Which was a pity, because a stop for the night would have opened up a whole new world of possibilities.
King had turned left and right, left and right, endlessly south and east through the chequerboard darkness, a total of more than thirty miles since leaving the Shell station. At each turn a copy of the accommodations board had tempted them onward, the bland little arrows looking both firm and tentative, both promising and hopeless. McQueen didn't look worried. He was awake and vigilant, and he seemed confident. He trusted the signs.
And it turned out he was right to. A mile later, for the second time that night, Reacher was proved wrong. He saw a dull glow in the mist, far ahead on the left, and he watched as it resolved itself into separate beige pearls of light, which turned out to be dim electric bulbs in bulkhead fixtures set knee-high on the walls of a long low motel building. The design of the place was standard. There was dark brown siding, and a lobby and an office at the north end, with a Coke machine and a porte cochere, and then the building continued south in a regular rhythm, window, door, window, door, for a total of twelve rooms. Each door had two white plastic lawn chairs next to it. The low-set bulkhead fixtures were to light a sidewalk that ran the length of the building. Two rooms had cars parked outside, one an old sedan, lacy with rust, and the other an immense pick-up truck painted in a motorcycle manufacturer's colours. There was a third car parked tight against the office wall, a three-door import not much bigger than a golf cart. The night clerk's ride, presumably.
Alan King slowed the Chevy and stopped and idled on the road twenty feet from the motel's entrance. He surveyed the place, carefully, end to end, and he said, 'Good enough?'
Don McQueen said, 'Works for me.'
King didn't seek Karen Delfuenso's opinion. There was no big three-way democratic discussion. He just rolled onward and turned in on the far side of the porte cochere and came to a stop under it, facing north, with the rooms behind him. Inconvenient, in that he would have to back up or turn around after checking in, but inevitable, in that America drives on the right and takes circles counterclockwise.
There was a night light burning in the lobby. Reacher could see a reception counter, and a closed door behind it that no doubt led to an office. Probably the night guy was in there, asleep in a chair. There was a vase of flowers on the counter, probably fake.
Alan King said, 'Mr Reacher, would you go make the inquiry about rooms?'
Reacher said, 'Obviously there are rooms. There are twelve doors and two cars.'
'Then would you kindly check us in?'
Reacher said, 'I'm not the best guy to do that.'
'Why not?'
Reacher thought: Because I don't want to get out of the car. Not now. Because I no longer control the car key.
He said, 'Because I don't have a credit card.'
'Really?'
'Or ID. Apart from an old passport, that is. But it's been expired for years, and some people don't like that.'
'You must have a driver's licence, surely.'
'I don't.'
'But you were just driving.'
'Don't tell the cops.'
'Unlicensed driving is a felony.'
'Probably just a misdemeanour.'
'Have you ever had a licence?'
'Not a civilian licence, no.'
'Have you ever even passed a test?'
'I guess so. Probably. In the army, possibly.'
'You don't remember?'
'I remember learning. I don't remember a test, as such.'
McQueen said, 'I'll come with you. I have a credit card.'
Which worked for Reacher. He didn't want to be out of the car alone, but equally he didn't want either King or McQueen to select the rooms alone. He wanted some influence over who went where. He opened his door. McQueen opened his door. They got out together, McQueen ten feet from the lobby, Reacher on the far side of the car. McQueen waited. Reacher looped around the trunk. He paused, gestured, right-handed, open palm: Go ahead. After you. A precaution, not politeness. He didn't want to walk in front of a man with a gun. Not that he thought there was a serious danger of getting shot. Not then and there. Not with a night clerk and at least two motel guests within earshot.
McQueen went ahead down a decorative path made of broken paving stones jigsawed together. Reacher followed. McQueen pulled the lobby door. Reacher stepped up and held it and gestured again: After you.
McQueen went in. Reacher followed. The lobby had a vinyl floor and four gaudy wicker armchairs grouped around a low table. There was a higher table with push-top coffee flasks and stacks of paper cups. There was a rack on the wall with compartments for small folded brochures describing local tourist attractions. It was mostly empty.
The reception counter butted up against the side wall on the right. It ended six feet short of the wall on the left, near the table with the coffee. There was low TV sound behind the office door, and a rim of soft light all around it. McQueen bellied up to the counter on the right, and Reacher came to a stop alongside him, on the left.
'Hello?' McQueen called.
No response.
McQueen tapped his knuckles on the counter.
'Hello?' he called again.
No response.
'Service industries,' McQueen said, quietly. 'Can't beat them.'
He knocked on the counter again, a little louder.
'Hello?' he said, also a little louder.
No response.
He glanced left at Reacher and said, 'You better go knock on his door.'
Which would put Reacher in front of the gun for the first time, but there was no natural way to refuse. The route around to the door was to the left, and Reacher was on the left. Simple as that. Choreography. Geometry. Inevitable.
So Reacher looped around, between the end of the counter and the table with the coffee, and he stepped into the narrow well behind the counter. He glanced back out through the lobby window. The Chevy was still there, under the porte cochere. It hadn't moved. It was idling patiently, just waiting, with white exhaust pooling at the rear.
But McQueen had left his car door open.
Which was the first warning bell.
The second was the sound of feet on vinyl.
A fast one-two shuffle.
Exactly like the sound of a man stepping back and turning sideways.
The third warning bell was a fast composite rustle of skin and cotton and wool and metal.
Exactly like the sound of something heavy coming out of a pocket.
Reacher turned back and faced McQueen and saw nothing beyond the muzzle of a small stainless steel handgun pointing at the centre of his face.
TWENTY-NINE
THE GUN WAS a Smith & Wesson 2213. The smallest automatic in Smith & Wesson's extensive range. Three-inch barrel, .22 Long Rifle rimfires, eight in the magazine. Dainty, but a serious weapon. McQueen had been very fast with it. Phenomenally fast. Like a magician. Like a conjuror. First it wasn't there, and then it was.
Just like that.
Reacher stood very still.
The gun was maybe eight feet away. Behind it McQueen's long right arm was locked straight and raised slightly above the horizontal. He was standing sideways on. His head was turned. One eye was closed.
His finger was white on the trigger.
Not good.
The .22 Long Rifle was one of the world's oldest rounds, and by far the most common. Annual production every year since 1887 had exceeded two billion units. For a reason. It was cheap, it was quiet, and its recoil was gentle. And it was effective. Out of a rifle it was good against rats and squirrels at 450 feet, and against dogs and foxes at 250, and against full-grown coyotes at 150.
Against a human head at eight feet it would be devastating. Even out of a short-barrelled handgun.
Not good.
Not good at all.
Reacher couldn't see the Chevy any more. McQueen was in the way. Which was not such a bad thing. At least Delfuenso would not have to watch it happen.