“Do these calls go in the database?”

“They’re most of the database. Ask any reporter.”

“Can you search by subject?”

“We get lazy about details. These guys ramble on. We use categories, mostly. This type of crank, that type of crank. Sooner or later I block their calls. When they outstay their welcome. I have to sleep sometimes.”

“Try Mother’s Rest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the name of a town. Two words. Like your mom sitting down in a chair. Capital letters.”

“Why is it called that?”

“I don’t know,” Reacher said.

They heard keyboard keys clicking, loud on the speakerphone. The database search, presumably. By subject.

Westwood said, “Nothing there.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a fairly distinctive name.”

Reacher said nothing.

Westwood said, “Hey, I’m not saying your guy’s client didn’t call me. He probably did. We all know people like that. I’m saying, how would I know which one he was?”

They drove out of Keever’s dead-end street, and out of his development, and past an outlet mall, to the highway entrance. Five hours to the right was Mother’s Rest, and ten minutes to the left was downtown Oklahoma City, with steakhouses and barbecue, and decent hotels.

But Chang said, “No, we have to go back.”

Chapter 18

Instead of a steakhouse or a barbecue pit they ate in chilly fluorescent silence in a rest-stop facility run by a third-best national chain. Reacher got a cheeseburger in a paper wrapper and coffee in a foam cup. Chang got a salad, in a plastic container as big as a basketball, with a clear lid at the top, and a white bowl underneath. She was stressed and maybe a little tired from driving, but even so she was good company. She put her hair behind her shoulders and turned attacking her salad into a shared misadventure, with widened eyes and about six different kinds of half-smiles, ranging from rueful and self-effacing to amused anticipation, as Reacher picked up his burger and tried to take a bite.

She said, “Thank you for your help so far.”

He said, “You’re welcome.”

“We need to think about a more durable arrangement.”

“Do we?”

“We shouldn’t start out working as a team if I’m going to finish up working alone.”

He said, “You should call 911.”

“It would be a missing persons report. That’s all, at this point. An independent adult, gone for two days, in a business where there’s a lot of short-notice travel. They wouldn’t do anything. We have no evidence to give them.”

“His door.”

“Undamaged. An unlocked door is evidence of homeowner negligence, not foul play.”

“So you want to hire me? How does that work, with the low overhead thing?”

“I just want you to tell me your intentions.”

He said nothing.

She said, “You could get a ride back to OC from here. There would be no hard feelings.”

“I was heading over to Chicago. Before the weather gets cold.”

“Same answer. Hitch back to OC and get the train. Same train you got before. Won’t get delayed again, I’m sure.”

He said nothing. He had come to like her lace-up shoes. They were practical, but they looked good, too. Her jeans were soft and old, and they rode low on her hips. Her T-shirt was black, neither tight nor loose. Her eyes were on his.

He said, “I’ll ride with you. But only if you want me to. This is your business, not mine.”

“I feel bad asking.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“I can’t pay you.”

“I already have everything I need.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“A few bucks in my pocket, and four points on the compass.”

“Because I would need to understand your reasons.”

“For what?”

“For helping me.”

“I think people should always help each other.”

“This could go above and beyond.”

“I’m sure we’ve both seen worse.”

She paused a beat.

“Last chance,” she said.

He said, “I’ll ride with you.”

It was dark when they came off the highway. The county road ran onward through the vastness, visible only a headlight’s length ahead, and unrevealed beyond. The little Ford hummed along, bouncing now and then on eroded blacktop, pale wheat stalks strobing by on both sides. Overhead were thin clouds, and a new moon, and a dusting of distant stars.

It was impossible to say when they passed the point where they had left the Moynahans. Every mile looked exactly the same as every other mile. But the dull red pick-up had gone. They saw it nowhere, not on the county road itself, or on the right-left-right-left local turns that led back through the fields to Mother’s Rest. Which they saw a mile away, faint and ghostly in the night, the elevators by far the tallest things in the landscape. They came in on the old trail, through the widest part of town, six low-rise blocks, and they turned on the plaza and drove down to the motel. The light was burning in the office window.

Chang said, “Let the fun begin.”

She parked in the slot under her room and shut down the engine. They paused a moment in the sudden silence, and then they climbed out. They put their hands on their captured guns in their pockets, and stood near the car, in the yellow nighttime half-light, from the glow of the electric bulbs in their bulkhead fixtures, one above every door, and all of them working.

No movement. No sound.

No Moynahans, no posse.

Nothing.

Then a hundred feet away the one-eyed guy came out of the office.

He hustled over, the same way he had before, waving and gesturing, and when he arrived he fixed his imperfect gaze on the ground, and he took a breath.

“I apologize,” he said. “A mistake was made. It led to a misunderstanding. Room 215 is yours to use, until the other gentleman gets back.”

Chang said nothing.

Reacher said, “Understood.”

The one-eyed guy nodded, as if to seal the deal, and then he turned tail and hustled back. Chang watched him go, and said, “Could be a trap or an ambush.”

“Could be,” Reacher said. “But I don’t think it is. He wouldn’t want fighting inside the actual room itself. The furniture would get busted up, and he would be patching bullet holes in the drywall all winter long.”

“You saying they’ve surrendered?”

“It’s a move in the game.”

“What’s the next move?”

“I don’t know.”

“And when will it come?”

“Tomorrow, probably,” Reacher said. He looked all around, all three sides of the horseshoe, downstairs and upstairs. There was a rim of light around the drapes in room 203. Where the man in the suit had stayed. It had a new occupant.

“Not before dawn,” he said. “That would be my guess.”

“Will you sleep OK?”

“I expect so. Will you?”

“If I don’t, I’ll bang on the wall.”

They went up the metal stairs together, and pulled their keys, and turned their locks, side by side but twenty feet apart, like neighbors getting home from work.

A hundred feet away the one-eyed guy took the lawn chair from outside 102, which was empty, and hauled it over to the spot he had used before, on the sidewalk under his office window. He lined it up and dumped himself down, in the nighttime air, ready to obey the second of the evening’s commands, which had been Watch their rooms all night.

The first command had been Even if they come back, do not under any circumstances rock the boat tonight. Which matter he thought he had handled in a satisfactory manner.

Chapter 19

As before, Reacher sat in his room in the dark, back from the window, invisible from the outside, just watching, this time from a second-floor perspective. Fifteen minutes, then twenty, then thirty. As long as it took, to be sure. The one-eyed guy in his plastic chair was the same pale smudge in the distance, a hundred feet away. The rim of light around 203’s drapes burned steadily. Nothing moved. No cars, no people. No glowing cigarettes in the shadows.