Night Passenger

by David Stanley

“Change of plan. Get back in the truck.”

  “You and me, we’re good now?”

  “Don’t push it, Thorne. I’ll help save your girlfriend, after that we go our separate ways.”

  The actor flashed his teeth at him. His composure, his swagger it was all back. It depressed Cabot, because it felt like it cost him something. It probably had, he thought. Without the threat of being shot, he had essentially ceded control to the younger man. He was taller and physically stronger, not to mention he had all the information on Aidan Blake. Where he was, what he looked like; Cabot was completely in the dark. Whether he liked it or not, he needed Thorne to close the case. As long as the actor thought he was on-side it left the door open to other possibilities. Like shooting him at the gang’s hideout and claiming he was there when he arrived. Proving his long-running theory of Thorne’s involvement would end any risk of the frame-up coming back to bite him.

  They walked back toward the truck, the branches of the trees swiping at them again. Only minutes earlier he thought he’d be walking back on his own. He’d convinced himself he could shoot Thorne and leave him here in the trees to rot. Instead, he had a new mission, a new target. The man he was going to kill, now walking behind him unguarded. He wondered if the actor had played him, had acted his way out of the situation. Told him what he wanted to hear. It felt like it had been his idea to put the gun away, but he was beginning to wonder.

  They reached the truck and he slid back behind the wheel.

  He turned to Thorne. “Where are we going?”

  “Watsonville.”

  He turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned slowly over, sounding tired, then stopped. A red light glowed on the dashboard with the symbol for the alternator. He groaned. He’d left the key in the ignition and the headlights on. The battery was flat. He turned off the headlights, the air conditioning, and unplugged a third-party GPS unit. There was nothing else to disable. They sat in the dark for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly on the worn leather steering wheel.

  “It’s dead, isn’t it?”

  His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “Give me a moment, Thorne. I’ve not used it much lately.”

  “No doubt.”

  He turned the key again. Stronger this time, more purposeful. Tick, tick, tick. He waited for it to catch, but again the red light came on and he turned the ignition off. If he had killed Thorne the way he'd planned, he would’ve been stuck here needing a boost right next to the crime scene. He gave it a full minute on the clock, then turned the key. This time he buried the throttle, all or nothing. The engine roared back into life and he kept the revs high, feeding as much juice back into the battery as he could. He put the truck in gear and swung it around, back toward Watsonville. When he hit thirty he turned on the headlights and seeing the way was clear, glanced at Thorne. He’d expected further comments about the truck, but Thorne had shaken it off and was looking down at a computer tablet on his knee. The screen lit up his face and judging by the expression, he looked worried. The actor then pulled out his cell phone and began to tap away on that.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I was tracking Blake’s cell phone on this tablet.”

  Cabot wasn’t good with technology, but he noted the use of past tense.

  “Was?”

  “Yeah. The SIM card’s either been removed from this tablet, or else it never had one. The app needs a connection to work and there’s obviously no Wi-Fi here. I’m setting up a wireless network on my phone to use its data service. I’ll get there, Cabot, this is my world.” Thorne trailed off as he stopped typing. “OK. This will take a couple of seconds to load up.”

  Inside the dark cab the tablet’s screen was bright and he had to squint his eyes to understand what it was displaying. A map with two markers. It wasn’t hard to understand, one of them had to be them, the other, Blake.

  “It’s like a spy movie.”

  Thorne grunted, but said nothing. His comment likely marked him out as an old man worthy of ridicule, but the actor left it alone. Thorne was focused now, thinking about his girlfriend.

  “There’s something I could never understand about the shoot-out, maybe you can clarify it for me now.”

  “Sure.”

  “You arrived first, before Ashcroft, before the gang.”

  Thorne nodded. “How did I know they were going to be there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “When I was looking into the Ashcrofts, I found an article about them in the LA Times. James and Lauren met each other in that mall, and have been going back there every year on the same date. The date of the shoot-out. There was a big piece about it, how romantic it was, all that. Made me want to hurl, but some folks like that shit.”

  Cabot shook his head in amazement. Thorne was describing a side to Ashcroft he would never have recognized. Romantic, sentimental, and disarmingly honest to have shared all this with a reporter. It made a crazy kind sense for someone with an eye on the presidency, voters lapped this stuff up. Not Thorne, obviously, but a lot of people. It also answered a question that had bothered him from the start. Namely, what the hell had James Ashcroft been doing in that mall in the first place.

  “Jesus.”

  “Only in America could a mall be considered romantic.”

  They said nothing for several minutes. He was driving at nearly sixty miles an hour, which was close to the vehicle’s top speed. The back of the truck produced a lot of running noise and the cab had little in the way of sound insulation. The thrumming noise went through him like the heartbeat of a huge beast.

  “You said before that we have a painting of Jimmy’s in lockup. I don’t know anything about any painting. How do we have it?”

  “After the exchange at the roadhouse went south I had to hide the painting before you arrived. There wasn’t a lot of time, so I put it in the gang’s van. I didn’t think you’d see the vehicle for what it was, but you did and you had it towed away.”

  “We went over that van with a microscope, there’s no painting.”

  “Trust me, it’s there.”

  Cabot was silent for a moment.

  “Are you talking about Jimmy’s Picasso?”

  “Yeah, it’s worth like a hundred and fifty million dollars. That’s what Blake’s been after. He was going to kidnap Lauren, then exchange her for the painting. As plans go, it was fool-proof. Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d let him do it.”

  It was a fair point, and Cabot could see the logic behind it. Thorne’s interference had caused a cascade of violence and death. Regardless, he didn’t like the idea of the gang kidnapping Lauren and what they might’ve done to her before they returned her, assuming they did. Sometimes it was simpler for an abductor to kill the victim once their price had been met. In simple terms, they knew too much.

  He decided to change the subject.

  “What’s with the suit?”

  Thorne turned to look at him, his expression hard to read.

  “I didn’t have time to change.”

  “So if I go back to that motel, I won’t hear a story about the FBI?”

  “We’re in this together now, Cabot. Remember that. There’s no prize for stabbing me in the back. That cannon of yours will have left a bullet stuck in a tree back there that could be difficult to explain.”

  Thorne may not have been the person he’d taken him for, but the idea that they were partners didn’t sit right with him. He’d invested time and energy into how he felt about the actor, and that didn’t go away easily.

  “At the moment our interests overlap, let’s not pretend this is anything else.”

  “You know,” Thorne said, “I asked James about you. What the deal was, why you were such a hardass. He told me that you wanted to be sheriff, said you’d wanted it for years but had been blocked by different people. Seems to me that rescuing a Hollywood actress, taking down the killer of a US Senator, and closing the biggest case in the county’s history… I could be wron
g, but you’re going to be more than getting your shitty job back, right? Who will be better placed to be sheriff at the next election? Some no-dick pencil-pusher?”

  “You’re beginning to grow on me, Thorne.”

  SIXTY

  They were almost there. Small residential properties gave way to huge warehouses that rose up like tombstones on both sides of the street, gray and anonymous. There was no traffic and the district had an isolated, end-of-the-world vibe. He could see why Blake had chosen it.

  “This is it up here on the left,” Thorne said, pointing through the windshield at a cold storage building. “I say we drive past to check for activity, then circle back.”

  “Agreed.”

  They turned their heads as the warehouse slid past.

  A slender finger of light from a street light shone into the gap between the warehouse and the building next door. He saw Blake’s sedan and, beyond it, the wheel of a motorcycle. He smiled grimly to himself. This was definitely the place. Once again, he had the element of surprise on his side and he hoped that would be enough. Cabot kept the speed slow and steady until they were clear, then hit the gas to complete the circuit around the block.

  He realized that Cabot’s truck made a perfect undercover vehicle. It was so old and run down it was almost invisible. Your eye saw it, then forgot all about it like it was a street sign or a fire hydrant. If Blake had seen it drive past he’d never think of him. The truck belonged here in a way the Maserati never could. Back to the start of the loop again, Cabot cut the ignition and they coasted to a stop, headlights off. It was the same move he’d done at the roadhouse and Thorne flashed back to that scene for a moment. If the lieutenant had thought to drive the truck that night instead of his police cruiser, he had no doubt Ashcroft would still be alive and Kate would already be safe. He pushed the thought aside.

  Wishing on what could have been led nowhere useful and was little more than a prayer for losers. He needed to stay sharp and in the moment.

  Thorne placed the tablet between them so they could both see it clearly. He was pleased to note that they were exactly where the pointer said they were. It was an encouraging sign, but it meant little. They were outside so their position would be calculated using GPS. Blake, on the other hand, was inside a concrete and steel building where the satellite signal couldn’t penetrate. That left cellular network positioning, a system of triangulation based on cell masts. Compared to GPS it was a joke, with a potential inaccuracy of a quarter mile, depending on cell mast density. The vehicles outside indicated they were in the right place, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility of Blake parking next to a neighboring building to backstop any search for him. There was nothing to be gained from mentioning any of this to Cabot, however, and plenty to be gained from keeping him in the dark.

  He zoomed in on the warehouse until it filled the screen.

  “Okay, Blake’s here at this end of the building. They’re not expecting company, so he’ll just be cooling his heels waiting for my call. Kate is their only leverage so they’ll want to keep her close, where they can see her. That creates a blind spot at the back. You enter there and work your way forward, while I go in here. If it all goes sideways and I’m discovered, he’ll never expect me to have you as backup. You’re my ace in the hole.”

  Cabot screwed up his face. He didn’t enjoy taking direction.

  “No, no, no. We should hit them both at once. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Thorne, but I’m not really set for squeezing through windows and sneaking about.”

  Thorne paused, thinking it over.

  “Blake’s not in this building legally, right? That means he has no key. I didn’t see damage out front when we drove past, so I’m guessing he busted a lock off where it wouldn’t draw the attention of passers-by. I figure this door is at the back next to the loading dock, he’d have time to work on it out of sight. That’s how you get in.”

  “You think like a cop, Thorne.”

  Even from a joker like Cabot, this was high praise.

  “Thanks.”

  “And once we’re inside?”

  “I draw Blake and the Dawson woman away from Kate, while you rescue her. Get her out of there, no matter what. Drive away and leave me, don’t wait. I want to know she’s safe.”

  “That’s a shit plan.”

  “As soon as they realize she’s expendable, they’ll kill her. If my plan isn’t heroic enough for you we can work out a better story later, but this is the way we’re playing it.”

  “You know, it’s too bad I never got to know the real you before now because you’re actually a charming guy to be around.”

  Thorne said nothing. Cabot’s attempt at humor either indicated a thawing in their relationship, or a sign of nerves. He flipped the tablet cover closed and tossed the device onto the floor next to his feet. Inside, he was changing again. Becoming Jake Vasco, the man with no fear. He didn’t have any, because it wasn’t in the script. Thorne reached behind him and pulled the S&W 1911 out of the back of his pants.

  The lieutenant stiffened noticeably as he saw the weapon.

  “How come you never drew that out in the woods?”

  “Didn’t think I needed to.”

  He let the pistol rest on his leg as if forgotten.

  “Cabot, there’s something I feel I should tell you before we go in there. In the spirit of us working together and all that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not here to help you arrest people. If that’s a problem you should stay here.”

  Cabot sat still for a moment, except for the slow mechanical chewing of his jaws. The gum must have lost it’s flavor long ago, yet he continued to chomp on it. Finally, Cabot turned to him, his face almost entirely lost in the low light.

  “You got nothing to worry about, Thorne. I’m not a cop tonight. You’re here for Kate, I’m here for Jimmy. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Just so we’re clear, Kate’s blonde, Sara’s a brunette.”

  “Give me some credit, Thorne. I know exactly what your girlfriend looks like. They play two episodes of your show every night.”

  It was jarring for him to think about Cabot watching Night Passenger. Seeing Kate with her tastefully torn clothing, him saying all that corny wise-cracking dialogue.

  “You’ve seen it? What do you think?”

  “It’s stupid and cheesy.”

  “Everyone’s a goddamn critic, I swear.”

  “Tonight’s the first time I missed it, so I set it to record.”

  Thorne smiled to himself in the dark. It would be interesting to see what numbers the show was getting with a prime time slot and the publicity rubbing off from the shoot-out.

  Next to him, Cabot took out the revolver again. In his large hand it seemed perfectly proportioned, except for the barrel which seemed to go on forever. It was time. They nodded to each other and got out of the truck, closing the heavy doors as softly as possible. The adrenaline kicked in, his senses sharpening. They walked single file down the sidewalk, their left arms brushing the gray concrete wall of the building next to Blake’s. Keeping the angle tight. He heard Cabot breathing through his mouth behind him like a team of attack dogs pulling against their leashes. The cop hadn’t fought him too hard on a plan that gave him the lightest load to carry. He’d anticipated more resistance from Cabot, even if it was just for show. Perhaps the man hoped to keep his head down until the shooting stopped, then take care of whoever was left when the going was easy.

  Thorne drew level with the edge of the first building, paused for a beat, flashed his head around the corner to take in the scene, then sucked it back around. No lookouts, no cameras. He jogged across the opening to the corner on the opposite side then turned to watch Cabot go down the side of the warehouse as planned. The man was in a half squat as he shuffled forward, like he was about to get on helicopter. Thorne shook his head. The lieutenant was so out of his depth it was pitiful. He moved on, toward his own entry point. The 1911 felt numb in his hand
and it was difficult to tell how much was due to the glove, and how much was nerve damage from his shoulder wound. He tightened his grip on the pistol until he felt the latex begin to stretch between thumb and forefinger.

  He’d lied to Cabot about where he planned to enter the warehouse. Given the imprecise nature of the tracking app without GPS or Wi-Fi, it was possible that Blake could be standing right next to Cabot as he made his breach. To preserve surprise, he had something a little more difficult in mind. He tucked his pistol back into his pants and removed his belt. The automatic moved a fraction, then held. He was next to a power line pole. It looked old and was made of wood. About ten feet up, were a sequence of staggered foot grips. Reaching straight up, his fingertips were less than eighteen inches from the bottom rung. He looped his belt around on itself and attached the buckle on the first hole from the end. He put both his arms through the loop and pushed it up over the top of his biceps. The leather band would ease the strain on his shoulder injury, but with his arms raised it cut across his face. It was the best he could do.

  Thorne sank down and pushed off hard with both legs while arching his back and driving both arms forward above his head. His left hand bounced off the metal grip, but he managed to grab it again before he fell back down. His injured shoulder burned. He pulled himself up, transferring as much load as he could to his left arm as his right hand reached for the next step. He found it, then the next. It was brutal, and his chest heaved trying to get enough air down. Beads of sweat ran down his face. Finally he got his feet onto the steps and the weight came off his arms and shoulders. He moved effortlessly up the remaining steps, first drawing level, then eclipsing the height of the warehouse roof beside him.

  The roof was flat but split across two heights.

  The lower level next to him was connected by a ladder to a raised section that contained three boxy structures. One he made as an air conditioning plant, another a huge backup generator for the cold storage, and lastly the roof access itself. This was his way in. Thorne re-looped the belt so that it was now around the pole and back around a grip to form a handhold. In his head he began to count down from twenty, while taking long, deep breaths. He felt his heart slow and peace come over him. When he reached five he lowered himself on the top foot grip on the pole, bunching up his nearside leg to form a spring then he kicked off sideways with all his strength. For the briefest moment he felt himself flying through the air before landing in a diagonal roll across his back, left shoulder to right hip, and popping up on the other side in a one-knee squat. It was a landing he’d only successfully pulled off once before, during season one of Night Passenger. They’d done five takes that day, and they’d had to use his first as it was the only one he’d nailed.