Never Go Back

closer to the bed.
    He said, ‘Your turn now.’
    She sat up.
    She smiled.
    She took her shirt off.
    She was everything he thought she would be, and she was everything he had ever wanted.
    They woke very late the next morning, warm, drowsy, deeply satiated, roused from sleep only by the sound of automobile engines in the lot below their window. They yawned, and stretched, and kissed, long and slow and gentle.
    Turner said, ‘We wasted Billy Bob’s money. With the two-room thing. My fault entirely. I’m sorry.’
    Reacher asked, ‘What changed your mind?’
    ‘Lust, I suppose. Prison makes you think.’
    ‘Seriously.’
    ‘It was your T-shirt. I’ve never seen anything so thin. It was either very expensive or very cheap.’
    ‘Seriously.’
    ‘It was on my bucket list since we talked on the phone. I liked your voice. And I saw your photograph.’
    ‘I don’t believe you.’
    ‘You mentioned the girl in Berryville. That’s what changed my mind. With the arm. That offended you. And you’ve done nothing but chip away at my problem. You’re ignoring your own, with the Big Dog. Which is just as serious. Therefore you still care for others. Which means you can’t really be feral. I imagine caring for others is the first thing to go. And you still know right from wrong. Which all means you’re OK. Which all means my future self is OK, too. It’s not going to be so bad.’
    ‘You’re going to be a two-star general, if you want to be.’
    ‘Only two stars?’
    ‘More than that is like running for office. No fun at all.’
    She didn’t answer. There was still motor noise in the lot. It sounded like multiple vehicles were driving around and around, in a big circle. Maybe three or four of them, one after the other. Up one side of the building, and down the other. An endless loop.
    Turner asked, ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Nine minutes before noon.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I always know what time it is.’
    ‘What time is check-out?’
    Then they heard footsteps on the walkway outside, and an envelope slid under the door, and the footsteps reversed direction, and faded away.
    ‘Check-out time is noon, I guess,’ Reacher said. ‘Because I assume that envelope is our copy of the invoice, paid in full.’
    ‘That’s very formal.’
    ‘They have a computer.’
    The motor noise was still there. Reacher assumed the lizard part of his brain had already screened it for danger. Were they army vehicles? Cop cars? FBI? And apparently the lizard brain had made no comment. Correctly, in this case, because they were clearly civilian vehicles outside. All gasoline engines, including an out-of-tune V-8 with a holed muffler, and at least one weak four-cylinder cheap-finance-special-offer kind of a thing, plus crashing suspensions and rattling panels. Not military or paramilitary sounds at all.
    They got louder and faster.
    ‘What is that?’ Turner said.
    ‘Take a look,’ Reacher said.
    She padded slender and naked to the window. She made a peephole in the drapes. She looked out, and waited, to catch the whole show.
    ‘Four pick-up trucks,’ she said. ‘Various ages, sizes, and states of repair, all of them with two people aboard. They’re circling the building, over and over again.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘What town are we in?’
    ‘Petersburg, West Virginia.’
    ‘Then maybe it’s an old West Virginia folk tradition. The rites of spring, or something. Like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Except they do it in pick-up trucks, in Petersburg.’
    ‘But it looks kind of hostile. Like those movies you mentioned, where they say it’s too quiet. The parts where the Indians ride in a circle around the wagon with the busted wheel. Faster and faster.’
    Reacher looked from her to the door.
    ‘Wait,’ he said.
    He slid out of bed and picked up the envelope. The flap was not gummed down. Inside was a piece of paper. Nothing sinister. As expected. It was a tri-folded invoice showing a zero balance. Which was correct. Room eleven, thirty bucks, less thirty bucks cash upfront.
    But.
    At the bottom of the invoice was a cheery printed thank-you-for-staying-with-us line, and below that the motel owner’s name was printed like a signature, and below that there was a piece of completely gratuitous information.
    ‘Shit,’ Reacher said.
    ‘What?’
    He met her by the bed and showed her.
    We surely appreciated you staying with us!
    John Claughton, Owner.
    There have been Claughtons in Grant