Bone Music

by Christopher Rice

  “Right. Ask him how long the process takes.”

  She does. Bailey’s response comes a minute later.

  An entire body takes fifteen hours of work. But I don’t know what percent of that is just posing limbs. If you’re just dealing with a face separate from a body, a lot less time, obviously.

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “But a while, right?” Luke asks. He’s found a parking spot two blocks away. They can’t see the high-rise, but they can see the entry gate, and both trackers are stationary and right next to each other now. “Charley?”

  “Yes, a while,” she says. “Just tell me what your theory is.”

  “I think the lag time between the abductions and the masks is about the process he needs to actually make them. My guess? He kills his victims right away. Because if he did abduct Elle Schaeffer on Saturday, and we don’t have proof that he did, look at how he’s acting now. He’s been at work all day. He did . . . what? A two-hour workout at the gym?” She nods. “And there’s no sign of life at his country house. This isn’t the behavior of a man who’s got a captive somewhere. Also, the mask-making process is complex. I can’t see him making one mask while tending to a different captive in another room while also holding down what looks like a pretty kick-ass career as a plastic surgeon.”

  They’re good points, all of them.

  “And if you’re wrong?” she asks.

  “Then we treat Graydon to a show of you fighting off some really mean Dobermans. Think you’re up to it? I mean, it might be an off-label use, but last time I checked, they didn’t exactly have FDA approval for this thing.”

  “I’m glad I have you around for comic relief.”

  “Hopefully, I’m worth more than that.”

  “You are . . . I think.”

  “You think?”

  She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the case for the contact lenses, which looks somewhat like a normal case for normal contact lenses, except for the fact that it’s made out of stainless steel.

  “Are we ready for these?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Are we? I mean, seems soon.”

  “Maybe I just want them to know who we’re after. And why.”

  “Runs the risk of them shutting us down if they think it’s too dangerous.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Graydon will step in and take down the dogs for us if they can tell he’s got someone alive in that house.”

  “Good point, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Might I suggest a backup plan?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Have Bailey ready to dump all the documents he found from the Bryant Center hack. That way if Graydon does shut us down, Pemberton and his rich friend won’t be able to hide behind that warrant anymore. Or lack thereof.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  She’s getting ready to text Bailey when one of the trackers starts moving.

  “Well, that was a quick shower,” she says.

  “It’s the Cadillac.”

  A few seconds later, she sees it leave the entry gate and turn inland.

  Luke eases his foot off the brake and follows.

  By the time they’ve followed Pemberton onto the toll road, she’s got the lenses in, and she’s used the passcode key to open the feed. The hall of mirrors effect when she looks directly at the receiving tablet turns her stomach.

  “Which way’s he headed?” she asks.

  “South—5 freeway.”

  “Temecula?”

  “Possible.”

  And though she doesn’t say it, it’s also possible what they’re seeing now actually is the behavior of someone with a living captive who needs tending to.

  By the time they’re skirting Camp Pendleton, she and Luke agree there’s a 75 percent chance they’re headed for the Temecula house, which is cause enough to call Marty.

  When she asks him to head back to the surveillance point, Marty doesn’t complain, but the request still gives her a twinge of guilt. It’s his first break of the day, and she figures he was up there for hours already. But even though Marty vouches for all of them, she doesn’t know any of the guys currently on watch; she needs someone she can trust with eyes on the property.

  Worse, after studying the map earlier that day, Luke’s assured her there’s no way in hell they can follow Pemberton up the twisty mountain road to his place without being detected. The road leads to only one place—Pemberton’s. They’ll need to fall back at the entrance to the narrow valley that contains his house, stay in phone contact with Marty, and hope the signal from the tracker doesn’t drop out.

  If they’re given cause to approach the house on foot, the best plan will be to meet up with Marty at the surveillance point and strike out from there. It’s a downhill walk most of the way, and the brush is thin. The downside of this plan? If Pemberton leaves by car quickly, catching up with him from the surveillance point won’t be easy. Again, it will all depend on the strength of the tracker. Thank God they bought the priciest model.

  They’re silent now. Suppressing nervous tics. Doing mental battle with worst-case scenarios. And, she’s sure, wondering what comes next if it seems Pemberton’s got a live captive.

  To their right, the Pacific, glittering in the moonlight. To their left, the long, dark expanse of the Marine Corps base and its rear fortification of dark mountains. When they reach Oceanside, a small town right at the base’s southern border, Pemberton’s Cadillac takes a right onto Highway 76, and Luke says, “Seventy-five percent just went up to ninety.”

  Low, rolling hills plated in night darkness. The occasional terrace of lights from a subdivision. Then, suddenly, Interstate 15, a blazing ribbon of red and white twisting through the night’s darkness, past the hill-nestled town of Fallbrook. By day it must be beautiful countryside. At night it’s like they’re driving in between frozen ocean waves.

  They cross I-15, head into even darker and more rugged countryside.

  “Valley entrance or surveillance point?” Luke asks.

  “Valley entrance, until we’re sure he’s staying.”

  The taillights of Pemberton’s Cadillac vanish onto the side road up ahead. Luke keeps driving, toward the Pala Indian Reservation and the blaze of lights from the casino resort up ahead. When he pulls over onto the gravel shoulder, she calls Marty, tells him how far up Pala Temecula Road Pemberton’s tracker is.

  “Got him in sight,” Marty says. “He’s coming up the road. Opening the gate, dogs are going nuts.”

  The fact that she can’t hear their barking through the phone tells her how far the surveillance post is from the house. Not good if they’re actually going to have to approach the place.

  “Pulling into the garage,” Marty says.

  “How big?”

  “The garage? You could fit about four cars, I guess.”

  “And it’s behind the gate?”

  “Yep. Everything is except the old vineyard fields, and it doesn’t look like he’s using those.”

  “All right. What’s he doing now?”

  “No sign of him.”

  “Is there enough light to see by? Maybe he walked to the main house and you—”

  “Nope, nope. He’s backing out. Or someone else is. No, it’s him. But he’s in a brown Toyota Camry now.”

  “Shit,” she whispers.

  “What?” Luke asks.

  “He switched cars.”

  Luke curses under his breath, takes the Jeep out of park.

  Charlotte asks, “Which way’s he headed?”

  “North on Pala Temecula Road,” Marty says.

  “Fuck,” she whispers. “Go. He’s headed in the other direction.”

  Marty says, “License plate’s six, alpha, Juliet, bravo, three, nine, six.”

  Luke spins out into a U-turn, races for the entrance to Pala Temecula Road. There’s no need to point out what they’re suddenly up against. New car. No tracker. Unknown direction.

  “Careful,” Mart
y says.

  She thanks him and hangs up. Suddenly they’re speeding through the dark valley, Luke taking hairpin turns faster than any driver should.

  “I need to do something scary, but it’ll help,” he says.

  Before she can answer, he kills the headlights. She grips the oh-shit handle, sinks her foot into a phantom brake pedal at her feet. They’re gaining slowly on a set of taillights now. As they get closer, she sees the plate number Marty just read to her. Luke keeps the headlights off. Then the city of Temecula appears up ahead; another circuit board of light amid the black, lumpy suggestions of hills.

  “A Camry. Does that really seem like the doctor’s style?” she asks.

  “Nope, but it is one of the most popular cars on the road.”

  “Perfect for blending in.”

  “Yep.”

  They both sigh when he gets on the 15 North. No more twisting through mountain roads in the dark. For now at least. And he’s hanging out in the middle lane, obeying the speed limit, which allows them to fall back. They’re just past rush hour now, that magical California hour when the traffic starts to thin and the freeways make drivers feel unstoppable instead of trapped.

  Murrieta, Wildomar, Lake Elsinore. He’s leaving them all in his wake.

  “He just passed the Ortega Highway, so I doubt he’s headed home,” Luke says.

  “Or maybe he’s taking the long way.”

  “In that car? I doubt it.”

  More silence. Pemberton doesn’t deviate. Luke manages to maintain a perfect, steady speed in response.

  “Charley,” he finally says.

  “Yeah?”

  “You should probably take your medicine now.”

  “You think?”

  “I think he’s headed to points unknown in a car designed to blend in. A car he keeps hidden from the world. It’s your call. But that’s my honest assessment.”

  And there’s no arguing with it, she feels.

  By the time they reach Corona, she’s taken her pill, just like he suggested.

  Bailey texts, asking for an update.

  Question, she types back. If this all goes to shit, can you be ready to dump the Bryant Center hack docs?

  Define “goes to shit,” he answers.

  It’ll be when I text you and say, “It just went to shit.”

  Feels like there’s a ghost in the room with us. Has been since we started. You want to tell me their name?

  Safer if I don’t, she answers.

  Safer for who? Thought you told me not to be afraid of people you’re afraid of. My patience for irony is wearing thin.

  “That doesn’t sound like it’s going well,” Luke says.

  “Don’t worry about it. I got it.”

  Fine, she types. It’s your call. You did the hack. So I guess by your logic, you own the proceeds. But if someone stops us from doing what we’re doing out here, you can decide whether you want a serial killer to get away with more murders.

  Luke starts shifting lanes. Seconds tick by without a response from Bailey.

  Maybe I’m worried about you guys, he writes.

  That’s sweet. But right now there’s only one thing to worry about.

  ?, he responds.

  Pemberton getting away.

  She looks up, sees the Camry leading them west onto 91, a different toll road. Orange County spreads out before them in a seemingly never-ending blanket of lights, too vast to be called the suburbs, too flat and diffuse to be considered urban sprawl.

  Another turn north, this time onto Interstate 605, then, in what feels like an instant, a turn west again onto I-105. Never before has Charley had such a hatred of Southern California’s seemingly nonsensical network of freeways.

  “I think I know where he’s going,” Luke says.

  “Where?”

  “Won’t say yet. Don’t want to jinx it.”

  Whatever that means, Charlotte thinks. But he’s doing such a good job of tailing Pemberton, she doesn’t want to say anything to distract him.

  They keep heading west; then Pemberton’s right-turn blinker starts flashing.

  “Shit,” Luke whispers.

  And that’s when Charley sees the sign for the exit Pemberton’s about to take: LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

  “Shit on a stick,” she adds.

  38

  They follow Pemberton across Century Boulevard and into one of the vast and uncovered long-term parking lots right beneath the airport’s final approach path.

  He bypasses several open spots close to the entrance. Heads for one in the middle of the shadowy sea of parked cars.

  “Look at it this way,” Luke says. “At least I’ll be able to put a tracker on the Camry now.”

  “What good will it do if he’s leaving town?”

  Instead of answering, Luke drives past Pemberton’s freshly parked car. Slows as he comes to an empty spot two rows away.

  “Besides, I thought the extras were replacements for his bike and his Caddy. They only have a sixty-hour charge, right?”

  “Yeah, well, best-laid plans and all that.”

  He’s parked them between an SUV and a van.

  “Can you see him?” she asks. Her view is blocked.

  “Yep. Oh, look. How handy? He already had a carry-on packed in the trunk.”

  “Well, that’s some forward thinking. If he’s going to the terminal, we need to follow him.”

  “No, I need to follow him,” Luke says. “You need to put the tracker on the Camry.”

  “Which I don’t know how to do.”

  “If he’s getting on a shuttle, you’re not getting on with him. Too confined. He’ll see you for sure.”

  “What if he’s about to abduct someone?”

  “Then he’s an idiot. LAX has their own intelligence service, and cameras everywhere. If he’s actually going to the airport, there’s no way. He’s either leaving town or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “I don’t know. He’s walking to the shuttle stop. I’m going after him. At least I can find out what airline he’s taking.”

  “You don’t have a bag.”

  He reaches into the back seat, pulls out the backpack he’s been using to carry all the surveillance devices they’ve acquired over the past few days. He digs in it with one hand, pulls out a spare tracker, and hands it to her. But she still has no idea how to install and activate it, much less connect it to the tablet.

  “I’m not fucking this up,” she says.

  “Fine. Just wait till I’m back. But I need to go now, or I’m going to lose him.”

  She nods.

  He hops from the Jeep, slides the empty backpack up onto his shoulders as he jogs toward the shuttle stop. The bag looks too empty, she thinks. But there’s no fixing that now.

  She steps from the Jeep and inches down its side until she can see Pemberton standing several deliberate paces away from the small group of suitcase-toting travelers waiting for their ride to the terminal.

  A thought occurs to her. She pulls out her burner phone.

  Still in Pemberton’s computer? She asks Bailey.

  Yep.

  Any evidence of travel arrangements?

  Checking.

  Luke’s made it to the shuttle stop. Like Pemberton, he’s standing several paces away from the other travelers, but on the opposite side of the group.

  From a distance, he’s doing a decent job of looking like a nervous traveler; checking the time on his phone, pulling out some folded-up papers he found inside the bag, checking them as if they’re boarding passes.

  She waits. Pemberton waits. Luke waits. The other travelers wait.

  Then there’s a sharp hiss of bus brakes that makes the entire group straighten in anticipation. A few seconds later, a shuttle comes bouncing into the lot.

  Almost too late, Luke seems to realize Pemberton is determined to board last. For a few seconds, she’s afraid his hesitation might give away his attention. But Luke recovers and steps up onto the sh
uttle, allowing a young couple and their two small children to fall in between him and their target, who’s now bringing up the rear.

  Another hiss of brakes and the shuttle lurches forward. Once the low bellow of its engine fades, she’s left in unnerving silence. Then a wide-body jet blasts by overhead, so close she can read the codes painted on its belly, engines loud enough to make her teeth rattle.

  She approaches the Camry.

  It’s parked well outside the halo of the nearest sodium vapor light. Maybe that’s why he bypassed the first two open spots after entering. She looks around. In general the parking lot is badly lit. Badly lit and huge. And according to the posted rates, not all that expensive, either. And it’s hardly secure. The exhaust from the jets can’t be good for your paint job.

  She peers through the Camry’s window. Gives her eyes a minute or two to adjust to the shadows.

  There’s nothing inside. Nothing. Not a scrap of paper. Not an empty packet of gum. Nothing.

  Even though it feels dangerous, she places her hand against the trunk.

  She even knocks.

  But it’s crazy, what she’s thinking. According to Luke, Pemberton just opened the trunk and pulled out a carry-on, and besides, he’s never dumped an entire body before.

  The only part of one of his victims he allows the world to find is her face.

  The terminal is packed.

  Pemberton bypasses the long lines of customers trying to figure out self-serve ticket kiosks that seem to confound everyone equally regardless of their educational background.

  He’s strolling, Luke thinks, and for some reason, it’s harder to maintain a tailing pace on foot than it was on the freeway.

  He pulls a plain black carry-on that looks like almost every other carry-on in the airport. Just like the Camry looks like almost every other car on the road. His outfit, however, is startlingly bright. White jeans, one of those rumpled tan fisherman’s hats that reminds Luke of his late grandfather, a cream-colored T-shirt, and a tan windbreaker. It doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of his incognito routine. Then Luke imagines what the ensemble looks like against the polished white floors on a black-and-white screen, and the outfit choice makes sense.

  So far Pemberton’s walked past one major airline, two regional ones, and the entrances to two different security checkpoints. He’s made no effort to weave around even the most sluggish of passengers who cross his path. In fact, he seems to stick with the nearest crowd wherever possible, as if he’s being gently sucked into the wake of every family or tour group or excited gaggle of college students.