Echo burning. A Jack Reacher Novel. Lee Child

“This is the place,” he said.

“Is it?”

He nodded. “Looks right to me.”

“You cops?” the office guy asked, looking out at the car.

“I need to see your register,” Reacher said. “For tonight’s guests.”

It was impossible. Totally impossible. She wasn’t outside, she wasn’t inside. He ran his eyes over the room again. The beds, the furniture, the closet. Nothing doing. She wasn’t in the bathroom, because he had been in the bathroom.

Unless. . .

Unless she had been under the bed or in the closet and then had ducked into the bathroom while he was outside. He stepped over and opened the bathroom door. Smiled at himself in the mirror. The mist had cleared off it. He pulled back the shower curtain in one dramatic sweeping move.

“There you are,” he said.

She was pressed up into the corner of the tub, standing straight, wearing a T-shirt and shorts and shoes. The back of her right hand was jammed in her mouth. Her eyes were wide open. They were dark and huge.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I was going to take you with me.”

She said nothing. Just watched him. He reached out to her. She shrank back. Took the hand away from her mouth.

“It’s not been four hours,” she said.

“Yes, it has,” he said. “Way more than four.”

She put her knuckles back in her mouth. He reached out again. She shrank away. What had her mommy told her to do? If you’re worried about something, just scream and scream. She took a deep breath and tried. But no sound would come out. Her throat was too dry.

“The register,” Reacher said again.

The office guy hesitated like there were procedures involved. Reacher checked his watch and pulled the Heckler & Koch from his pocket, all in one simple movement.

“Right now,” he said. “We don’t have time to mess around.”

The guy’s eyes went wide and he ducked around the counter and reversed a big leather ledger. Pushed it toward the near edge. Reacher and Alice crowded together to look at it.

“What names?” she asked.

“No idea,” he said. “Just look at the cars.”

There were five columns to a page. Date, name, home address, vehicle make, date of departure. There were twenty lines, for twenty cabins. Sixteen were occupied. Seven of them had arrows originating on the previous page, indicating guests who were staying a second or subsequent night. Nine cabins held new arrivals. Eleven cabins had a vehicle make entered directly against them. Four cabins were marked in two pairs of two, each sharing a vehicle.

“Families,” the night clerk said. “Or large parties.”

“Did you check them in?” Reacher asked.

The guy shook his head.

“I’m the night man,” he said. “I’m not here until midnight.”

Reacher stared at the page. Went very still. Looked away.

“What?” Alice said.

“This isn’t the right place. This is the wrong place. I blew it.”

“Why?”

“Look at the cars,” he said.

He ran the gun muzzle down the fourth column. Three Chevrolets, three Hondas, two Toyotas, two Buicks, one Saab, one Audi. And one Ford.

“Should be two Fords,” he said. “Their Crown Vic and the Explorer that’s already parked out there.”

“Shit,” she said.

He nodded. Shit. He went completely blank. If this wasn’t the right place, he had absolutely no idea what was. He had staked everything on it. He had no plan B. He glanced at the register. Ford. Pictured the old Explorer sitting out there, square and dull. Then he glanced back at the register again.

The handwriting was all the same.

“Who fills this out?” he asked.

“The owner,” the clerk said. “She does everything the old-fashioned way.”

He closed his eyes. Retraced in his mind Alice’s slow circle around the lot. Thought back to all the old-fashioned motels he’d used in his life.

“O.K.,” he said. “The guest tells her the name and the address, she writes it down. Then maybe she just glances out of the window and writes down the vehicle make for herself. Maybe if the guests are talking or busy getting their money out.”

“Maybe. I’m the night man. I’m never here for that.”

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