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The guy worked the buttons on the little machine, dipped the key into the slot, and handed it back. Reacher slipped it into his pocket. Then the guy said, “Wait a minute. You’re in 112. I remember because your friend is next door. Room 114.”

Reacher nodded. “Correct. Room 112.”

“You said 121.”

“I’m good with numbers. I know exactly what I said.”

“Well, whatever you said, I programmed it for 121. My mistake, I guess. You better let me have it back. Do it over.”

Reacher shrugged, pulled out the other card, and gave it to the guy. The guy worked the machine again and handed the card back.

The guy said, “I’m really sorry about that. Stupid of me.”

Reacher said, “No problem. Same digits. Easy to mix them up. Forget it even happened.”

—

The hands on the alarm clock crept around to 1:30 a.m. Friday morning. Bruno Hix was in bed. He had been there for hours. But he hadn’t gotten a moment of sleep. He had just lain there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the stranger who had invaded his town. First, he had thought about the operation to take care of the guy. And his female companion. Harold and the others were going to hit them in their rooms at the hotel. But that had been due to happen at 1:00 a.m. Another half hour had passed. It should have been a simple procedure. He should have heard something. Confirmation that the problem had been eliminated. Unless—

Hix’s phone rang. He snatched it up from the nightstand. The display showed Brockman’s number. Hix hit the answer key. “Tell me we got them.”

Brockman said, “It’s better than that. Getting stopped by that cop must have spooked them. They’ve gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“They’re not in their rooms at the Winson Garden. The beds haven’t been touched. And their truck’s not in the lot. They must have sneaked away, somehow.”

“They must be staying somewhere else.”

“Not in Winson. They did have a reservation at the Riverside Lodge, prepaid, in Hannah Hampton’s name, but they didn’t show up. We called all the B&Bs in town and they’re not at any of them. We checked their names and descriptions. They’re nowhere. They’re history. They’re no longer a problem.”

—

Hix dropped the phone on the pillow and closed his eyes. He breathed freely for the first time that night. He felt his heart rate slow down. He began to drift toward sleep. Then he sat up. He was wide awake again. He grabbed his phone and hit the key to call Brockman back.

Hix said, “The Riverside Lodge. Where Reacher and the woman made a reservation but didn’t show. Did you ask about walk-ins? Anyone paying cash?”

Brockman said, “No. Why would I? We know they didn’t—damn.”

“The penny drops. It’s the perfect misdirect. Or almost perfect, given they’re dealing with me, not you. Find the clerk who was working yesterday evening. They were probably bribed. Or threatened. Or both. Go to their house. Loosen their tongue. And if Reacher is at the Lodge, send Harold and the guys. Immediately. I don’t want this dragging on any longer.”

“I’m on it. And if you think about it, this is good news. If Reacher is at the Riverside Lodge after pulling that kind of shenanigans, the asshole will think he’s safe. Harold’s job will be a lot easier.”

—

By the time the LED display on the van’s dashboard blinked around to 1:30 a.m. Lev Emerson was sitting in the driver’s seat, in the hotel parking lot up in St. Louis, waiting. Behind him, in the load space, the three old cushions were strapped away in their dedicated space. There was no danger of them getting thrown around in traffic, knocking over chemicals or damaging equipment. Two minutes later Graeber hauled open the passenger door. He had known his boss would want to drive, despite the lack of sleep, so he had taken the time to scare up a large mug of extra-strong coffee. Caffeine and conversation. Enough to keep them on the road all the way to Vicksburg, Mississippi. He hoped.

—

An hour later, at 2:30 a.m., six men walked through the main entrance of the Riverside Lodge, just outside Winson. First was the clerk who had helped Reacher the previous evening. His feet were bare. He was wearing blue-and-white-striped pajamas and his blond hair was sticking out in all kinds of crazy directions. He was followed by the two Minerva guys who had been sent to Colorado. Next came the two guys who had been keeping watch at the Greyhound station in Jackson. The guy who brought up the rear looked like he was as broad as any two of the others. He was six foot six tall. A good three hundred pounds. His chest and biceps were so big that his arms couldn’t hang straight down at his sides. He had no neck. His head was shaved. His eyes were small mean dots that sank beneath the sharp cliff of his forehead. He had a tattoo on his right forearm that once said Harold & Molly 4ever in a heart, pierced by an arrow. A cut-price attempt at laser removal had left it reading something more like larol oily leve, in an apple.