Page 9 of Chain Reaction

She opened her fine leather briefcase and took out a thick white envelope. She laid it on the bed. She said, “Five thousand dollars. Don’t use your bank card. If I can track it, so can the people around me.” She put her hand back in the briefcase and came out with a cell phone. A plain-looking thing. She laid it on the bed, next to the envelope. “A burner,” she said. “My burner’s number is in it. That’s how we communicate, until things become clearer. The battery will last a few days. I didn’t bring a charger. I knew you wouldn’t want to carry one. You’ll have to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

“Some motels have those things now,” Reacher said. “You want to get dinner?”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry. But neither can you. There are flights to Denver until eleven tonight. Not redeyes exactly. You make up two hours because of the time zones.”

Chapter 4

Buying an airplane ticket with cash in the modern world was unusual, but easy enough. First requirement was a large airport, with a large check-in hall, so that the domestic carriers each had maybe twenty desks. With that many, at least one of them would be a cash desk, with a drawer, and maybe even change. Once located, it was a straightforward transaction. Cash was legal tender, and the airlines had product to sell. The only downside was an ancient rule of thumb that said people who bought one-way tickets with cash were up to no good. Drug mules, terrorists, whatever. Accordingly Reacher’s boarding pass came out printed with SSSS, which stood for Secondary Security Screening Selection, which meant his stuff was going to get a real going-over.

Which turned out fine, because he had no stuff. A travel toothbrush, an old passport, a new ATM card, a phone, and a roll of cash in his pocket worth, now, a little less than five grand. Questions were asked, which he didn’t answer. He was a firm believer in his right to remain silent. Eventually they let him through. He was a citizen, nothing he had was dangerous, and five grand wasn’t what it used to be. It was walking around money for some people. It wasn’t a million dollars in a crocodile valise.

He had an hour to wait. He sat two gates away, where a flight had just departed, and all the seats were empty. He thought about buying a shirt, but decided not to. Colorado in August would be warm enough not to need one. He thought about getting something to eat, but decided not to. He would eat on the plane. Dinner was included. He had bought a first class ticket. Why not? It was the Chief of Staff’s money, not his.

—

The plane began its final descent more than a hundred miles out, which seemed appropriate, given the scale of its destination. By land area Denver International was the largest airport in the Western Hemisphere, and the second largest on earth. It had a runway more than three miles long. An hour’s fast walk, for most people.

Reacher had been comfortable in his seat, and satisfied with the menu. The person next to him had been unobtrusive. He considered the Chief of Staff’s money well spent. He got off the plane and rode the chirpy little train to the main terminal. He stepped outside to hot dry nighttime air and started looking for a ride. Seventy miles to Summertown was too far for a regular cab. The meter would tick up a crazy fare. A limo was what he needed. Seventy miles was nothing to them.

He walked up to departures and watched people getting out of limos. Mostly business people, heading for the real redeyes, timed to get them there for morning meetings in New York or Boston or D.C., with no hotel expenses for their employers. The modern world.

Where were their limos going next? That was the question. The answer was almost certainly nowhere, given the late hour. A long day. No more bookings. Weary drivers, heading home, hitting the sack. Except human nature being what it was, surely one of them would be happy to stay up an extra couple hours, in exchange for an extra couple hundred bucks out of the Chief of Staff’s wad. But which one?

The third driver Reacher asked said yes. A young guy with long hair, neatly dressed, well spoken, in a clean but worn black Chevy Tahoe. Maybe a graduate student making ends meet. Maybe studying a technical discipline, because he seemed to know where Summertown was, and he seemed to know what it was. As if people went there for one of only two reasons. He asked, “The solar or the servers?”

“The motel,” Reacher said.

“You in the hospitality business?”

“I have experience in that area of the economy, yes. You know anything about the Summertown motel?”

“I’ve dropped people off there, and picked them up too. Engineers mostly, or software guys. They’re probably not expecting the Ritz-Carlton, but they’re the kind of person who wants a decent place. So I guess it’s OK.”

“Good to know,” Reacher said.

“You planning to invest?”

“First I would want to do a secret shopper thing. I would want to see it through a customer’s eyes.”

“Good plan, man,” the kid said. Then he stopped talking. The reality of two extra hours took hold. He retreated into a limo-driver deaf-and-dumb bubble and concentrated on the road ahead. The old Tahoe wasn’t happy above about seventy-some miles an hour on the highway, and less than that on the subsequent two-lane that wandered west toward the mountains. Reacher pictured Bisley driving the same road in the rented Toyota. He would have gotten off the plane in the afternoon, local time, so he would have been driving in daylight. Bright blue skies above. Tawny plains all around, shimmering with August heat, then pale distant peaks ahead, like faraway illusions in the haze.

Reacher checked the bars on his burner phone. He had four out of five. They were driving through dark emptiness, but apparently it had communications infrastructure. Northern Colorado. The university triangle. The air was probably humming with data.

He dialed Turner. It was late on the East Coast, but she was a night person. He remembered that. So she was likely still awake. Plus she had asked for real time updates. Be careful what you wish for.

She answered.

She said, “How’s it going?”

Her voice on the phone was something else. Low, husky, intimate. He remembered it well. It was why he had traveled cross-country to meet her, all those years before.

He said, “I’m in a car from the airport. It’s dark outside. I’m thinking. You wanted to know what about while I was doing it.”

“Good or bad?”

“We drove north on a highway, and now we’re driving west on a two-lane. We missed something in the file. Bisley was driving in afternoon daylight. If he then drove himself onward to the bar, he was driving into the setting sun. But his sunglasses were listed in the sheriff’s inventory as found on a shelf in his room. He didn’t take them. Therefore he didn’t drive himself to the bar. He was in the passenger seat. A tall guy drove. Wearing sunglasses, without a doubt. Probably with the visor down too.”

Turner said, “Damn.”