He felt something springy under his shoe.
The property boundary fence.
It lay flat along the ground for fifteen feet in both directions. He could see that the nearest post was rotten and would’ve broken easily. The weight of the post would act as a lever against the base with a single result, what he saw in front of him. He supposed other sections of fence around the perimeter might also be down, but the proximity to where Blake parked and Lauren’s path bothered him. It seemed unlikely that the two events could be unrelated, yet it realistically made no difference. The fence was old and had not been designed with security in mind. At best, it marked a property line and kept forest animals within from wandering onto the highway. Thorne got back in the car and sat there for a moment, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.
There were two possible causes.
Option one. As he’d discovered, the vans used by television networks were similar in size to Blake’s. When he had first arrived at the mansion, reporters had camped out here for close on a week. This verge would have offered a good spot to cover the entrance, just as it had for Blake. It was also easy to imagine the fence becoming damaged by vans reverse-turning to head back into Santa Cruz.
Option two. Blake had been here multiple times and had deliberately damaged the fence in order to make some future breach easier. When he thought about it, the fact that the path wasn’t obvious from the road gave him little comfort. If Blake had spent time here, eventually he would’ve needed to relieve himself and the forest offered privacy. From there, it wasn’t hard to imagine him stumbling across the path and seeing it as a perfect method of entry, just as he had.
Thorne started the car and was about to rejoin the asphalt again when four trucks rolled past in convoy. The trucks slowed to a walking pace then swung across the narrow road using both lanes and in through Ashcroft’s gate. The sides of the vehicles were decorated with logos for a catering and corporate events company in Santa Cruz. He shook his head. This, he supposed, was how millionaires prepared for their fiftieth birthday party. He tagged the Maserati onto the end of the line and followed the last truck in through the gate.
Thorne stood next to the Ashcrofts in front of the mansion as a crew of people worked to transform the mansion into what appeared to be a Christmas cake. A short man in a tuxedo bustled around giving orders, while carrying out a separate conversation via a cell phone headset. Instead of punching the man repeatedly in the face, Thorne accepted a glass of Scotch that James Ashcroft held out for him. He’d noticed that since he’d stopped using Fentanyl, he’d started drinking alcohol again. He took a sip. The glass had three fingers of whisky and no ice. The senator was a no-ice guy. It tasted a lot like a cigar had been put out in it, if there was a good way of that happening.
“Not bad,” he said, nodding.
“It’s 40 years old. I couldn’t find one that was 50.”
Thorne studied the contents of his glass. When he was born it had already been in a barrel for four years. He couldn’t imagine what difference all that time could make, except for the price the senator paid for it. He looked back at Ashcroft.
“James, can I have a word in private?”
“Of course.”
Thorne noticed Lauren glaring at him. He didn’t know which she disliked more, the idea that she was being excluded, or the idea that he and James might be friends. They walked away from the house onto the large area of grass that was spread out before it. He was keen to get down to business and the senator walked slower than an old lady with a cane.
“Look, I may be out of line here,” Thorne said, “but I wish you’d warned me you were having all these people here today. There’s like thirty people crawling all over your house doing God-knows-what. It’s a security nightmare.”
Ashcroft smiled.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, I’ve used these guys for years.”
“How many people know about your birthday party?”
“Most of the county probably know about it from previous years’ press coverage. If it’s been covered by the national press this year then you’re talking millions.”
“Christ, OK. Now some of those people will also know that you always use the same catering company, right?”
Ashcroft seemed to think about this.
“You’re suggesting the clown gang might have infiltrated the catering company and are here now, is that right?”
“James, if they were here we’d already be dead. That’s the truth. I’m saying we need to be smart. I think we can assume the gang know about this party. They’ll also know you return to Washington some time after it, and that their time is running out.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Tonight at the party, have two armed guards at the gate and six more around the building. The two at the gate are for show. It tells them you have security, that you’re not some sitting duck. The goal is to dissuade them from attacking in the first place.”
“I can’t do that, Chris. My whole platform is anti-gun. It would end my candidacy.”
“Then have the guards dress like Secret Service. It makes you look presidential and still sends the gang a message. It’s not just your safety here, it’s your friends as well.”
Ashcroft nodded. “I hate this, but I’ll do it.”
“When do you guys go back to Washington?”
“I haven’t decided. Usually I leave a couple of days after my birthday. Lauren stays on here for almost another month, before following me over in time for Christmas.”
“James, there’s no way. You can’t leave Lauren here alone.”
“I realize that. She spoke about visiting friends in L.A. this year but I’m not sure.” Ashcroft paused, a new light in his eyes. “The two of you should go together in your car. She feels safe with you around and she hates flying. What do you think? It’s perfect, no?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Good, then it’s settled.”
Ashcroft couldn’t see what was happening, but he could. Lauren wasn’t giving up. She was engineering a situation that would allow them to spend this period before the holidays together. He drank from his glass to hide as much of his face as possible. She might meet a few of her friends, take some pictures with them, get a few stories to make it sound good, but most of the time she would spend with him.
Sensing their conversation was at an end, the senator turned and they walked back toward the house together. Thorne was relieved to see that Lauren was gone from her spot out front. She thought they could sneak around and not get noticed, but that was ridiculous after the rolling TV coverage they’d had. It seemed to him like the press had already got wind of the potential for romance between them. He needed to disentangle himself from Lauren and her husband as soon as possible. He couldn’t imagine having her stashed in some hotel room while he went to Kate’s funeral. The idea of it offended him. He was crazy about her, sure, but it needed to stop while it could be stopped.
As with his burned deal with Blake, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
He’d convince her to go to Washington with her husband. She’d be safer there anyway. He and Blake had unfinished business and he was certain his old friend would find him and make him pay. There was no personal animosity between Blake and the Ashcrofts, so it was unlikely he would pursue them across the country to settle some imagined score.
His cell phone rang, derailing his thought process. He dug his cell out his pocket and in what was becoming an automated manner, hung up without answering. The number wasn’t one he recognized and he wasn’t in the mood for what he was certain would be a prank call. An increasing number of people seemed to know his number, he would have to change it. Before he could turn the device off, it rang again. Whoever it was, they were persistent. He looked at the display. The caller had an 818 prefix. That made the caller from North Hollywood, Burbank, Studio City, somewhere around there. This was the problem with calls, he thought, there was always the chance they could be important. A lot of industry pe
ople drew their water up there. He decided to answer.
To be an actor you had to also be, at heart, an optimist.
“Don't hang up.”
A woman's voice. Quick, familiar.
“Who is this?”
“Jocelyn Cooper, KCAL 9.”
It was the reporter that had been riding Cabot's ass about the shoot-out, the one he’d spoken to at the marina. His heart sink; it wasn’t a job offer after all. His instinct was to hang up again and avoid any calls from her in the future, but he decided to hear her out. He’d liked her reports, her style. She was smart and could be a useful ally, or a powerful enemy depending on how this went. It never hurt to have more friends.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“All right, we need to talk.”
“I can’t give interviews, it’s a condition of the immunity deal.”
“This won’t be an interview. There will be no cameras, no mikes, no crew. Nothing like that. Just me and you.” She paused, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing. It wasn’t clear to him what this could be if not an interview. Her voice came back again, her tone harder, more threatening. “I’ve got something you want to see Mr Thorne, make no mistake.”
He sighed. Just what he needed, another problem.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’m at the Dream Inn, it’s right down on the beach. Come around 8 a.m. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Fine.”
She paused for a moment.
“I hope you’ll be more communicative than this when we meet, Mr Thorne. Grunting one word answers isn’t going to cut it. We have things to discuss.”
“What do you expect from me? I’m an actor without a script. A glass of water has more personality.”
She laughed, then began to cough. He was funny, but not that funny. He disconnected the call before the coughing ended. She hadn’t said what the meeting was about, but he had to accept that it wasn’t going to be good news. His knowledge of her so far was based solely on several short segments on the news, but he knew she was dangerous. He made sure to turn off his phone before anyone else called him. He’d know soon enough what she had, and what she wanted. Until then, he had other things to worry about.
THIRTY-FOUR
This time it was just Thorne on his own. Blake watched him move through the trees, careful to stay hidden from his old friend. Thorne was later than usual today and he wasn’t running, though he was still wearing those ridiculous running pants. If it were anyone else, Blake would’ve brushed this time change aside, but he knew Thorne. Knew how he liked to structure his day. He’d been doing it since before the Corps. Something was going on. Either Thorne suspected what he was up to, or he was just taking precautions before the party.
It didn’t matter to Blake, it all worked to his benefit.
The sling was gone from Thorne’s arm, which hung awkwardly at his hip as if only partly connected. The news networks had covered his injuries in great detail. Whatever threat he’d been before, that was over now. The wound to his shoulder alone likely guaranteed him victory over the actor in any unarmed conflict. A single heavy blow to this area would be enough to wipe him out. But all this had been the case the last time they’d met when Thorne had attacked him with the knife. You could never write someone off, take their abilities for granted. As soon as you did that, you lost.
Thorne was close now, moving to his position. Sticking to the path as it twisted through the trees toward the highway. He could hear Thorne breathing but didn’t risk taking a look. Not long now. He squatted down slightly, ready to pounce.
This time, he’d have the element of surprise.
The actor walked past at a fast pace. Thorne’s head started to turn toward him, perhaps sensing his presence, but it was too late. Blake flew through the air at him and they collided and rolled on the forest floor. Thorne was disorientated and Blake managed to punch him four times to the head before he reacted and fought back. By then, his nose was bleeding profusely across his face, and Blake had him pinned to the ground. His weight was too much for Thorne to overcome, so he concentrated on landing blows to Blake’s face and neck. Thorne was strong, but his swing was limited and his arm weak. Blake leaned forward.
“Brother, you gotta learn which battles to fight and which to let go.”
Thorne screwed up his face, his teeth clenched together. He’d never stop fighting, not until he was dead. Blake respected that. He looked for Sara, this was her cue. To his surprise, Thorne brought his fist down hard on his leg wound, causing his body to contract in agony. He then lifted his knee fast into Blake’s groin and a white hot flash of pain went up his body. Thorne flipped him over and scrambled to his feet before kicking him in the stomach. It was a major impact, and it spun him around. Blake got on his hands and knees, his body ready to vomit. He turned to look up at Thorne and saw he was lined up to kick him in the face. He was going to finish him. Finally, he saw Sara behind Thorne. She stepped forward and touched her Taser to the actor’s neck. He immediately collapsed to the ground. She sank down next to him and held it against his neck again. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Blake could hear the crackle of electricity.
“That’s enough,” Blake said.
She ignored him and kept it going. Click, click, click. It had to be at least ten seconds now. Thorne’s arms and legs were as stiff as the trees around them.
“Sara! Goddammit, we need him alive.”
She stopped and looked up. There was a sad expression on her face. Thorne had beaten him before her eyes, forcing her to rescue him. He sighed. She could think what she wanted. The man had punched him in a stab wound and kneed him in the balls. She didn’t know what that was like, she couldn’t. He got to his feet using his hand on one knee to steady himself. Nausea surged like a tide through his battered body. Thorne lay still and unmoving on the forest floor. That wouldn’t last either, he thought. They had to move quickly.
“You got the cable ties?”
Sara seemed to emerge from the spell she was under and nodded. She pulled Thorne’s arms behind his back and slipped the cable ties around his wrists. Blake approached, ready to assist. Thorne’s face was pressed into the ground, but his right eye locked onto him, the only part of his body he could control. They’d decided to use two interlocking ties like the cop at the hospital. When the second tie was secured, Blake knelt down in front of Thorne so they could see each other properly.
“Sorry about this old man. I knew you wouldn’t agree if I just asked nicely.”
The muscles in Thorne’s jaw were clearly defined through his cheeks. He couldn’t reply, not yet. The electricity had clenched his muscles and it would take a while longer for them to relax back to normal. He smiled and buddy-slapped Thorne on his wounded shoulder.
Back in the van, Blake drove carefully at the posted limit. No point getting pulled over by a cop with a chip on his shoulder. He had a spot picked out in his mind, a place off the road less than a mile away where they could be left alone. It was a parking lot made out of dirt in among the trees where you could go to walk dogs or whatever else. If things didn’t work out the way he hoped, it would give him options.
“What's this old man shit?”
Blake looked back over his shoulder. Sara was in the back with Thorne. He sat against the side of the van, next to the wheel. She stood over him, one hand braced against the roof, the other holding the Taser.
“Why don't you ask him?”
“I’m asking you.”
Thorne nodded.
“Blake found out I was born twenty three minutes before him. Same hospital. He thinks it's funny to call me old. Sometimes he throws brother in too, like we're twins or something.”
“It means he likes you, Thorne. Don't you know that?”
Blake’s eyes stayed on the actor a moment longer waiting for a reply, but none came. It was true, or had been once. They’d been brothers long before they’d joined the Corps, the
only family either of them really had. They’d looked out for each other when they were growing up. Alone they would have been picked off, vulnerable to other street kids, but together they survived. Despite everything that had happened, he knew he’d be sad when he put a bullet through Thorne’s head. The man had probably been his only true friend his whole life and there would never be another. Blake spoke without turning his head.
“I want you to know something. This ain’t the end, you feel me? All I want is for you to fix up the gear, tell me what to do with it. After that, you leave town. You and me, we got history and that means something. If you’re sticking around to protect your friends, there’s no need. I got no interest in hurting them either. Fact is, it would bring too much heat. Maybe you convince them to go out on their stupid boat, make it easier for everyone. Empty house. We go in take the picture and go. How’s that sound?”
Again Thorne said nothing. It was obvious he didn’t believe him and Blake couldn’t blame him. There was no trust left, Sara had blown it away with that fire. That Kate Bloom thing had gotten out of control. Well, so be it. The motherfucker had stabbed him in the leg and given him a limp that might be permanent. Why should he offer Thorne words of comfort? Why should he try to make anything easier for him?
Blake noticed cars were backed up behind them, snaking through the bends together. It was that kind of road, only the brave or the insane passed other vehicles. He put on his turn signal and pulled into the end of a road junction so they could pass. He waited until they were clear and out of sight before rejoining the highway.
No sense advertising where they were headed.
The parking lot was at the end of a short dirt track. No signs marked the entrance, which possibly explained why it hadn’t been packed with tourists like others he’d seen. Blake swung off the highway and drove slowly over the uneven surface. The trees pressed in close on either side, their branches brushing the sides of the van. When he saw a place like this, all he could think was good place to dump a body. Instinct told him that something was wrong. Something was different to when he’d been here before. Sure enough, as they rounded the curve he saw a man, a woman, and a young girl standing next to a Volvo. The man was in the process of pulling a mountain bike off a roof rack and all three turned to look at the van. Blake lifted his right hand off the wheel in a half-hearted wave. The man smiled weakly in acknowledgment, before speaking quickly to his wife.
Night Passenger Page 29