Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “Do you know how many people you have kissed in your life, Chris? Proper kisses, not a niece's cheek, or something.”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “I keep a count, I like knowing.”

  Thorne said nothing and stared at the Scotch in his glass.

  Earlier in the day he’d decided not to take his OxyContin, knowing that alcohol was likely to be an unavoidable feature of the party. Combining the two had some pretty terrible potential side effects, including death. The pain in his abdomen and shoulder was intolerable, and it was getting worse by the second.

  “Forty six.”

  He nodded and blew smoke from the joint out his mouth. It seemed like a good number, a believable number.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “None of them felt like the kiss you gave me this morning.”

  Again he said nothing.

  “I know you felt it too, Chris.”

  His eyes slid down to her mouth. Her lips were full and juicy. He could hear her breathing. There was a jagged shake to it as the air moved in and out of her lungs.

  “Lauren, you can't say these things to me.”

  “Because I'm married?”

  “Because I like it.”

  She smiled, and it made him feel sad.

  “You ever worry James might actually become president?”

  “All the time,” she said, her face souring.

  A silence fell between them. It’d been a mistake to mention her husband while they were alone together. Thorne felt no buzz developing at all and when she went to pass the joint back for the third time he shook his head.

  “He asked me to drive you to L.A.”

  “And?”

  “I said yes, what else could I say?”

  This time, Lauren remained silent.

  “Does he really not see what you’re doing?”

  “He sees what he wants to see. Everybody does.”

  “I won’t split you guys up, I refuse.”

  “It’s a little late to be a gentleman.”

  He took a mouthful of Scotch and ran it around his mouth. It was a fine drink, but it was nowhere near as good as oxycodone.

  “You know, I think maybe it’s never too late.”

  “If it matters to you, I could break up with him then we could get together a month later. No one would accuse you of anything.”

  She wasn’t getting it. He didn’t care what other people thought. He’d know the truth for himself. Perhaps he’d been that guy in the past, but he’d changed.

  “Things are already different between us, you must feel it.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said.

  He stood and walked to the door, before looking back.

  “I don’t know what would have to change for me to see things as clearly as you. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just don’t think I can.”

  He gave her a moment to reply, but when she said nothing he turned the lock and opened the door. Angry, raised voices flew through the gap. He reached behind his back and drew the 1911 from under the tux. Lauren gasped as she saw the weapon.

  “Stay here,” he said. “You hear any gunshots, go out the goddamn window and stay out there until I come back.”

  He charged through the master bedroom and down the corridor. The sound was coming from the library. There was something off about the sound. The anger had shifted and he could make out a single voice. Ashcroft’s. He barreled into the room and saw the senator standing on top of the pool table at the end of the room. The crowd parted around him due to his size and speed, then began to scatter further seeing the gun in his hand. He scanned the room for Blake and Sara, but they weren’t there. It was just Ashcroft and his guests. Blood rushed to his face as he realized his mistake. The man had just been giving a speech. He lowered the gun and held up his left hand.

  “Sorry! It sounded like the world was ending in here.”

  There was a long pause followed by a single, booming laugh. It was a laugh he’d heard before and Thorne turned toward Ashcroft. He was almost doubled-over and he was using his hand on his knee to support himself. Next to the senator’s feet were two bottles of Scotch. One of them was empty and lay on its side, the other full. Ashcroft was drunk, maybe they all were. He saw Lauren appear in the doorway.

  “It’s OK, everyone,” Ashcroft said, his laughter finally in check. “This, my friends, is my very own guardian angel. You’ve probably all seen what he did for Lauren and me. We owe him our lives. At that terrible moment I froze up, but Chris here, he was a real action hero. He placed his life on the line for two people he’d never met before. The man didn’t even know who I was! Now, I won’t deny it, I was insulted by that. But then, maybe if he’d known who I was he would’ve let things play out, eh?”

  There was a ripple of polite laughter from the guests, who were still recovering from their own recent experience with a gunman.

  “Chris, come over here! A round of applause everyone.”

  Thorne returned the pistol to the small of his back and moved toward Ashcroft with a thin, embarrassed smile on his face. The guests here were younger than the ones he’d seen downstairs, closer to the age of Ashcroft himself. These then, must be the ones that were real friends. He reached the front and nodded at Ashcroft who leaned over to smile at him.

  The senator tipped forward drunkenly, before catching himself and taking a step back from the edge. Ashcroft laughed and took another step back. The heel of his shoe caught the raised edge of the pool table and fell backward onto the floor. The room fell silent. Thorne rushed around the table and saw Ashcroft spread out on the parquet floor, eyes staring straight up. Other guests gathered around. Lauren pushed through the crowd beside him and stared at her husband. Between their bodies, her hand found his and gripped it tight.

  Ashcroft jerked upright. “Gotcha!”

  A big cheesy smile was spread across his face, his hands held wide. Relieved laughter spread around the room, followed by chants of Ash-croft! Ash-croft! Ash-croft! Thorne and Lauren were pushed aside and James Ashcroft was pulled to his feet. Two of the bigger guests got on either side of the senator and lifted him so he was sitting between their shoulders, then carried him around the room like a match-winning quarterback while the chanting continued. Thorne turned away and his eyes connected with Lauren’s.

  His own disappointment written on her face.

  He walked over to the window and looked out, down at the driveway where Cabot had parked that day. A makeshift parking lot had appeared on the grass and some very expensive vehicles were parked on it. The whole area was lit up by floodlights, the lights designed to give Blake no place to hide. Two of Ashcroft’s security drones stood out front.

  Lauren’s reflection appeared on the glass next to his.

  He knew she’d come over, the look they’d exchanged was too heavy to ignore. She spoke softly so she wasn’t overheard.

  “Is that what it’s going to take for us to be together?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that’s not what happened.”

  She sighed. “No.”

  He touched the glass with the tips of his fingers.

  “Not this time, anyway.”

  Lauren stared at his reflection, her mouth open.

  He’d wanted to shock her and it appeared he’d succeeded. She needed to wake up. He left her standing there and walked back to the pool table, where he picked up the full bottle of Scotch. The chanting had stopped now, but the volume of conversation in the room was as loud as any sports bar he’d ever been in. There was a buzz around the room, as if the people in it had witnessed a miracle. When everything calmed down again, the senator might come looking for him. Thorne was through being the man’s guardian angel for the night. He was no more than a trained monkey to these people, and now perhaps, the source of future jokes.

  He glanced at the bottle in his hand as he descended the staircase. It was one of Ashcroft’s expensive bottles. He retraced his steps back through t
he mansion. Eight people stood in front of the Picasso this time, none looked like they wanted a conversation with him.

  Finally, things were looking up.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Thorne walked into the Dream Inn at just after eight a.m. A handful of people were milling about, and a small line had formed at reception. He looked around for the reporter. His height made this a quick process: she wasn’t there. He walked over to a seated area to wait for her, but didn’t sit down. A young Asian woman sat in a curved crimson seat with two small children. Behind them loomed a huge photograph of surfers walking along a beach carrying their boards. He liked the picture and immediately thought how well it would go in his apartment. Several seconds passed before he remembered the fire. The apartment was gone, and Kate along with it. He felt sick. Every time he remembered, it was a body blow like no other. It didn’t seem real, and he didn’t think it would until he stood before the building and saw it with his own eyes. Thorne glanced at his watch. It was now ten after eight and there was still no sign of Jocelyn Cooper. He decided to check his cell phone and see if she’d left any messages.

  “Mr Thornhill?”

  He looked up from the screen. A smartly dressed man stood in front of him.

  “Huh?”

  “Mr Roger Thornhill?”

  He had a feeling that was him. “Yes?”

  “I have a message for you.”

  The man held out an envelope and Thorne took it. This would be Jocelyn canceling their meeting, he supposed. Some breaking news that required her attention elsewhere. The man was still standing there, a thin smile on his face. Right. Thorne fished around in his pocket and gave him five dollars. The note disappeared and the man nodded his thanks, already turning to go.

  “Just a second,” Thorne said. “How did you recognize me?”

  “The lady said you were over 6 feet tall and would be wearing sunglasses.”

  Thorne smiled. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  The man stalked off, his hands clasped behind his back. Thorne slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. A single folded sheet of paper lay inside.

  I’m in 516. Come on up!

  Eve

  He lifted both the note and the envelope up to his face. It confirmed his first thought: it smelled of perfume. It wasn’t a subtle smell. Either she’d left the paper and envelopes lying near where she applied her perfume, or else she’d applied it to the paper directly. He held it up to his nose again and inhaled. Unless he was mistaken, it was La vie est belle, the same perfume Kate used. When he lowered the paper, he noticed the woman and both her children were watching him closely. He wondered if he’d sighed or even sworn out loud, either seemed possible. He put the envelope into his pocket and headed for the elevator.

  It sat waiting for him, doors open. He got on and hit 5. Nothing happened, so he reached out and hit button again to hurry things up. Now he was here he wanted this over, whatever it was. Finally the doors closed and he was on his way. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. He didn’t want the journalist to know how accurately she’d described him to the man downstairs. As the doors opened on the fifth floor, his mind returned to Jocelyn’s message. She’d become playful. For the first time since her call, he questioned why she wanted to meet him. If she'd discovered his involvement, wouldn’t she reveal this live on camera? Whatever she had, she’d been sitting on it since yesterday at the earliest.

  He knocked on her door, and while he waited for her to answer, he got out his cell phone again and muted it. He didn’t want Lauren calling him asking where he was, because he wasn’t sure how he would answer her question. There were two main reasons for this and one was so ugly he couldn’t bear to think about it. As the screen went blank, he registered the numbers contained in small red balloons over two of the apps. It appeared he had 164 new text messages and 23 new voicemail messages. Something major was going on. The door opened a short distance and Jocelyn Cooper looked around it. A white towel was wrapped around her hair and it rose up like a beehive on top of her head.

  She smiled. “You got my message.”

  “Roger Thornhill, that’s cute. North by Northwest, Alfred Hitchcock. A decent movie, getting a little dated now though.” He frowned. “That’s how you see me? A helpless patsy being manipulated by everyone?”

  Her eyes seemed to sparkle.

  “Oh, you seem like a very capable patsy, Mr Thorne.”

  She pushed her head through the gap and looked up and down the corridor. He found himself doing the same, as if infected by her paranoia. There was no one coming. When he turned back, the door was wide open and he saw her fully for the first time. She was wearing a cream colored robe with a rich, glossy surface like satin or silk. It stopped short of her knees and was tied loosely by a belt. The front bunched out toward him, allowing him an extensive view of her cleavage.

  He locked his eyes on hers. “Am I early or late?”

  She studied his flustered expression, amused.

  “You tell me. A minute ago I was in the shower.”

  He shifted awkwardly.

  “Maybe I should come back another time.”

  Her face split into a goofy grin. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and it suited her. It was the kind of natural girl-next-door look he’d always liked. She appeared to be a totally different person to the one he was familiar with from TV.

  “I’m not going to eat you, I’m running late, is all.” Her eyes moved up and down his body, assessing him. “Wow, you’re bigger than I was expecting. Like a horse or something!”

  She laughed to herself, then turned and walked into her room, leaving the door open. He hesitated for a moment, before stepping inside. A horse. He’d never been compared to an animal before. His mind churned. Ashcroft’s painting was of a horse. Had she traced him back to the heist? He moved into a living area with a sofa and a table. Despite the hour, the room was dark and a couple of table lamps had been turned on. Jocelyn had gone toward the bedroom and stood silhouetted against a window that filled the end wall. She removed the towel from around her head and shook her hair loose before turning to face him. She was small, not much over five feet. Her hair looked wild. It spoke of danger, of passion. He realized he was staring at her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Sure,” he said, still staring.

  She noticed the way he was looking at her.

  “My hair goes curly if I don’t dry it quick enough.”

  Thorne nodded. She sat on a yellow chair in front of a desk and began to dry her hair with a hairdryer. It was a strangely intimate domestic scene and he couldn’t help thinking again about Kate and what had happened to her. He took off his jacket and laid it over the back of the sofa, then sat next to it. He looked around the small room to distract himself from thinking about the fire. The hotel’s retro theme continued here too, with rich pastel colors and pale cream walls. A photograph of a fairground wheel hung on the wall. On the table in front of him, was a thick book with a man’s face on the cover. Hair everywhere, a patch over one eye. It was a face he now recognized; one of Santa Cruz’s most famous sons, the late surfer and sportswear industrialist, Jack O’Neill.

  After a couple of minutes, the whoosh of air stopped and his head turned automatically toward the silence. He should say something to her, now that she’d be able to hear him again. Something that might defuse the tension between them. He wished he’d thought of something while he’d been waiting. Before he could think of anything, she walked past the bedroom doorway. She was naked. He turned his head away and stared at the opposite wall like he was being paid for it. Music started to play softly from the next room. Something pop, a female artist he didn’t know.

  “Do I embarrass you, Chris?”

  She was several feet away now, facing into a storage closet and flicking casually through clothes on hangers. She was still naked.


  “What the hell, lady? We don’t even know each other.”

  She nodded, as if understanding something.

  “My skin color bothers you, that it?”

  “That is not it, and I resent the implication.”

  “I know that, Thorne. Jesus Christ. I’m fucking with you.”

  “Do people still use that expression?”

  She laughed. “Probably not. I’m bringing it back.”

  A moment passed before she spoke again.

  “You know she’s married, right?”

  “Who?”

  “Lauren Ashcroft. Isn’t she the reason we’re both here?”

  Thorne stood. This meeting was over; the woman was a flake.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Sure I do. You can’t bring yourself to look at me. Even my brother would’ve looked at me, I’m not exactly gross. You’re in love with her.”

  He sighed. What harm did it do?

  “I thought I was, I don’t know. The shoot-out made us close, we went through something together. I know it can’t go anywhere I’m not stupid.” He turned to her. “That’s why you asked me here? You’re going to ridicule me on television?”

  “Of course not, but it does explain a few things.”

  “Not everything I do has an explanation, Jocelyn.”

  She made a face. “It’s Coop. Nobody calls me that other name.”

  “Put your clothes on, Coop, or I’m leaving.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned back to the closet and began looking through the hangars again.

  When he’d started to leave, he’d moved closer to the exit; but he had also moved closer to her. As they’d spoken he’d continued to move closer, as if on a fishing line. He was too close, and she was too damn naked. She took a bra out the closet and he looked away as she put it on. After she fastened the clips, her hand swung out and appeared to accidentally brush across the front of his pants. A smile curled the corners of her eyes and mouth. He sighed and walked past her, toward the bedroom. He’d go out onto the balcony and allow her to finish dressing. It was as far as he could get from her without leaving the hotel suite. She was pushing him, testing his boundaries; just as she did with Cabot. It was a power play, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.