Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  He closed up the final few feet in silence, still thinking through whether to take him in alive, or kill him. Whatever he decided, he didn’t have much time, he could hear a helicopter approaching. The air ambulance. Witnesses were about to appear. They couldn’t save Ashcroft but their presence could once again save Thorne. Without thinking about it, he transferred his pistol to his left hand and punched Thorne with his right, knocking him backward onto the asphalt. Pain surged up his arm from his fist and he shook his arm several times to try and shake it off. He’d used the full power of his arm from an elevated position and he’d hit bone.

  Thorne remained on the ground where he’d fallen.

  “All right, son, get up. Quit the act.”

  Thorne stood slowly, first to his knees as before, then rising up to his full height. It seemed to Cabot as though the man was taller than ever, perhaps a whole six inches taller than he was. Instinctively, he took a step back and a trace of a smile moved across Thorne’s lips. With his left hand, Cabot fished a dog-eared card out of his back pocket and he read the words printed on it, his eyes twitching nervously between the card and the former Marine.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of James Ashcroft. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights I have explained to you?”

  Thorne sighed. “Yes.”

  “Having these rights in mind, do you have anything to say to me now?”

  “Go suck a dick, Cabot.”

  Now it was his turn to smile.

  “Hands behind your back, smart guy.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t. My shoulder injury won’t allow it.”

  The helicopter passed slowly overhead then moved away from the burning SUV and over the roof of the roadhouse and out of sight. This was a complication Cabot didn’t need. He wanted Thorne locked down before anyone else arrived. He couldn’t afford to be distracted and risk Thorne getting away.

  “All right, fine. Let’s speed this up. Hands out front, no funny business. If I even think you’re making a break for it, I’m just going to shoot you, OK?”

  Thorne nodded.

  Behind him, he heard the helicopter engine wind down. It must’ve landed on the highway in front of the bar. The road was empty and it was probably the only landing spot for miles. He pulled out his handcuffs and paused, sensing danger. Cabot wet his lips. He couldn’t put the handcuffs on Thorne and maintain the aim with his weapon. For the first time, he wished Barnes was with him to provide cover.

  “Toss me the cuffs and I’ll put them on.”

  The actor’s voice was calm, reasonable. People could get that way when they realized that it was all over. For some, being caught was a relief. In any case, Thorne’s suggestion seemed like the best option, so he threw him the cuffs and watched him closely. It was procedure to cuff suspects behind their back for a reason, he’d have to be careful with Thorne. The cuffs clicked shut around one wrist, then the other. It was no trick.

  Tension immediately started to leave his body.

  “Into the back of my car.”

  Two medics appeared around the side of his Ford. They glanced at him then across at Thorne. Seeing enough, they turned their attention to the figure on the ground. They ran over to Ashcroft, a folded up stretcher hanging between them. They slowed to a walk before reaching the senator, they knew the score without touching him. Cabot caught movement out the corner of his eye. Thorne had done something, his hands were moving quickly down in front of his chest, both moving together, still handcuffed.

  “What was that?”

  “Relax, Cabot. I scratched my head. I had an itch.”

  He waved the actor over to his car with his gun. “Let’s go, hero.”

  Thorne turned and walked in front of him toward the cruiser. His shoulders were down, his swagger gone. Just the same, Cabot hung back, his automatic aimed at the man’s kidneys. It embarrassed him how much Thorne still intimidated him, even with the advantage of a gun and handcuffs. He knew logically that he was in no danger but he couldn’t seem to get past it. His mind skipped ahead, thinking about his Taurus. It was the next danger point, he’d have to open the rear door and load Thorne into the back. He’d have the actor stand to the right of the door so he could watch him as he opened it. Until Thorne was safely locked inside, he could take nothing for granted. He smiled to himself, imagining the solid clump of the door shutting and seeing Thorne’s sad face through the glass. It would be a sweet moment, one he’d started to believe might not happen.

  As they came up to the rear of the car, Thorne appeared to stumble and fell awkwardly on the asphalt with a loud grunt. Cabot laughed. If this was Thorne’s play he was wasting his time. This was no accidental trip. It was a clumsy, half-hearted move and made him appear foolish to Cabot. For the first time since they’d met, he felt superior. This scrabbling about on the ground, this was the last moves of a desperate man. All it needed now, he thought, was for the actor to try throwing dirt in his eyes as an escape plan. This was lame, and it lifted his spirits. He noticed both medics had turned to stare at him, their interest in Ashcroft apparently at an end. Cabot made a show of his hands as if to say nothing to do with me, though the smile that was still on his face probably made this a tough sell. It was likely that the medics would recognize both of them from the rolling news coverage and had probably worked out what had gone down here. It also seemed likely, given recent history, that they wouldn’t believe Thorne was guilty. No matter. The evidence would tell a different story.

  “Come on Thorne, this shit’s gettin’ old.”

  “I can’t get up…the handcuffs.”

  He sighed and glanced again at the medics. They were still watching. It had been inappropriate for him to laugh so close to where a man had been murdered, he saw that now. He couldn’t help it, not even when the dead man had been his friend. It was a release from stress, and from knowing he’d finally nailed the actor. He wanted to kick Thorne a couple of times to see if that helped him remember how to stand up. He holstered his weapon. He was taking a chance, but he believed the presence of the medics would prevent Thorne taking action against him, just as it had prevented him taking action against the actor. Cabot reached down and grabbed Thorne’s left elbow and pulled on it. The younger man was heavy and rose slowly at first, then with a jolt, snapped up to full height little more than a foot away from him. He felt movement against his firearm and spun sideways, automatically drawing his weapon again. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. Thorne stared back impassively.

  “Jesus Christ. What now, Cabot?”

  He felt his face turn red. Had he imagined it?

  “Against the car, hands on the roof and spread your legs.”

  Thorne shook his head and wordlessly did as he was told. Cabot performed a thorough pat down. He was limited by only having his left hand free so the process took longer than usual. He found no trace of a gun or other weapon. The actor was carrying only a cell phone and a car key fob, which he took and placed on the roof of the Taurus. This done, he made Thorne stand to one side, just as he’d planned. Cabot fixed his gaze on him while he blindly felt for the door handle beside him. He pulled it open and stepped to one side again, still covering Thorne with his firearm. The actor’s face was blank and emotionless as he looked into the darkened rear of the cruiser. After a beat, he stepped forward and folded himself down onto the back seat. He sat still, eyes front, until Cabot slammed the door closed on him. To his disappointment, it wasn’t as he had imagined. It was too dark to see inside, he saw only a reflection of the flames that still licked at the burned-out husk of the SUV behind him.

  Cabot returned his firearm to his holster.

  Tension had been building within him ever since he’d started to tail Ashcroft. He’d followed him f
or miles without headlights, only dropping back where street lights and houses would have revealed his position. There was a dull ache from his jaw muscles from clenching his teeth, soon, he knew, it would become a headache that would last all the next day.

  He bagged up Thorne’s personal items and dropped them into the front passenger seat, then used the car’s radio to call it in. Now that the arrest had been made, he decided to call Barnes at home from his cell. If he was to make the arrest stick he’d need the younger man’s assistance. The detective’s voice was thick with sleep. He gave no reaction to his news and simply stated he’d be about an hour. Out front, Cabot heard the helicopter engine start and he turned to watch as it rose over the roadhouse heading south east, back to Gilroy.

  For a short while he had the scene to himself.

  He looked around the parking lot. Ashcroft still lay where he’d first seen him. Now that Thorne was contained, he walked over and stood next to his old friend for the first time. A lot of blood had leaked out underneath the senator and he had to be careful where he placed his shoes. He pulled on evidence gloves as he ran his eyes quickly over the body. From a quick pass, it was obvious the medics had performed no medical procedures beyond checking for a pulse. His shirt remained fastened, a blood stain just off center marking where the damage was done. Cabot took a pen flashlight from his jacket pocket and aimed the beam at the area of his chest. The wound was small, the width of his smallest finger. He directed the flashlight up to Ashcroft’s face. His eyes were open, but there was nothing in them.

  Cabot looked away, directing his attention to his surroundings. If there was anything to be found, he wanted to be the one to find it. He turned his head and flashlight together, sweeping carefully across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. He worked in a grid, never trying to take in too much of the scene at once. After a minute, he found a single shell casing. A 9mm. It had come to rest up on its end, like a rocket ready to be sent into space. Using his cell phone, he took photographs of it from several angles. These were for his own record and would not be used in evidence. When he was done, he took a business card from his wallet, folded it in half and positioned it near the shell casing to act as a marker. He then used a stack of loose coins to prop the card up and prevent it from blowing away. He resumed his search and looked for another five minutes but found nothing else.

  The gun used to shoot Ashcroft was not here.

  He sighed. Getting a conviction without the murder weapon wouldn’t be straightforward, but he wasn’t worried. Thorne had simply disposed of it before he arrived. No doubt thrown into the woods that surrounded the roadhouse, or tucked into one of the dumpsters around the side. Thorne couldn’t have gone far to hide it, the window of his own departure and return put this at no more than ten minutes. By first light, half the Sheriff’s Office would be combing the area for it. That firearm would be found sooner or later. He yawned and decided to wait for backup to arrive from inside his warm cruiser. He couldn’t leave until the crime scene had been secured. He resisted the temptation to step over Ashcroft’s body and instead walked around it. As he did so, the beam of his flashlight came to rest on the vehicle behind the senator’s head.

  A black van.

  A smile worked its way up the side of his face, like his flesh was slowly tearing. It was the same goddamn van he’d been looking for, he’d swear on it. Despite being the only other vehicle in the lot apart from Ashcroft’s SUV and his own Taurus, he’d completely failed to register it. Somehow, it receded into the shadows under a pine tree, unwilling to be seen. In his mind, a delicious possibility presented itself: what if there was a fingerprint of Thorne’s inside the vehicle, somewhere he couldn’t explain. He’d gotten nowhere near it during the attempted kidnapping, the security footage proved that. It would represent an undeniable link between the actor and the original attempted abduction of the Ashcrofts. With that, the immunity deal would be over and Thorne would be on the hook for three more counts of murder one and whatever they could pin on him for the shooting of Samuel Porter.

  He walked back to the cruiser, a new spring in his step.

  Thorne was done.

  FORTY-TWO

  It was cold in the back of Cabot’s cruiser and Thorne felt it seep slowly into his bones. He had watched the lieutenant blunder around the parking lot pretending to be a cop, first with disdain, then with growing alarm. Could it really be that the one thing he wasn’t guilty of would be the thing that would bring him down? He could be placed at the scene beforehand, he was standing over Ashcroft’s body when the lieutenant arrived, and he was covered in the senator’s blood. It didn’t look good for him.

  Thorne thought through possible courses of action.

  First of all, naming Blake as the shooter. On the face of it, this was a no-brainer. If he wasn’t the shooter but was at the scene, his only option was to say someone else pulled the trigger. This had the advantage of being the truth, not to mention getting the police to look in the right direction. With the right names, photographs would quickly follow and a proper manhunt would begin.

  Only, he couldn’t do that.

  If he gave them up, Kate was as good as dead. Blake would kill her, then disappear. He’d have to kill her, he couldn’t leave any witnesses. But Aidan Blake was no D.B. Cooper. They’d catch him quickly, probably inside of a week. With decent photographs, correct ID, and a personal background, most manhunts ended in one of two ways. Assuming he was still alive, Blake would reveal his own role as one of the gang members. He would implicate him in the murder of the cop at the art gallery and the former guard. It occurred to him that there was an official link between them from his defense of Blake at his court martial. It probably wasn’t a standard search, but a good investigator could turn up documented proof and it would be impossible for him to deny a pre-existing friendship.

  He could do nothing to protect Kate while in police custody. Within hours, Blake would hear he was being questioned by police and would assume the worst. The only thing he could think of to do to save Kate, was to admit that he’d killed Ashcroft. The news of his arrest would be followed immediately by the revelation that he’d already confessed to the crime, leaving Blake no reason to kill Kate before he skipped town. This relied on Blake doing the right thing and of him hearing the news before he made his decision to leave. Once he released Kate, Blake would know that there’d be nothing to prevent him from recanting his confession and pointing the cops in the right direction.

  Thorne looked through the glass into the darkness outside.

  A patrol vehicle arrived to secure the crime scene and Cabot laid it all out for the two deputies. After several minutes, Cabot got into the car and they were underway, headed back toward Santa Cruz.

  “Well, Thorne. It’s just you and me in here. We got some time before we get back to headquarters. You have anything to say to me?”

  He looked at Cabot in the rearview mirror. The lieutenant’s head was angled toward the middle of the windshield, his eyes flipped up to watch him. Thorne supposed that modern police cruisers were equipped with the facility to record conversations held inside them. There’d be a switch somewhere on the dashboard, next to the other police upgrades. He didn’t know for sure, because it had never come up on his show. The fact that he’d been read his rights made anything he might say admissible in court.

  Thorne nodded. “Yeah, I got something to say.”

  Cabot looked at him hopefully in the mirror.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your car smells like ass.”

  The lieutenant’s face soured.

  “That’s a smell you’ll have to get used to where you’re going.”

  Light from somewhere was landing on Cabot’s eyes. A reflection of the car’s headlights, or the instrument panel. It gave them a strange shiny appearance, like he was possessed. There was no way he was going to confess to this joker, no way. He’d made his play. It wasn’t much, but it was something. All they had was circumstantial. In the gra
nd scheme of things, perhaps this was for the best. Cabot had wanted to arrest him from the beginning; now that he had, he’d have to produce evidence or release him. One way or another, this party was about to end.

  “I’ll tell you something for free, Cabot. By lunchtime tomorrow, there’ll be a line of federal vehicles parked outside your building and you’ll be back in charge of wife beaters and purse-snatchers. All you’re doing right now is giving me a ride back into town.”

  Cabot sighed and returned his eyes to the road.

  Rain was falling by the time they arrived at the Sheriff’s Office. It was thick and heavy, the kind that bounced back up off the asphalt in a shimmering blur. It had rained like this several times since he’d been in Santa Cruz, but it felt different as he sat in the back of Cabot’s cruiser. He thought of Ashcroft lying on the ground and wondered if one of the cops would think to cover him. Their friendship had been brief and filled with betrayal, but he’d grown to like the senator. It was a matter of days since he’d joked about his death with Lauren. He was ashamed that the words had come out his mouth and he wished now he could take them back.

  In front of him Cabot sighed again, then stepped out into the rain. It appeared that he’d hoped to wait out the weather and had given up. He walked around the back of the cruiser and opened the door. The lieutenant’s mouth was pulled back as if in a smile, but there was no humor there, just teeth. It wasn’t hard to understand; his friend was dead and the man thought he was responsible. Cabot held a clear plastic bag, which he pulled down over both Thorne’s handcuffed hands. The bag was deep and swallowed his forearms. He knew it was to preserve gunshot residue evidence, but Cabot was going to be disappointed.