I waited a half-hour. Couldn’t wait any more. I started the old Cadillac and moved it through the stillness. The tappets were out and the pistons were slapping. The motor was making a hell of a noise in the silence. I parked the car tight up to the red truck. Nose in, facing the kid’s motel room door. I climbed out across the passenger seat. Stood still and listened. Nothing.
I took Morrison’s switchblade from my jacket pocket and stepped up onto the Cadillac’s front fender. Stepped onto the hood and up over the windshield. Up onto the Cadillac’s roof. Stood still, up high. Listened hard. Nothing. I leaned over to the truck and hauled myself upward onto its roof.
A panel truck like that has a translucent roof. It’s some kind of a fibreglass sheet. They make the roof out of it, or at least a sort of skylight set into the sheet metal. It’s there to let a dim light down into the cargo area. Helps with loading and unloading. Maybe it’s lighter in weight. Maybe cheaper. Manufacturer will do anything to save a buck. The roof is the best way into a truck like that.
My upper body was flat on the fibreglass panel and my feet were scrabbling for the Cadillac’s gutter. I reached out as far as I could and sprang the switchblade. Stabbed it down through the plastic panel, right in the centre of the roof. Used the blade to saw a flap about ten inches deep, eighteen inches wide. I could push it down and peer in. Like looking down through a shallow slot.
The light in the motel room snapped on. The window blind threw a yellow square of light out over the Cadillac. Over the side of the red truck. Over my legs. I grunted and pushed off. Swam out onto the truck’s roof. Lay flat and silent. Held my breath.
The motel room door opened. The Kliner kid came out. Stared at the Cadillac. Stooped and looked inside. Walked around and checked the truck. Checked the cab doors. Tugged the handles. The vehicle shook and rocked under me. He walked around to the back and tried the rear doors. Tugged the handles. I heard the doors rattle against their locks.
He walked a circuit of the truck. I lay there and listened to the crack of his footsteps below. He checked the Cadillac again. Then he went back inside. The room door slammed. The light snapped off. The yellow square of light died.
I waited five minutes. Just lay there up on the roof and waited. Then I hauled myself up onto my elbows. Reached for the slot in the fibreglass that I’d just cut. Forced the flap down and hooked my fingers in. Dragged myself over and peered through.
The truck was empty. Totally empty. Nothing in it at all.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was over four hundred miles back to the Margrave station house. I drove all of them as fast as I dared. I needed to see Finlay. Needed to lay out a brand-new theory for him. I slotted the old Cadillac into a space right next to Teale’s brand-new model. Went inside and nodded to the desk guy. He nodded back.
`Finlay here?’ I asked him.
`In back,’ he told me. `The mayor’s with him.’
I skirted the reception counter and ran through the squad room to the rosewood office. Finlay was in there with Teale. Finlay had bad news for me. I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. Teale looked at me, surprised.
`You back in the army, Mr Reacher?’ he said.
Took me a second to catch on. He was talking about my fatigues and the camouflage jacket. I looked him up and down. He was in a shiny grey suit with embroidered patterns all over it. Bootlace tie with a silver clasp.
`Don’t you be talking to me about clothes, asshole,’ I said.
He looked down at himself in surprise. Brushed off a speck that hadn’t been there. Glared up at me.
`I could have you arrested for language like that,’ he said.
`And I could tear your head off,’ I said to him. `And then I could stick it up your ratty old ass.’