Make Me (12 page)

The guy said, “Do you?”

“You played college football. For Miami. 1992, right?”

“Not me, pal.”

“Was it USC?”

“You got the wrong person.”

Chang said, “Then you’re the taxi driver. We saw you at the motel this morning.”

The guy didn’t answer.

“And yesterday morning,” Chang said.

No reply.

There was a small wire-mesh holder on the counter, full of business cards supplied by the MoneyGram franchise. A side benefit, presumably, along with the commission. Reacher took a card and read it. The guy’s name was not Maloney. Reacher asked him, “You got a local phone book?”

“What for?”

“I want to balance it on my head to improve my deportment.”

“What?”

“I want to look up a number. What else is a phone book for?”

The guy paused a long moment, as if searching for a legitimate reason to deny the request, but in the end he couldn’t find one, apparently, because he dipped down and hauled a slim volume from a shelf under the counter, and rotated it 180 degrees, and slid it across the plywood.

Reacher said, “Thank you,” and thumbed it open, to where L changed to M.

Chang leaned in for a look.

No Maloney.

Reacher said, “Why is this town called Mother’s Rest?”

The guy behind the counter said, “I don’t know.”

Chang said, “How old is your Cadillac?”

“How is that your business?”

“It isn’t, really. We’re not from the DMV. We don’t care about the license plates. We’re interested, is all. It looks like a fine automobile.”

“It does its job.”

“Which is what?”

The guy paused a beat.

“Taxi,” he said. “Like you figured.”

Reacher said, “You know anyone named Maloney?”

“Should I?”

“You might.”

“No,” the guy said, with a measure of certainty, as if glad to be on solid ground. “There’s no one named Maloney in this county.”

—

Reacher and Chang
walked back to the wide street and stood in the morning sun. Chang said, “He was lying about the Cadillac. It’s not a taxi. A place like this doesn’t need a taxi.”

Reacher said, “So what is it?”

“It felt like a club car, didn’t it? Like a golf cart at a resort. To take guests from one place to another. From reception to their rooms. Or from their rooms to the spa. As a courtesy. Especially without the license plates.”

“Except this place isn’t a resort. It’s a giant wheat field.”

“Whatever, he didn’t go far. He was there and back in the time it took us to shower and eat breakfast. An hour, maybe. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back. A maximum twenty-mile radius, on these roads.”

“That’s more than a thousand square miles,” Reacher said. “
Pi
times the radius squared. More than twelve hundred square miles, actually. Connected with Keever’s thing, or separate?”

“Connected, obviously. At the motel the guy acted the same way as the spare-parts guy who met the train. Like a lackey. And the spare-parts guy dimed you out because you look a bit like Keever. So it’s connected.”

Reacher said, “We’d need a helicopter to search twelve hundred square miles.”

“And no Maloney,” Chang said. She stuck her hand in her back pocket and came out with Keever’s bookmark.
Mother’s Rest—Maloney
. “Unless the guy is lying about that, too. Not being in the phone book doesn’t necessarily prove anything. He could be unlisted. Or new in town.”

“Would the waitress lie, too?”

“We should try the general store. If he exists, and he isn’t eating in the diner, then he’s buying food there. He has to be feeding himself somehow.”

They set out walking, south on the wide street.

—

Meanwhile the Cadillac
driver was busy calling it in. Such as it was. He said, “They’re nowhere.”

In the motel office the one-eyed guy said, “How do you figure that?”

“You ever heard of a guy named Maloney?”

“No.”

“That’s who they’re looking for.”

“A guy named Maloney?”

“They checked my phone book.”

“There is no guy named Maloney.”

“Exactly,” the Cadillac driver said. “They’re nowhere.”

—

The general store
looked like it might not have changed in fifty years, except for brand names and prices. Beyond the entrance vestibule it was dark and dusty and smelled of damp canvas. It had five narrow aisles piled high with stuff ranging from woodworking tools to packaged cookies, and candles to canning jars, and toilet paper to light bulbs. There was a rail of work clothes that caught Reacher’s eye. His own duds were four days old, and being around Chang made him conscious of it. She smelled of soap and clean skin and a dab of perfume. He had noticed, when she leaned close for a look at the phone book, and he wondered what she had noticed. He picked out pants and a shirt, and found socks and underwear and a white undershirt on a shelf opposite. A dollar per for the smaller stuff, and less than forty for the main items. Overall a worthwhile investment, he thought. He hauled it all to the counter in back and dumped it all down.

The store owner wouldn’t sell it to him.

The guy said, “I don’t want your business. You’re not welcome here.”

Reacher said nothing. The guy was a stringy individual, maybe sixty years old. He had caved-in cheeks covered in white stubble, and thin gray hair, unwashed and too long, and tufts in his ears, and fur on his neck. He was wearing two shirts, one on top of the other. He said, “So run along now. This is private property.”

Reacher said, “You got health insurance?”

Chang put her hand on his arm. The first time she had touched him, he thought, apropos of nothing.

The guy said, “You threatening me?”

Reacher said, “Pretty much.”

“This is a free country. I can choose who I sell to. The law says so.”

“What’s your name?”

“None of your business.”

“Is it Maloney?”

“No.”

“Can you give me change for a dollar?”

“Why?”

“I want to use your pay phone.”

“It isn’t working today.”

“You got your own phone in back?”

The guy said, “You can’t use it. You’re not welcome here.”

“OK,” Reacher said, “I get the message.” He checked the tags on the items in front of him. A dollar for the socks, a dollar for the undershorts, a dollar for the T-shirt, nineteen ninety-nine for the pants, and seventeen ninety-nine for the shirt. Subtotal, forty dollars and ninety-eight cents, plus probably seven percent sales tax. Total damage, forty-three dollars and eighty-five cents. He peeled off two twenties and a five and butted them together. He creased them lengthwise to correct their curl. He placed them on the counter.

He said, “Two choices, pal. Call the cops and tell them commerce has broken out in town. Or take my money. Keep the change, if you like. Maybe put it toward a shave and a haircut.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher rolled his purchases together and jammed them under his arm. He followed Chang out of the store and stopped in the vestibule to check the pay phone. No dial tone. Just breathy silence, like a direct connection to outer space, or the blood pulsing in his head.

Chang said, “Coincidence?”

Reacher said, “I doubt it. The guy probably disconnected the wires. They want us isolated.”

“Who did you want to call?”

“Westwood, in LA. I had a thought. And then another thought. But first I think we better check the motel.”

“The motel guy won’t let us use his phone.”

“No,” Reacher said. “I think we can pretty much guarantee that.”

—

They approached the
motel’s horseshoe from the south, so the first thing they saw was the wing with the office in it. There were three things on the sidewalk under its window. The first was the plastic lawn chair, unoccupied, but still in its overnight position.

The second thing was Keever’s battered valise, last seen in room 215, now repacked and waiting, all bulging and forlorn.

The third thing was Chang’s own suitcase, zipped up, its handle raised, also repacked and waiting.

Chapter
21

Chang stopped walking, like a
reflex, and Reacher stopped alongside her. He said, “No room at the inn.”

She said, “Their next move.”

They walked on, getting closer, changing the geometry, seeing deeper inside the horseshoe, seeing groups of men, just standing around and waiting, filling the empty parking slots, kicking the curbs, standing in the traffic lanes. Maybe thirty guys in total, including whichever Moynahan it was who had gotten kicked in the nuts. He looked a little pale, but no smaller than before. His hapless relative wasn’t there. Probably still in bed, dosed up on painkillers.

Reacher said, “We’ll go straight to my room.”

Chang said, “Are you nuts? We’ll be lucky to get as far as the car.”

“I bought new clothes. I need to change.”

“Bring them with you. You can change later.”

“It was already a concession not to change in the store. I don’t like carrying stuff around.”

“We can’t fight thirty people.”

They moved on, and stopped twenty feet from the staircase they needed. There were three guys near it. All of them were looking toward the office, where the one-eyed guy was coming out, and hustling across, waving and gesturing. When he arrived he said, “Mr. Keever’s booking has come to an end. As has his associate’s, therefore. And I’m afraid they can’t be renewed. At this time of year I take empty rooms out of circulation for a day or two, for necessary maintenance. Ready for the harvest.”

Reacher said nothing.
We can’t fight thirty people
. To which Reacher’s natural response was:
Why the hell not?
It was in his DNA. Like breathing. He was an instinctive brawler. His greatest strength, and his greatest weakness. He was well aware of that, even as he ran through the mechanics of the problem in his mind, one against thirty. The first twelve were easy. He had fifteen rounds in the Smith, and wouldn’t miss with more than three. And assuming Chang took the hint, she could add another six. Or thereabouts. She was white collar, but on the other hand the range was short and the targets were numerous. Which would leave maybe twelve remaining, after the guns jammed empty, which was more than he could remember taking on before, all at once, but which had to be feasible. A lot would depend on shock, he supposed, which would be considerable, presumably. The noise, the muzzle flashes, the shell cases arcing through the bright morning sunlight, the guys going down.

It had to be feasible.

But it wasn’t. He couldn’t fight thirty people. Not at that point. Not without better information. He had no probable cause.

He said, “When is check-out time?”

The one-eyed guy said, “Eleven o’clock,” and then he clammed up, visibly, like he wished he had never spoken.

Reacher said, “And what time is it now?”

The one-eyed guy didn’t answer.

“It’s three minutes to nine,” Reacher said. “We’ll be gone well before eleven o’clock. That’s a promise. So everyone can relax now. There’s nothing to see here.”

The one-eyed guy stood still, deciding. Eventually he nodded. The three men near the stairs stood back, just half a pace, but their intention was clear. They weren’t going anywhere, but they weren’t going to do anything, either. Not yet.

Reacher went up the stairs behind Chang, and unlocked his door, and stepped inside his room. Chang said, “Are we really leaving? At eleven o’clock?”

“Before eleven,” Reacher said. “In ten minutes, probably. There’s no point in staying here. We don’t know enough.”

“We can’t just abandon Keever.”

“We need to go somewhere we can at least use a phone.” He dumped his new clothes on the bed, and opened the plastic packets and pulled off the tags. He said, “Maybe I should take a shower.”

“You took a shower two hours ago. I heard you through the wall.”

“Did you?”

“You’re fine. Just get dressed.”

“You sure?”

She nodded and locked the door from the inside, and put the chain across. He carried his stuff to the bathroom and took off the old and put on the new. He put the Smith in one pocket and his toothbrush in the other, and his cash, and his ATM card, and his passport. He rolled up the old stuff and jammed it in the trash receptacle. He glanced in the mirror. He smoothed his hair with his fingers. Good to go.

Chang called through, “Reacher, they’re coming up the stairs.”

He called back, “Who are?”

“About ten guys. Like a deputation.”

He heard her step back. He heard pounding on the door, angry and impatient. He came out of the bathroom and heard the lock rattling and the chain jiggling. He saw figures outside the window, on the walkway, a press of guys, some of them looking in through the glass.

Chang said, “What are we going to do?”

“Same as we always were,” he said. “We’re going to hit the road.”

He walked to the door and slid the chain off. He put his hand on the handle.

“Ready?” he said.

Chang said, “As I’ll ever be.”

He opened the door. There was a surge outside, and the nearest guy stumbled forward. Reacher put the flat of his hand on the guy’s chest and shoved him back. Not gently.

He said, “What?”

The guy got set on his feet again, and he said, “Check-out time just moved up.”

“To when?”

“Now.”

Reacher hadn’t seen the guy before. Big hands, broad shoulders, a seamed face, clothes all covered with dirt. Chosen in some way, presumably, to be the point man. To be the spokesperson. The pick of the local litter, no doubt, according to popular acclaim.

Reacher said, “What’s your name?”

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “It’s a simple question.”

No response.

“Is it Maloney?”

“No,” the guy said, with something in his voice. Like it was a stupid question.

Reacher said, “Why is this place called Mother’s Rest?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go wait downstairs. We’ll leave when we’re ready.”