores on a hundred-yard perimeter and heavy machine guns in every window. They've got night vision and grenade launchers."
"They can't possibly use them. Not here. This is England, not Lebanon."
"He's prepared to use them. Believe it. But actually he won't have to. Because four of the SAS guys are snipers. They've got PSG1s. Heckler and Koch sniper rifles, from the black market in Belgium. They'll drop you all three hundred yards out. With their eyes shut. Seven rounds, game over. They're miles from anywhere. Nobody will hear. And if they do, they won't care. This is the back of beyond. Farm country. Somebody's always shooting something. Foxes, road signs, burglars, each other."