Worth Dying For_ A Reacher Novel - Lee Child [134]
Then he saw the dark blue Chevrolet.
It was parked beyond the Subaru, outside room seven, or eight, or both, at a careless angle, at the end of four short gouges in the gravel. Frustrated men, tired and angry, jamming to a stop, ready for rest.
Reacher came in off the road and walked to the lounge door, as quietly as he could on the loose stones, past the Ford. It was still warm. The heat of the fire had scorched fantastic whorls into the metal. The lounge door was unlocked. Reacher stepped inside and saw Vincent behind the reception desk. He was in the act of hanging up the telephone. He stopped and stared at Reacher’s duct-tape bandage. He asked, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Just a scratch,” Reacher said. “Who was on the phone?”
“It was the morning call. The same as always. Like clockwork.”
“The phone tree?” Reacher asked.
Vincent nodded.
“And?”
“Nothing to report. Three Cornhusker vehicles were tooling around all night, kind of aimlessly. Now they’ve gone somewhere else. All four Duncans are in Jacob’s house.”
“You have guests here,” Reacher said.
“The Italians,” Vincent said. “I put them in seven and eight.”
“Did they ask about me?”
Vincent nodded. “They asked if you were here. They asked if I had seen you. They’re definitely looking for you.”
“When did they get here?”
“About five this morning.”
Reacher nodded in turn. A wild-goose chase all night long, no success, eventual fatigue, no desire to drive an hour south to the Marriott and an hour back again, hence the local option. They had probably planned to nap for a couple of hours, and then saddle up once more, but they were oversleeping. Human nature.
“They woke me up,” Vincent said. “They were very bad tempered. I don’t think I’m going to get paid.”
“Which one of them shot the guys in the Ford?”
“I can’t tell them apart. One did the shooting, and the other one set fire to the car.”
“And you saw that with your own eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Would you go to court and say so?”
“No, because the Duncans are involved.”
“Would you if the Duncans weren’t involved?”
“I don’t have that much imagination.”
“You told me.”
“Privately.”
“Tell me again.”
“One of them shot the guys and the other one burned their car.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “That’s good enough.”
“For what?”
“Call them,” Reacher said. “One minute from now. In their rooms. Talk in a whisper. Tell them I’m in your lot, right outside your window, looking at the wreck.”
“I can’t be involved in this.”
“This is the last day,” Reacher said. “Tomorrow will be different.”
“Forgive me if I prefer to wait and see.”
“Tomorrow there are going to be three kinds of people here,” Reacher said. “Some dead, some sheepish, and some with a little self-respect. You need to get yourself in that third group.”
Vincent said nothing.
“You know Eleanor Duncan?” Reacher asked.
“She’s OK,” Vincent said. “She was never part of this.”
“She’ll be taking over. She’ll be hauling your stuff tomorrow.”
Vincent said nothing.
“Call the Italians one minute from now,” Reacher said. He stepped back out to the lot and walked on the silver balks of timber, past room one, past room two, past three and four and five and six, and then he looped around behind room seven and room eight, and came out again near room nine. He stood in a narrow gap shaped like an hourglass, the circular bulk of room eight right there in front of him, close enough to touch, room seven one building along, the Chevy and the Subaru and the burned-out Ford trailing away from him, south to north,