`Don’t shoot me, Picard,’ I yelled. `You won’t get Hubble if you do.’
He knew that. And he knew he was a dead man if he didn’t get Hubble. Kliner wouldn’t tolerate
failure. He stood there with his .38 aimed at my head. But he didn’t shoot. I ran up the bank and circled the car, forcing him out toward the traffic with the Desert Eagle.
`You don’t shoot me, either,’ Picard screamed. `My phone call is the only way you’re going to save that woman. That’s for sure. You better believe it.5
‘I know that, Picard,’ I yelled back. `I believe it. I’m not going to shoot you. Are you going to shoot me?’
He shook his head over the .38.
`I’m not going to shoot you, Reacher,’ he said. It looked like a stalemate. We circled the Bentley
with our fingers white on the triggers, telling each
other we weren’t going to shoot.
He was telling the truth. But I was lying. I waited until he was lined up with the wreckage of the truck and I was next to the Bentley. Then I pulled the trigger. The .44 shell caught him and smashed his huge bulk backwards into the tangled metal. I didn’t wait around for a second shot. I slammed the trunk lid and jumped for the driver’s seat. Fired the car up and burned rubber. I peeled away from the shoulder and dodged the people running around after the dollar bills. Jammed my foot down and hurtled east.
Twenty miles to go. Took me twenty minutes. I was gasping and shaky with adrenalin. I forced my heartbeat down and took big gulps of air. Then I yelled to myself in triumph. Screamed and yelled out loud. Picard was gone.
THIRTY-ONE
It was dark when I hit the outlying Augusta suburbs. I pulled off the highway as soon as the taller buildings started to thicken up. Drove down the city streets and stopped at the first motel I saw. Locked the Bentley up and dodged into the office. Stepped over to the desk. The clerk looked up.
`Got a room?’ I asked him.
`Thirty-six bucks,’ the guy said.
`Phone in the room?’ I asked him.
`Sure,’ he said. `Air conditioning and cable TV.W
‘Yellow Pages in the room?’ I asked him.
He nodded.
`Got a map of Augusta?’ I said.
He jerked his thumb over to a rack next to a cigarette machine. It was stuffed with maps and brochures. I peeled off thirty-six bucks from the roll in my trouser pocket. Dropped the cash on the desk. Filled in the register. I put my name down as Roscoe Finlay.
`Room twelve,’ the guy said. Slid me the key.
I stopped to grab a map and hustled out. Ran
down the row to room twelve. Let myself in and locked the door. I didn’t look at the room. Just looked for the phone and the Yellow Pages. I lay on the bed and unfolded the map. Opened up the Yellow Pages to H for hotels.
There was a huge list. In Augusta, there were hundreds of places where you could pay for a bed for the night. Literally hundreds. Pages and pages of them. So I looked at the map. Concentrated on a wedge a half-mile long and four blocks deep, either side of the main drag in from the west. That was my target area. I downgraded the places right on the main drag. I upgraded the places a block or two off. Prioritized the places between a quartermile and a half-mile out. I was looking at a rough square, a quarter-mile long and a quarter-mile deep. I put the map and the phone book side by side and made a hit list.
Eighteen hotels. One of them was the place I was lying there in. So I picked up the phone and dialled zero for the desk. The clerk answered.
`You got a guy called Paul Lennon registered?’ I asked him.
There was a pause. He was checking the book. `Lennon?’ he said. `No, sir.’
`OK,’ I said. Put the phone down.
I took a deep breath and started at the top of my list. Dialled the first place.