Nothing To Lose Part 16

Twelve miles later he coasted past the vacant lot and the shuttered motor court and the gas station and the household goods store and then he turned left into Despair's downtown maze. First port of call was the police station. He wanted to be sure that no miraculous recoveries had been made, and that no replacement personnel had been provided.

They hadn't, and they hadn't.

The place was dark inside and quiet outside. No lights, no activity. There were no cars at the curb. No stand-in State Police cruisers, no newly-deputized pick-up trucks, no plain sedans with temporaryPolice signs stickered on their doors. signs stickered on their doors.

Nothing.

Just silence.

Reacher smiled. Open season and lawless, he thought, like a bleak view of the future in a movie. The way he liked it. He U-turned through the empty diagonal parking slots and headed back toward the rooming house. He parked on the curb out front and killed the motor and wound the window down. Heard a single aero engine in the far distance, climbing hard. Seven o'clock in the evening. The Cessna or the Beech or the Piper, taking off again.You should ask yourself why that plane flies every night, the motel clerk had said. the motel clerk had said.

Maybe I will,Reacher thought.One day.

He climbed out of the truck. The rooming house was built of dull brick, on a corner lot. Three stories high, narrow windows, flat roof, four stone steps up to a doorway set off center in the facade. There was a wooden board on the wall next to the door, under a swan-neck lamp with a dim bulb. The board had been painted maroon way back in its history, and the wordsRooms to Rent had been lettered in white over the maroon by a careful amateur. A plain and to-the-point announcement. Not the kind of place Reacher favored. Such establishments implied residency for longer periods than he was interested in. Generally they rented by the week, and had electric cooking rings in the rooms. Practically the same thing as setting up housekeeping. had been lettered in white over the maroon by a careful amateur. A plain and to-the-point announcement. Not the kind of place Reacher favored. Such establishments implied residency for longer periods than he was interested in. Generally they rented by the week, and had electric cooking rings in the rooms. Practically the same thing as setting up housekeeping.

He went up the stone steps and pushed the front door. It was open. Behind it was a square hallway with a brown linoleum floor and a steep staircase on the right. The walls were painted brown with some kind of a trick effect that matched the swirls in the linoleum. A bare bulb was burning dimly a foot below the ceiling. The air smelled of dust and cabbage. There were four interior doors, all dull green, all closed. Two were in back and two were in front, one at the foot of the staircase and the other directly opposite it across the hallway. Two front rooms, one of which would house the owner or the super. In Reacher's experience the owner or the super always chose a ground-floor room at the front, to monitor entrances and exits. Entrances and exits were very important to owners and supers. Unauthorized guests and multiple occupancies were to be discouraged, and tenants had been known to try to sneak out quietly just before final payment of long-overdue rent had been promised.

He opted to start with the door at the foot of the staircase. Better surveillance potential. He knocked and waited. A long moment later the door opened and revealed a thin man in a white s.h.i.+rt and a black tie. The guy was close to seventy years old, and his hair was the same color as his s.h.i.+rt. The s.h.i.+rt wasn't clean. Neither was the tie, but it had been carefully knotted.

"Help you?" the old guy said.

"Is this your place?" Reacher asked.

The old guy nodded. "And my mother's before me. In the family for close to fifty years."

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Reacher said. "From California. I heard he was staying here."

No reply from the old man.

"Young guy," Reacher said. "Maybe twenty. Very big. Tan, with short hair."

"n.o.body like that here."

"You sure?"

"n.o.body here at all."

"He was seen stepping out your door this afternoon."

"Maybe he was visiting."

"Visiting who, if there's n.o.body here at all?"

"Visiting me," the old man said.

"Did he visit you?"

"I don't know. I was out. Maybe he knocked on my door and got no reply and left again."

"Why would he have been knocking on your door?"

The old guy thought for a moment and said, "Maybe he was at the hotel and wanted to economize. Maybe he had heard the rates were cheaper here."

"What about another guy, shorter, wiry, about the same age?"

"No guys here at all, big or small."

"You sure?"

"It's my house. I know who's in it."

"How long has it been empty?"

"It's not empty. I live here."

"How long since you had tenants?"

The old guy thought for another moment and said, "A long time."

"How long?"

"Years."

"So how do you make a living?"

"I don't."

"You own this place?"

"I rent it. Like my mother did. Close to fifty years."

Reacher said, "Can I see the rooms?"

"Which rooms?"

"All of them."

"Why?"

"Because I don't believe you. I think there are people here."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I'm a suspicious person."

"I should call the police."

"Go right ahead."

The old guy stepped away into the gloom and picked up a phone. Reacher crossed the hallway and tried the opposite door. It was locked. He walked back and the old guy said, "There was no answer at the police station."

"So it's just you and me," Reacher said. "Better that you lend me your pa.s.skey. Save yourself some repair work later, with the door locks."

The old guy bowed to the inevitable. He took a key from his pocket and handed it over. It was a worn bra.s.s item with a length of furred string tied through the hole. The string had an old metal eyelet on it, as if the eyelet was all that was left of a paper label.

There were three guest rooms on the ground floor, four on the second, and four on the third. All eleven were identical. All eleven were empty. Each room had a narrow iron cot against one wall. The cots were like something from an old-fas.h.i.+oned fever hospital or an army barracks. The sheets had been washed so many times they were almost transparent. The blankets had started out thick and rough and had worn thin and smooth. Opposite the beds were chests of drawers and freestanding towel racks. The towels were as thin as the sheets. Near the ends of the beds were pine kitchen tables with two-ring electric burners plugged into outlets with frayed old cords. At the ends of the hallways on each of the floors were shared bathrooms, tiled black and white, with iron claw-foot tubs and toilets with cisterns mounted high on the walls.

Basic accommodations, for sure, but they were in good order and beautifully kept. The bathroom fitments were stained with age, but not with dirt. The floors were swept s.h.i.+ny. The beds were made tight. A dropped quarter would have bounced two feet off the blankets. The towels on the racks were folded precisely and perfectly aligned. The electric burners were immaculately clean. No crumbs, no spills, no dried splashes of bottled sauce.

Reacher checked everywhere and then stood in the doorway of each room before leaving it, smelling the air and listening for echoes of recent hasty departures. He found nothing and sensed nothing, eleven times over. So he headed back downstairs and returned the key and apologized to the old guy. Then he asked, "Is there an ambulance service in town?"

The old guy asked, "Are you injured?"

"Suppose I was. Who would come for me?"

"How bad?"

"Suppose I couldn't walk. Suppose I needed a stretcher."

The old man said, "There's a first-aid station up at the plant. And an infirmary. In case a guy gets hurt on the job. They have a vehicle. They have a stretcher."

"Thanks," Reacher said.

He drove Vaughan's old Chevy on down the street. Paused for a moment in front of the storefront church. It had a painted sign running the whole width of the building:Congregation of the End Times. In one window it had a poster written in the same way that a supermarket would advertise brisket for three bucks a pound: In one window it had a poster written in the same way that a supermarket would advertise brisket for three bucks a pound:The Time Is at Hand. A quotation from the Book of Revelation. Chapter one, verse three. Reacher recognized it. The other window had a similar poster: A quotation from the Book of Revelation. Chapter one, verse three. Reacher recognized it. The other window had a similar poster:The End Is Near. Inside, the place was as dark and gloomy as its exterior messages. Rows of metal chairs, a wood floor, a low stage, a podium. More posters, each one predicting with confident aplomb that the clock was ticking. Reacher read them all and then drove on, to the hotel. It was dark when he got there. He remembered the place from earlier daytime sightings as looking dowdy and faded, and by night it looked worse. It could have been an old city prison, in Prague, maybe, or Warsaw, or Leningrad. The walls were featureless and the windows were blank and unlit. Inside it had an empty and unappealing dining room on the left and a deserted bar on the right. Dead ahead in the lobby was a deserted reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a small swaybacked version of a grand staircase. It was covered with matted carpet. There was no elevator. Inside, the place was as dark and gloomy as its exterior messages. Rows of metal chairs, a wood floor, a low stage, a podium. More posters, each one predicting with confident aplomb that the clock was ticking. Reacher read them all and then drove on, to the hotel. It was dark when he got there. He remembered the place from earlier daytime sightings as looking dowdy and faded, and by night it looked worse. It could have been an old city prison, in Prague, maybe, or Warsaw, or Leningrad. The walls were featureless and the windows were blank and unlit. Inside it had an empty and unappealing dining room on the left and a deserted bar on the right. Dead ahead in the lobby was a deserted reception desk. Behind the reception desk was a small swaybacked version of a grand staircase. It was covered with matted carpet. There was no elevator.

Hotels were required by state and federal laws and private insurance to maintain accurate guest records. In case of a fire or an earthquake or a tornado, it was in everyone's interest to know who was resident in the building, and who wasn't. Therefore Reacher had learned a long time ago that when searching a hotel the place to start was with the register. Which over the years had become increasingly difficult, with computers. There were all kinds of function keys to hit and pa.s.swords to discover. But Despair as a whole was behind the times, and its hotel was no exception. The register was a large square book bound in old red leather. Easy to grab, easy to swivel around, easy to open, easy to read.

The hotel had no guests.

According to the handwritten records the last room had rented seven months previously, to a couple from California, who had arrived in a private car and stayed two nights. Since then, nothing. No names that might have corresponded to single twenty-year-old men, either large or small. No names at all.

Reacher left the hotel without a single soul having seen him and got back in the Chevy. Next stop was two blocks over, in the town bar, which meant mixing with the locals.

28

The bar was on the ground floor of yet another dull brick cube. One long narrow room. It ran the full depth of the building and had a short corridor with restrooms and a fire door way in back. The bar itself was on the left and there were tables and chairs on the right. Low light. No music. No television. No pool table, no video games. Maybe a third of the bar stools and a quarter of the chairs were occupied. The after-work crowd. But not exactly happy hour. All the customers were men. They were all tired, all grimy, all dressed in work s.h.i.+rts, all sipping beer from tall gla.s.ses or long-neck bottles. Reacher had seen none of them before.

He stepped into the gloom, quietly. Every head turned and every pair of eyes came to rest on him. Some kind of universal barroom radar.Stranger in the house. Reacher stood still and let them take a good look. Reacher stood still and let them take a good look.A stranger for sure, but not the kind you want to mess with. Then he sat down on a stool and put his elbows on the bar. He was two gaps away from the nearest guy on his left and one away from the nearest guy on his right. The stools had iron bases and iron pillars and shaped mahogany seats that turned on rough bearings. The bar itself was made from scarred mahogany that didn't match the walls, which were paneled with pine. There were mirrors all over the walls, made of plain reflective gla.s.s screen-printed with beer company advertis.e.m.e.nts. They were framed with rustic wood and were fogged with years of alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke. Then he sat down on a stool and put his elbows on the bar. He was two gaps away from the nearest guy on his left and one away from the nearest guy on his right. The stools had iron bases and iron pillars and shaped mahogany seats that turned on rough bearings. The bar itself was made from scarred mahogany that didn't match the walls, which were paneled with pine. There were mirrors all over the walls, made of plain reflective gla.s.s screen-printed with beer company advertis.e.m.e.nts. They were framed with rustic wood and were fogged with years of alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke.

The bartender was a heavy pale man of about forty. He didn't look smart and he didn't look pleasant. He was ten feet away, leaning back with his fat a.s.s against his cash register drawer. Not moving. Not about to move, either. That was clear. Reacher raised his eyebrows and put a beckoning expression on his face and got no response at all.

A company town.

He swiveled his stool and faced the room.

"Listen up, guys," he called. "I'm not a metalworker and I'm not looking for a job."

No response.

"You couldn't pay me enough to work here. I'm not interested. I'm just a guy pa.s.sing through, looking for a beer."

No response. Just sullen and hostile stares, with bottles and gla.s.ses frozen halfway between tables and mouths.

Reacher said, "First guy to talk to me, I'll pay his tab."

No response.

"For a week."

No response.

Reacher turned back and faced the bar again. The bartender hadn't moved. Reacher looked him in the eye and said, "Sell me a beer or I'll start busting this place up."

The bartender moved. But not toward his refrigerator cabinets or his draft pumps. Toward his telephone instead. It was an old-fas.h.i.+oned instrument next to the register. The guy picked it up and dialed a long number. Reacher waited. The guy listened to a lot of ring tone and then started to say something but then stopped and put the phone down again.

"Voice mail," he said.

"n.o.body home," Reacher said. "So it's just you and me. I'll take a Budweiser, no gla.s.s."

The guy glanced beyond Reacher's shoulder, out into the room, to see if any ad hoc coalitions were forming to help him out. They weren't. Reacher was already monitoring the situation in a dull mirror directly in front of him. The bartender decided not to be a hero. He shrugged and his att.i.tude changed and his face sagged a little and he bent down and pulled a cold bottle out from under the bar. Opened it up and set it down on a napkin. Foam swelled out of the neck and ran down the side of the bottle and soaked into the paper. Reacher took a ten from his pocket and folded it lengthways so it wouldn't curl and squared it in front of him.

"I'm looking for a guy," he said.

The bartender said, "What guy?"

"A young guy. Maybe twenty. Suntan, short hair, as big as me."

"n.o.body like that here."

"I saw him this afternoon. In town. Coming out of the rooming house."

"So ask there."

"I did."

"I can't help you."