Lost Tomorrows

by Coyle, Matt;

  “Jesus, Rick.”

  “You’ve been a better friend than I could ever deserve.” I ended the call.

  Midnight stared up at me. I kissed him on the head and left my house, locking the door behind me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I SCANNED MY neighborhood before I took off down the sidewalk. I didn’t want to be seen with a duffle bag walking away from my house. Clear. I walked to the end of the street and turned down Moraga Avenue, which ran down a long hill to Balboa Avenue. A car passed by me, but I didn’t recognize the driver. Good, then he probably wouldn’t recognize me. Balboa was less than a mile away, and it took me about ten minutes to get down to it. In another five minutes I reached the Union 76 station on the corner of Balboa and Mission Bay Drive. I gave the clerk behind the counter five bucks to call me a cab.

  Uber would have been quicker and cheaper, but with a taxi, I didn’t have to worry about names and GPS on my phone. I was just some dude at a gas station with a duffle bag. The cab picked me up and deposited me at the Old Town Train Station by two twenty p.m. Plenty of time before the Pacific Surfliner arrived on its journey north.

  I had to show an ID to board the train. Which I did, my fake one. Or, more accurately, the one with a different identity that matched the credit card in my wallet and the passport in the duffle bag. Timothy Francis Wright. Resident of Alhambra, California, in Los Angeles County.

  The train arrived in San Clemente at 4:07 p.m. I could smell the ocean in the small seaside town when I got off the train. Colleen and I had spent a night there while we were in college after a weekend in San Diego. We walked on the beach hand in hand at sunset. I told her I loved her that night for the first time as we lay in bed listening to the waves lap up onto the beach.

  The beach and quaint seaside hotel we’d stayed in were on my left when I got off the train. I turned right and walked a mile to a Hertz car rental. I gave the rep my license and credit card. I told her I’d pay cash when I returned the car so the credit card was only used as a deposit. She offered me a Ford Fusion to rent. Black. She told me it was a popular car. Not to me. I rented a black Toyota Corolla and used their landline to check messages on my cellphone’s voicemail. Nothing.

  I got onto I-5 and headed north arriving in Santa Barbara a little before 8:00 p.m. Weaver’s house was a ten-minute drive. Instead I got off on Laguna Street, turned left on East Cota and right on Santa Barbara Street. I drove past the Santa Barbara Historical Museum, the county courthouse, Alameda Park, and finally parked alongside the Alice Keck Park Memorial Garden.

  The botanical garden was less than a mile from the apartment where Colleen and I had lived. We used to walk over with a picnic basket and spread out on a pristine lawn near an arch where wedding ceremonies were held. We’d watch young children run around the garden and comment that our kids would be better behaved, then laugh.

  I got out of the car and walked onto the path that led over to a pond. A small gazebo with a metal railing and latticed sides hung out over the edge of the pond. I stopped at the gazebo and looked around. The garden had a few lights along the path, but the gazebo was pretty dark. I saw a couple walking in the distance and waited for them to clear. Once they did, I darted down the slight embankment below the gazebo. I shoved my hand under the structure where it hung out over the water and found my target. The cashbox I’d wedged up under it last night. Still there. I pulled it out, tucked it under my arm, and headed back to my car.

  I drove a few blocks away to a dark residential street and unlocked the cashbox. Gun still inside. I’d taken the extra precaution of locking the gun in the box in case someone somehow found it. I could live with killing a murderer in cold blood, but I wouldn’t be able to if some kid found a gun I’d hidden and accidently killed his sister or himself.

  I flipped the toggle switch for the overhead light to the off position and got out of the car in the dark. I took my duffle bag full of crime tools from the trunk and got back in the car. Still no one on the street, but I hurried to my task.

  I put on a pair of black nitrile gloves from my burglar’s duffle bag and went to work.

  First, I unwrapped the Colt Super .38 from the Beachside Inn hand towel. I checked the safety. Still on. I popped the magazine out and checked to make sure there wasn’t a cartridge in the chamber. Clear. I wiped down the gun and the magazine with the towel and set them all down on the passenger’s seat.

  I took the two-foot-long edifice I’d constructed in my kitchen, along with the duct tape and a penlight flashlight out of the duffle bag. I turned on the flashlight and put the handle between my teeth, then ripped off a couple strips of tape and hung them from the car’s steering wheel. Next, I placed the bottle device between my knees with the drinkable opening facing upward, then put the barrel of the gun against the opening of the bottle. The slide of the gun was too big to fit inside the opening but the muzzle was thin enough to center in the middle of the hole. I wrapped a pieced of tape around the slide of the gun and the drink opening of the bottle. Two more until the Coke bottles felt secure on the end of the gun. Another check of the alignment. Centered.

  Many more strips of tape until the connection was solid. Unmovable. I now had an untraceable gun with a rudimentary suppressor. An assassin’s weapon. I loaded the magazine and put the gun in the duffle bag, which I hid in the trunk in the spare tire well. I got back behind the wheel. Ready to stalk my prey.

  This was the man I’d become.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I GOT OFF the freeway a few blocks from Tom Weaver’s neighborhood at eight forty-five p.m. and parked in the alley behind a closed tailor’s shop. No one in the alley. No security cameras either. I quickly got out and removed both license plates from the rented black Toyota Corolla and put them in the trunk next to the duffle bag.

  The remainder of the trip to Weaver’s house was along residential streets with limited streetlights. Weaver’s driveway was empty and his small, old-fashioned garage wasn’t big enough to hold his Dodge Challenger. Not home.

  I parked across the street and five houses up from his home. The home he used to share with the woman he killed fourteen years after he killed my wife. My adrenaline kicked in. It rode on top of the fear and anticipation already roiling in my stomach. Fear that I might die. I might get caught. I might fail. The anticipation oozed from my primordial past. The hunt. The kill. Vengeance.

  I’d killed before. In self-defense, on impulse, and with premeditation. None were victims in life, only in death. They’d all murdered people to advance their self-interests. Most took pleasure in the act. Most, if not all, would have killed again. All deserved to die. Maybe they would have gotten life in prison if they’d been caught and tried by the justice system.

  I’d give them my justice. Death. I told myself that I was different from them because I was saving people’s lives and I gained no benefit from their deaths. That made it right.

  To me.

  But this was different. Tom Weaver might never kill again. Maybe he was remorseful for an act he probably committed on impulse. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he got a thrill out of it and he relived it over and over. Didn’t matter either way. He was going to die for what he did to Colleen. And to me. No chance for remorse. No chance for redemption. Only death.

  I waited up the street, perched in my lair. Anxious. I needed to be calm, thinking clearly. When Weaver got home, I’d let him go inside, then I’d drive down and park below his house. I’d wear my ski mask up on my head like a beanie and knock on his door. He’d know it was me when he peered through the peephole. I’d be tilted slightly to the side with my suppressed Colt Super .38 hidden from view. I’d smile. His ego wouldn’t allow him to pass up an opportunity to tell me what he thought of me. He’d open the door and I’d shoot him once between the eyes.

  The homemade suppressor wouldn’t work as well as the real thing, but hopefully the three chambers would dissipate the gases exploding from the barrel enough to deaden the noise so that it wouldn’t s
ound like a gunshot. I had one shot. The slide recoiling after the projectile exploded from the barrel would rip off the suppressor. A second shot would be loud and recognizable.

  I’d pull down the ski mask and hurry to my rental then calmly drive a few blocks on the back streets and park behind a Western wear store and put the license plates back on the Corolla then drive to the Andre Clark Bird Refuge and throw the gun into the middle of the lake. I’d change my clothes and drop the old ones near a homeless encampment next to Santa Barbara City College, then drive back to San Clemente, rent a room using my fake ID, return the rental in the morning, take the train back to Old Town, a cab back to the Union 76 station on Balboa and the mile walk back to my house.

  I’d go on living my life for a year or so until I made another nighttime drive to Santa Barbara in a rented car and killed Jake Mitchell.

  I checked the time on my phone. 10:47 p.m. No Weaver. I’d been above his house for two hours. Paddy’s Pub, Chief Siems, and Weaver and Mitchell popped into my head. Siems had said that Weaver and Mitchell spent most nights in the bar. That’s probably where Weaver was now. Just another night that would be his last.

  Could I wait another two or three hours on his street for him to come home? Someone would notice the Corolla if they hadn’t already. I could move the car a street away, hike back to Weaver’s house, and pick the lock and wait inside. But he might have an alarm and the longer I stayed in his house, the more DNA would slough off me.

  Plan B.

  I drove the side streets to the Western wear store and parked behind it. I quickly screwed the license plates back onto the car and drove down to State Street. I cruised the southern end, a couple blocks down for Paddy’s Pub, knowing there weren’t any security cameras on that end of the street.

  Bingo. I spotted a late-model Black Dodge Challenger parked in the same restaurant parking lot Krista did in the night she died. It was after eleven p.m. The restaurant was closed. Weaver was probably up the street at his watering hole huddled with Mitchell. But it really didn’t matter where he was. I had his car. He had to return to it sometime.

  I found a parking space about a quarter mile away on Gutierrez Street. I parked, grabbed my murder kit from the trunk, and walked quickly back to the parking lot. The Challenger was still there.

  I found a decent hiding spot behind a hedge on the sidewalk next to the parking lot. It was about twenty-five feet from the rear of the Challenger. Not ideal, but workable. I’d have to move fast and quietly to get close enough to make sure the first shot, the only shot, was lethal. Far enough away from the street lights to hide in the dark behind the hedge No businesses open on this end of State or Gutierrez. I had cover. I had time. I had a mission. I unzipped the duffle bag and slid my hand around the grip of the Colt Super .38 and arranged it so I’d be able to clear it and the suppressor easily from the bag.

  I still wore the black nitrile gloves and the black beanie to go with my dark clothes.

  More waiting. Fifteen minutes in, I heard footsteps approaching down State Street. A man in his late twenties wearing black pants and a white shirt walked into the parking lot. I watched him through the leaves of the hedge. He got into a Chrysler PT Cruiser and drove away.

  I let go a long breath.

  Over the next hour, three more people picked up their cars in the parking lot and drove away. That left two vehicles in the lot. Weaver’s black Dodge Challenger and a late-model Silver Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  Maybe luck would be on my side and the driver of the Grand Cherokee would arrive at the parking lot before Weaver did. Then it would just be me and Weaver and less chance of a witness walking up. A killer hoping for good luck. At least I didn’t pray for it. But what if I was unlucky and a witness happened by at the wrong time? Would I put down an innocent to save myself? A murder to advance my self-interest?

  No. I could live with the others, but not that. Innocents were to be protected from men like Weaver and Mitchell. And me.

  Voices wafted down State Street. A man and a woman. Too far away to understand the words or identify the male. It could be Weaver. If it was, I had to find a plan C. Even with the ski mask pulled down over my face, I couldn’t let the murder be witnessed. That would cut my escape time and limit my options to bad choices. And I’d have to call Moira to meet me with Midnight.

  A life on the run.

  No. I’d go back to Weaver’s house and knock on his door after he got home. I couldn’t risk tailing him this late at night. Mine would be the only headlights in his rearview mirror. Even if he went somewhere else, eventually he’d have to go home. When he did, I’d be waiting.

  “The DA cut him loose.” The man’s voice. Tom Weaver. My heart double-tapped. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly to control my breathing, but my heart couldn’t be tamed.

  “After you caught him snorting a line off the hooker’s breasts?” The woman. Vaguely familiar.

  “Yep. Said we didn’t have probable cause to break into the bathroom. Chickenshit.”

  I bent down and pulled the silenced Colt .38 Super out of the duffle bag, held it down along my leg, and peered through the hedge. Weaver and the woman entered the parking lot. When I saw the woman, I realized why her voice was familiar. Sergeant Lance. The desk sergeant from Leah’s and my trip to SBPD headquarters a few days ago. Her red hair was down and she wore slacks and a sweater that accentuated her curves, which had been hidden under a desk when I met her.

  “Well.” She put her arms around Weaver’s neck and looked around. “The coast is clear. Your place or mine?”

  She kissed Weaver on the mouth like she’d done it before, but with enough lust that it might still be a new experience.

  “Mine.”

  Shit. Justice delayed. Again.

  Weaver walked her over to the Grand Cherokee. They kissed again and he opened the SUV’s door like a gentleman. A disguise of the monster who strangled the life out of Colleen and ran down Krista in the street. He had to die.

  Now. I pulled the ski mask down over my face.

  My breath turboed up to match the pounding in my chest. I stepped around the hedge and raised the Colt, only camouflaged by the night. The bulk of the Coke bottle suppressor blocked sure aim. Weaver walked to his car twenty-five feet away from me. If I charged him for a close head shot, Sergeant Lance would see me and spring from the Jeep, gun blazing. One shot center mass wouldn’t guarantee death. A second shot would guarantee a gun battle with Lance.

  Weaver got into his car and turned on the ignition. I retreated behind the hedge and stuffed the gun back into the duffle bag and crouched down.

  Lance pulled out of the parking lot first followed by Weaver. I watched his taillights disappear down State Street.

  My target. My mission. My absolution.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I ZIPPED UP the duffle bag and walked back to my rental car. No point in heading over there just yet. Sergeant Lance didn’t go to Weaver’s house for a nightcap and then a drive to her own home. They’d have sex—his last—and she’d probably stay for the night. At the least, a couple hours. The longer I sat on Weaver’s house the more likely I’d be noticed by a neighbor. It was twelve forty-five a.m. I’d drive by his house at three a.m. If Lance’s jeep was still there, I’d come back at six a.m. Still dark, but close to dawn. If Lance was still there, I didn’t have a plan D yet.

  I only knew that Weaver would die before I left Santa Barbara.

  I got onto State Street and made the short drive to Stearns Wharf. I parked on Cabrillo Boulevard and walked onto the long wooden pier. All the businesses and restaurants were closed for the night. A lone homeless man slept on the boardwalk a hundred yards from the entrance. I walked to the end of the 2,300-foot-long edifice, passing darkened restaurants and curio shops. The last quarter of the wharf juts diagonally to the west and is flat as the deck of an aircraft carrier, unencumbered by buildings. A favorite spot for fishermen and women, but clear this late.

  Fog and night limited visibi
lity of the ocean, but couldn’t silence the sound of water lapping against the wharf’s two-thousand-plus pilings. I stood next to one of the tree logs set along the edge of the pier and stared into the black mist.

  Colleen and I had stood at this very same spot early in our marriage staring out at our future. I’d promised her children and new dreams to come. I’d given her death and an empty nursery in a house she never lived to see.

  I checked the time on my phone. Ten after one. Almost a full two hours until my next chance to murder Tom Weaver. Too much time to think. And remember.

  I pulled the burner phone I’d bought from the 7-Eleven in Inglewood this morning from my pocket. Except it was already the next morning. I stared at the phone. My cellphone sat on the kitchen counter at home in San Diego. I hadn’t checked messages since my stop in San Clemente. Had I missed any calls? Any texts could be passed over. Those would be from friends and I didn’t have enough of those to worry about. The phone calls mattered. They were from strangers or friends who’d followed up their texts because something was urgent.

  Or former enemies who still weren’t friends but were partners out of necessity. Like Jim Grimes. Someone who would wonder why a call hadn’t been returned. Someone who might connect dots later when it mattered.

  If I activated the burner phone and called my cellphone at home to check for voicemails, my phone records would show an incoming call from Santa Barbara just a few hours before Tom Weaver was murdered. SBPD wouldn’t be able to prove that I was in Santa Barbara and made the call, but they might think I’d hired someone to murder Weaver and he called me before he did the deed. But they’d need a whole lot more evidence than a random call from Santa Barbara to make an arrest, much less take me to trial. There’d be no other calls from that phone. No money trail to anyone.

  Suspicion, yes. Arrest, unlikely. Trial, remote.