Night Passenger

by David Stanley

  “What do you mean you met him?”

  “He bumped into me coming out of a coffee place in town. I called out to him for an apology but he kept on going like he had places to be. I shrugged it off.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week after the shoot-out.”

  “Damn.”

  “We could’ve had this wrapped up three weeks ago.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for that, boss.”

  He nodded. “He must’ve done it on purpose. To amuse himself.”

  They both drank from their cups.

  “All right. Suppose these assholes were hiding out at one of these motels, why would they still be there? If their goal was to kidnap Lauren and blackmail Jimmy, you got to say their plan ended with Ashcroft’s death. Why stick around?”

  Rather than defeat, he saw a glint in Barnes’ eyes.

  “Only one reason I can think of: to kill Thorne. Whether he was involved beforehand or not, it’s his fault they aren’t millionaires right now. Revenge is a strong motivator. If there is a prior connection then you can add betrayal on top.”

  He couldn’t go after Thorne, not even unofficially, without getting into trouble. They’d been taken off the case and re-assigned, but the press conference to announce that wasn’t until Monday morning. That left a small window where he could follow a lead on his own time. The FBI wouldn’t like it, but if he managed to solve the case, they could suck it.

  “What do you say, Lieutenant?”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Thorne tore off two long strips of duct tape and lay them side by side on top of the breakfast bar. He could hardly believe his bullshit play had actually worked. Lauren had followed Blake all the way back to his motel without a hitch. The timing of two businessmen in suits had really sold Blake the dummy. Thorne took the hunting knife sheath and pressed it into the mid-point of both strips, then used the tape to secure it to his right leg. The blade was long, stretching from his sock line to his upper calf. He pulled down the hem of his pants and inspected the result. The material bunched awkwardly around the handle, but he wasn’t too worried about that. He was tall, people typically looked up, not down at his calf. Lauren padded silently across the room in bare feet. She had showered and changed into the loose cotton clothing she typically wore around the house at night.

  Lauren looked at the kitchen counter.

  “You made me a club sandwich? At eight o’clock at night?”

  “I made us both club sandwiches but I ate mine while you were getting dressed. You were so long I nearly ate this one too.”

  “I won't lie to you, this is a little weird.”

  Lauren sat on the bar stool opposite him and began to eat. He watched her silently, memorizing her face. Even when she was sad, she was beautiful. Whatever happened tonight, the life he was living here would end. She paused to drink from an open can of Diet Coke he’d left on the counter.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re about 120 pounds, right?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “128. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Chris, you can't say shit like that to a woman.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m tall, okay?”

  “I know that. How's the sandwich?”

  She looked at him for a beat as if he was insane, before relaxing.

  “It's awesome actually. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.”

  His eyes drifted over to the large windows. They were pitch black. Time was running out. When Lauren finished eating, he cleared a space on the counter in front of her and spread out a white cloth. Watching her closely, he took Ashcroft's Smith & Wesson 1911 out of his rear waistband and placed it in the center of the cloth. Her face froze.

  “Funny story. I found this out in the driveway. Somebody had buried it in the stones like a dog buries a bone. Isn't that hilarious? I mean, there are crazy people out there who want us dead and our only weapon goes missing.”

  “I can explain,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Things were getting a little intense between you and me and I didn't think it was a good idea to have a gun lying around. So I hid it. Plus, if I hadn't, Victor would’ve found it and I'm not sure how easy it would've been to explain.”

  He had to give her that, Cabot was becoming a problem.

  “So you hid the gun in case James found out about us?”

  Her eyes slid across to the can of Coke in her hand. “Not exactly.”

  “You thought I was going to shoot him?”

  “Honestly, I don't know. The day after the party I walked into his den and saw the gun sitting on his desk like he'd been playing with it. Maybe that meant something, maybe not. In any case, it made me remember our conversation from the night before. I told myself that you were trying to scare me off, but in truth, I could easily imagine you following through on it. I was nervous. I knew how a fight between the two of you would pan out, even if he started that fight holding the gun. I've seen what happens to men who try to shoot you.”

  There was no mystery. The gun was on the senator’s desk because he’d put it there while the old man slept off his hangover. Lauren was just processing her guilt, and if it took her imagining him to be a monster, then so be it.

  “Anyway,” he said, his tone businesslike. “There's a pretty good chance we're going to need to use this thing and in this condition it's more likely to kill us.”

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and meshed his fingers together.

  Gloves weren't normally part of his routine but he didn't want to leave fingerprints inside the gun where they couldn't be quickly wiped down. Agent Vasco, his fictional self, found a latent print inside a killer’s gun in season 3 of Night Passenger. Instead of viewing it as a cop show deus ex machina, he decided to take it seriously.

  Thorne picked up the pistol and ejected the magazine.

  He was pleased to note that it came out smoothly, without sticking, or any kind of gritty noise. Ashcroft had told him that he'd bought ammunition, so he wasn't surprised to see fresh brass gleaming in the end of the magazine. He drew back the slide, clearing a round from the chamber and placed it to one side with the magazine. He turned the gun over in his hands, looking for damage. As best as he could tell, it was just dirty and scratched. His eyes were drawn again to the raw metal where the serial number had been removed. Whoever did it had known what they were doing. No lab geek was going to bring back any trace of that number using chemicals; looked like they'd used a grinding disk.

  He began to field strip the pistol, laying each piece out on the cloth in the same way he'd always done in the Marines, with the slide at the top and the frame at the bottom. He could see the inside of the gun was even dirtier than the outside. The bushing, barrel and slide were visibly contaminated with what looked like mud from a riverbank. This furthered in his mind the idea that the gun had been tossed after a fatal shooting, probably thrown out of a moving vehicle as it crossed a bridge. If things worked out as he hoped, he might be doing the same thing in several hours’ time.

  He retrieved a bag of supplies from the counter behind him and emptied it out. Cleaning a weapon had always relaxed him, there was something about the repetitive mechanical actions involved that allowed his mind to take a back seat for a couple of minutes. He poured some solvent into a shot glass, dipped a .45 cleaning brush into it, and pushed it down the gun barrel. He did this several times, sending a fine mist onto some paper towels. It was black with dirt.

  “There's something I don't understand,” she said. “How did you find it?”

  “I noticed that every time you got in or out of the car you'd glance down at the same spot of ground. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.”

  She groaned.

  “I couldn't help myself, it was like it was magnetic.”

  Thorne said nothing, his mind focused on the task at hand. The wadding cloth he was pushing out the end of the gun's barrel was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and h
e'd used truck-stop restrooms. He folded a fresh piece of cloth over the push rod and worked that one down the barrel, this time with far better results. He picked up a third piece of cloth. His preference was to continue until the cloth looked the same coming out as it did going in.

  “Chris, I don't want you to kill for me okay? I would rather be dead than know I was the cause of another person's death. There's been too much already. I am grateful for what you’ve done for me, but it's enough now.”

  Thorne put down the barrel and looked up at her.

  “What do you suggest? Nice words? A fruit basket?”

  “We could let the police handle it.”

  It was as he had expected. She liked a bit of danger, but when it came to resolving their problems, when it came to killing, then she was against it.

  “You have a good soul, Lauren, but these are bad people and they need to go away. I think we both know this won't be over until either we're dead or they're dead.”

  She said nothing, she couldn’t admit what had to happen.

  He finished cleaning and began to reassemble the pistol. Now that it was cleaned, it didn't look half bad. A little banged up, a checkered history and discarded after use…he could relate, he really could. He re-loaded the gun then, finally, took off the gloves. The tightness of the rubber was making his skin crawl. He looked up for the first time in several minutes and saw her eyes were half closed.

  “I feel so tired,” she said.

  “Listen, there’s no other way of saying this. I’m going to finish what I started at that mall. This ends tonight, one way or another. If it makes you feel any better about it, I'm not doing this for you.”

  “You’re doing this for her.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Thorne groaned.

  “They’re going to cut off her damn head, Lauren.”

  “I think I always knew. When I saw the two of you in that show, the way you looked at her…it was real. You never looked at me that way, not once. It’s not Jimmy that’s been between us this whole time, it’s Kate.”

  “I can’t have this conversation, I need to take care of this.”

  His reply, and the tone he delivered it, seemed to crush her.

  “I’ll come with you. I still owe you. I owe her.”

  “No.”

  “We make a good team, we look out for each other.”

  “I can’t put you in that kind of danger.”

  Lauren stared at him, furious.

  “What makes you think I won't come anyway? I know where you’re going. It was me that followed him to that crummy motel in the first place, remember?”

  Thorne nodded. “I thought you might say something like that. That's why I made sure you couldn't. You’ll have to trust me when I say it’s for the best. At least this way your conscience is clear.”

  Lauren swallowed.

  “What did you do?”

  “Isn't it obvious? I drugged your food.”

  She glanced at the empty plate. “Is that a joke?”

  “Nothing sinister. I gave you some of my medication. It’s very strong and without pain to keep you awake, you’ll be asleep very quickly. I suggest you're not driving when it happens. Your throat is probably dry and scratchy already.”

  She could see the truth of it in his face.

  “How could you do this to me?”

  Thorne put his arm around her back and guided her from the breakfast bar over to the decking beside the pool.

  “I can't deal with this and worry about you at the same time. Right here is the safest place for you to be, this place is a fortress. A woman got hurt once before because of me and I swear that’s never going to happen again.”

  He eased her into one of the loungers facing the pool. He envied how effective the medication was on her. Tears ran down her face and he wiped them gently away with his thumbs and kissed her once on the mouth.

  “Chris, stay with me.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Thorne arrived at the motel in Watsonville just after 10 p.m. He drove down the side of the single story structure, his eyes scanning the parking lot for Blake’s sedan or Sara’s motorcycle. Finding neither, he looped back and parked where his distinctive car couldn’t be seen from the front desk. It had been too much to hope for that they’d be here waiting for him, he just hoped that they hadn’t left altogether. He killed the engine and examined himself in the rearview mirror. The suit and tie weren’t right, but the general public didn’t take much in when it came to details like that. Acting was about projecting a character, and boy did he know this character. He got out and walked toward the reception, his heels ringing out like gunshots on the sidewalk. Inside his head he was changing over, becoming someone else. An old man sat at the front desk watching a television.

  He pulled out the FBI ID which he flipped open in a practiced manner.

  “Special Agent Jake Vasco, FBI. I need information on one of your guests.”

  The man was studying his face, eyes narrowed, trying to place it. He’d been recognized, Thorne could see it. He’d known this was a possibility, but there’d been no choice. He had to press on, before the man’s brain could place him.

  “Sir?” Thorne said, impatiently.

  The man blinked, like he was coming out of a spell.

  “What guest?”

  “White female. Late 20s to early 30s. Long brown hair, pale white skin. Five foot seven, one hundred ten pounds. Athletic like a dancer. Is known to ride a motorcycle.”

  The man nodded. Sara was not someone you quickly forgot.

  “Room thirty-four.”

  “I need to see it.”

  The man came out from behind his desk and they walked back the way he’d come. He had decided in advance that Sara represented the best target for identification because it was obvious to him that Blake would use her to deal with motel staff. The cops had never released any images of her because they didn’t have any. Consequently, she could come and go as she pleased with no possibility of recognition. They reached room 34. The door was fitted with a modern plastic keycard slot, which the desk manager slid his master key in and out. A green LED pulsed briefly, his hand worked the lever and the door began to open. Thorne reached out and caught the edge of the powder blue door to prevent the other man seeing inside.

  “That’s fine,” Thorne said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “I got to go in with you if you don’t have a warrant.”

  “This ain’t Law and Order, old man. Exigent circumstance. A woman’s life is in danger.”

  The desk manager turned his head and spat a dark bolus of chewing tobacco and saliva onto the concrete before looking back up at Thorne. A fire burned in his eyes. It was an instinctive challenge to authority and dislike of the federal government. After a beat he nodded once, both hands half-raised in surrender.

  “All right, son. Take it easy.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”

  When the man had gone, he opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room was similar to many he’d stayed in over the years. Night Passenger had operated on a small budget and often utilized motels such as this whenever they shot outside of L.A. His eyes moved quickly over the scene, taking it all in. It was a mess and there was plenty to see. Along the far wall were four heavy-looking flight cases. The defibrillators. Next to the door was one of the canvas bags Blake used to carry weapons, ready to be picked up before leaving. Nothing else seemed relevant. Take out boxes, items of clothing, and bottles of beer lay wherever they’d been discarded. He couldn’t imagine the bag of weapons being left behind unless Blake planned to return for it. Thorne put on the latex gloves he’d purchased for cleaning Ashcroft’s 1911 pistol.

  He’d been dreading this moment and he wanted to be past it, however it turned out. He walked through the bedr
oom into the washroom and yanked open the shower curtain. Nothing. If Kate had been anywhere, it would’ve been at the bottom of the shower stall. Since she would also have been dead, he wasn’t disappointed to find no trace of her. He realized he’d been holding his breath, afraid of what he might smell, and he let it out now in a ragged stream. This was a bolt-hole, where Blake kept his supplies and expected to sleep. The video footage showed somewhere industrial, somewhere unpopulated.

  That’s where Blake would be now, that’s what he had to locate.

  Back into the main room, the smell of Sara’s cheap perfume was everywhere. It even cut through the sour smell of day-old convenience food. On one side of the bed, bloodstained dressings littered the floor. He squatted down to look at them, gingerly prodding them with his index finger. Some of the dressings had thick dark hairs protruding from the edges. These would be Blake’s, from when he’d stabbed him. When he thought back on it, the timeline matched a little too closely with the abduction of Kate for his liking. It felt good taking action, but if he’d doomed Kate it would be too much to bear.

  His eye was drawn to an iPad sitting on a low table, a thin white flex connecting it to a power socket. This was the first positive thing he’d found. Since Blake wouldn’t have expected anyone else to see it, he likely hadn’t gone to any lengths to hide anything. Google searches, open browser tabs, something like that. He picked up the tablet and sat on the edge of the bed, the flex trailing across the floor. The first thing he noticed was a Japanese anime sticker on the cover. A girl with huge eyes, a lollipop in her mouth and a sword up behind her head ready to swing. This suggested to him that the tablet belonged to Sara, not Blake. He sighed, but flipped open the cover anyway.

  It didn’t mean Blake hadn’t used the device, or that it still might yield some clues. The display lit up and he was thankful that it was a home screen, not a lock screen. Thorne selected the browser icon. It showed a Street View picture of an intersection in Santa Cruz he didn’t recognize. Three other tabs were open, one was the YouTube page with an image of himself frozen onscreen, and the other two were Google search results just as he’d hoped. The searches were for ‘steakhouse in santa cruz’ and ‘motels near watsonville’. This told him nothing beyond the fact that even Blake had to eat and sleep. The only thing that surprised him was that the motel had been chosen for it’s proximity to Watsonville. He’d assumed the motel had been chosen because it was located outside Santa Cruz and Capitola, where blurred images of his face were still to be found posted in stores next to cash registers.