He arranged his purchases next to his leg so he could grab them quickly when he needed them. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he removed the belt from around his thigh. Blood surged painfully through his leg into the wound, but he had to keep going, there was no time to waste. He pulled his jeans down past his knees then lightly re-tied the belt around his thigh. He took the wound wash and sprayed it straight into the injury, using the fingers of his other hand to hold the sides open. He flinched as the liquid hit the exposed flesh but he kept going, into and around the cut. He was able to fill the cut with the antiseptic fluid then manipulate the sides of the muscle to flush the inside out.
He’d had field training and knew that after blood loss, infection was the next biggest killer with traumatic injury. However painful it was now, it was worth taking the extra time to get any dirt out. When the canister was almost empty, he filled the cut with everything that was left and let it sit there for a moment. It appeared to bubble inside the cut. A sign, he hoped, that it was doing its magic. He flushed it out again and cleaned the top carefully with cotton pads. He squeezed some antimicrobial wound dressing into the cut then applied superglue to the outer edges and pinched the sides shut. The chemicals in the glue burned like all hell and brought tears to his eyes. He held it closed for two minutes, far longer than he believed was necessary. The cut needed to be sutured closed, but he couldn’t have anyone asking what happened to his leg. He released his grip slowly and took his hand away. The cut stayed closed, but his skin buckled awkwardly. It looked like it would hold, but he knew that the real test would be when he stood up and used the leg. As a fail-safe, he stuck a square trauma pad over the top and wrapped an elasticated dressing around and around his thigh. He could feel the tape hold the muscle closed beneath the skin.
He let his head tilt back against the wall, his face looking straight up.
Above, a cloudless blue sky.
He knew he should get moving again, in case the girl or someone else in the store had taken issue with his appearance and called the cops, but there was something he needed to do first. He reached into his pocket and dug out his burner phone. His hands shook as he held the cheap, rubberized plastic. Thorne should’ve finished him when he had the chance, because he wasn’t going to like what came next. This was war now, and the gloves were off. At some level he’d always known it would come to this. Right from the beginning, he’d seen the actor struggle with their arrangement. Even after what had happened at the mall, he’d still hoped to bring Thorne back onboard. To do things the easy way. Now that point had passed, things were clearer. In a way, Thorne had only made what had to happen easier for him. Blake hit the call button and held the cell phone up to his ear. It rang a long time before Sara answered.
“Do it,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Burn it to the ground.”
She paused for a moment. “Tonight.”
Blake cut the call. She could probably tell something had happened, but he didn’t want to get into detail. He knew she wouldn’t want to hear about it anyway, she’d think he was a fool. Sara Dawson was not a woman you went to for sympathy and chicken soup. At a pinch, she’d reload your gun or pass you a beer. He looked up from the phone’s blank display. A man in his seventies with a bald head and a thick gray beard looked at him over a half loaded cart. The old man’s mouth was hanging open.
“The fuck do you want?” Blake said.
TWENTY-FIVE
Thorne waited ten minutes before he turned Ashcroft’s car around and returned to the intersection where he’d stabbed Blake. The light turned red on the car in front and he sat there waiting in the turn lane ready to retrace his steps back up River Street. His eyes flipped up to the gantry and he felt his heart sink. Traffic cams. They covered all four corners of the junction and would’ve been pointing straight at him when he’d had his altercation with Blake. He tilted the sun visor down to cover his face and re-ran the scene in his head. It had been brief, perhaps only 15 seconds. Blake rolls up, he stabs him, he drove off. It seemed to stretch out at the time, but he knew it was quick.
The light changed and he followed the car around onto River. There was no sign of Blake at the side of the road, nor in the parking lot alongside. He continued north, the route he expected Blake to take. When wounded, you go with what you know, you don’t go forward hoping for something to appear, there’s no time for it.
He drove slowly, his eyes scanning both sides of the road, the sidewalk, and cross streets. Looking for any sign of Blake, or an ambulance. Nothing. His thoughts returned to the traffic cams. What would they have captured from their position? The cameras were mounted high on the opposite side to oncoming traffic. They had been at the front of the line, which made the camera over Blake’s left shoulder as he turned to face into Ashcroft’s car. There was a good chance that most of their interaction had been blocked from view by the width of Blake’s own body. That first stab though, the blade slamming down, that would’ve been on camera. He sucked his lower lip in and began to chew on a piece of dry skin. He was driving Ashcroft’s car, it wouldn’t be hard for the police to trace it back to him.
He glanced at the knife that still sat on the passenger seat.
The whole reason for his trip had been to buy this weapon. It was a token weapon against a Glock, but he wanted some kind of backup to Ashcroft’s untested automatic. Now the knife tied him to a crime he knew he should get rid of it. He shouldn’t even think about it, he should toss it in a mailbox or down a storm drain at the first opportunity.
He turned off River into a retail park. A large anonymous area, with warehouse sized stores. He needed to think, to be free from the distraction of driving to work this out.
He was reluctant to lose the weapon. If Blake was still alive, and he had no reason to think otherwise, then he still needed it. The store he’d bought the knife from had security cameras and even if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. The man behind the cash desk had recognized him and asked to shake his hand. If the traffic cams put him in the frame, then the police would be able to prove he bought a weapon matching the description of the one used, and his inability to provide the knife later for testing would be damning. Short of driving outside the county and replacing the knife with one exactly the same, he was stuck with it.
He parked up and went into one of the stores.
Inside, he bought a bottle of water, a can of lighter fluid, and a disposable lighter. Back out in the lot, he used the water to wash the knife and his hands. There was a trace amount of blood, no more than would come out a bug on your windshield, but that wasn’t what he was concerned about. He knew it was what you couldn’t see that you had to worry about. He set the knife down on the asphalt and sprayed the blade with the lighter fluid until a film of it coated the blade, then set it on fire with the lighter. The flame flashed across the metal and went out. He turned the blade over and repeated the process. He sat back on his heels. The liquid was so volatile it began to evaporate immediately. Parts of the blade would be untouched. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby then lit the spray of fluid direct, playing the flame over the blade like a blowtorch. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was better than nothing. When he got back to the mansion he’d give it a proper clean.
Thorne started the engine and spun the car around and out the parking lot. As he rejoined River Street, a brief vibration through the steering wheel triggered a physical memory of the knife blade cutting through Blake’s leg muscle. The jolt as it hit bone. He sighed. However bad things were, they were about to get a lot, lot worse.
He walked into Ashcroft’s office with the keys for the Maserati and found him silently holding a telephone against his head. The senator looked up at him and nodded, then held up his hand, fingers spread out. Five minutes. Then pointed through the wall at the library. Thorne went into the next room and stood at the large window. He’d only planned on dropping the keys off, he didn’t need a big conversation about it. Was the call
about the car? Thorne shook his head at his own stupidity. He’d stabbed Blake without thinking about it. He’d bought the knife and was immediately presented with an opportunity to use it. It seemed perfect, but it’d been a huge mistake for two reasons.
He’d done it in public, in front of a camera.
He hadn’t finished the job.
“Did you get what you wanted?”
Thorne turned to see Ashcroft behind him.
“Yes, thank you.”
“How’d you find the car?”
He relaxed. Ashcroft just wanted to talk about his car.
“It’s a real peach to drive, James. Beautiful.”
“You caught me off-guard with your request, I wasn’t ready.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Walk with me,” Ashcroft said.
He followed the senator down the stairs, through the large hallway and out into the bright sunshine. Ashcroft turned left up the drive, then left again around the side of the mansion. He’d never been around this side of the building. It was in permanent shade and he felt the cool air through his thin cotton T-shirt. At the back of the building, the thin strip of driveway widened out again and another building appeared. Three double garages joined together, each with their large steel doors closed. Since he’d arrived, the Ashcrofts had done nothing but park their cars out front, but it stood to reason they had a garage for their vehicles when they were in D.C.
The senator took a remote from his pocket and pressed a button. One of the metal doors powered slowly open. The interior of the garage was dark and the mansion behind cast a heavy shadow. There was a car inside, he could see that much. Ashcroft walked forward, speaking over his shoulder.
“Just stand here a second.”
After a beat, the car started and pulled forward out of the garage. It was another Maserati. Same size, same color. There was no dirt anywhere on the bodywork, even the tires shone. If he had to guess, the car was brand new. As the car drew level with him the engine stopped again and Ashcroft got out and walked around the hood to stand next to him.
“What do you think? Arrived yesterday.”
A smile played across Ashcroft’s face.
Thorne studied the new car, as if he’d missed something.
“It’s beautiful, but isn’t it the same as the car you have?”
“In every detail except one.”
The smile on Ashcroft’s face widened and was threatening to get out of control.
“Which is?”
“This one’s yours.”
The ground seemed to fall away below Thorne’s feet. He turned and looked again at the car as if this would clarify the situation for him, but the information remained the same. He knew little of Maseratis, but he figured the car had to be worth an easy $100,000.
“Are you serious? You’re giving me a car?”
“I know what you’re going to say. That you can’t accept it, that it’s too much. But I won’t hear of it, okay? What I owe you I can never repay, this is my way of saying thank you.”
Thorne smiled.
“Trust me, James, none of those sentences were about to come out my mouth.”
“Good. How about we take a test drive?”
They got in the car. The cabin smelled strongly of leather and something he couldn’t identify. This would be the new car smell he’d heard all about. He closed his eyes for a moment to drink it in. It was intoxicating. If the other car had smelled of anything, it was Ashcroft himself. Sandalwood, something like that. He opened his eyes and ran his fingertips around the wheel like he was touching a woman for the first time. Knowing the car was his changed everything. He turned to Ashcroft and saw he was studying him closely, the same big smile on his face.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Thorne put the car in gear and hit the gas. The mansion’s driveway flowed past under the wheels and they arrived at the gate, which began to automatically open. The new car already had a security tag fitted. At the highway, the asphalt was deserted in both directions. He swung north, away from Santa Cruz. He’d had enough of the city for one day.
“I was going to give you this car at my birthday party. Make a big deal out of it, you know? My way of saying thank you and acknowledging what you did for us.”
Thorne could picture the scene, it would’ve been horrible.
“But after you borrowed mine,” Ashcroft continued, “I realized it would be a mistake. A gift should be a personal thing, from one person to the other. The only people that need to know about it are me, you, and Lauren.”
“That’s the way I prefer it, James.”
“You’re never going to call me Jimmy, are you?”
“There was a guy in my unit in Iraq called Jimmy. That’s who Jimmy is to me. You’re James. I don’t mean anything by it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the Maserati trailing behind an old pick-up.
“He’s dead, isn’t he? Your Jimmy.”
“Yeah. He’s dead.”
TWENTY-SIX
Cabot was back at the mall, walking the route made by the Ashcrofts that day. It was his eleventh such trip to the scene and every time he came away feeling renewed. The visits served to restore his anger, which helped maintain his focus in an investigation that increasingly appeared to be going nowhere. He came to a halt in front of Victoria’s Secret, where Lauren had stopped to look in the window. By this point, the senator and his wife had been identified by the gang.
He frowned. It was almost as if the Ashcrofts had arranged to meet their kidnappers here, because what else was this? He’d have to look at the Ashcrofts’ timeline. The gang must have followed them around all morning, looking for the best opportunity. From a kidnapping point of view, the mall presented a good grab point with multiple escape vectors. Supposing the gang had followed Ashcroft here, it opened up the possibility that evidence existed at other locations visited by the senator that day. Evidence that would help to identify this Morrison character. Clearer security footage; a credit card transaction.
Something concrete.
He moved off again, toward the exit.
It didn’t do for a man like him to be seen staring at women’s underwear, no matter the pretext. They were something else, the clothes in that store. He’d already found himself wondering what items Lauren had chosen and what she looked like wearing them. He forced the thought from his mind. On the tapes, Morrison and his men surrounded the senator. To James Ashcroft, with other things on his mind, it would appear as if they were in a natural flow of pedestrians moving through the mall. Only from the elevated vantage point of the cameras did a more sinister perspective reveal itself.
Then there was Thorne.
He’d arrived separately from the gang, that was clear enough from the recordings. But hadn’t he said he’d fallen asleep in his rental car? Perhaps that was actually true. He’d fallen asleep with the heating turned up, and woken to find he was late for the party. He’d walked in and seen the Ashcrofts coming toward him, and everything else had unfolded. But the way he appeared on the footage entering the mall made him look like he expected to see them, or the gang, walking right toward him. He didn’t have the casual, distracted walk of someone at a mall, killing time. He had the energized, almost frantic thrust of a man who knows something bad is about to happen and that time was against him.
Once again, the actor became a sticking point in his creative process.
Thorne hadn’t followed the Ashcrofts here from somewhere else. In fact, he’d arrived first, before anyone else. Barnes believed chance alone had brought Thorne to the mall that day and when you looked at it objectively, chance was the most obvious explanation. The Occam’s Razor solution. But if you discounted the notion of the accidental hero, as he did, then something impossible reared its head. For his hypothesis to be correct, Thorne would need to have known the senator’s plans hours if not days in advance. How could that be? How had he not seen this flaw in his reasoning
before?
Did this clear Thorne?
Cabot followed a young woman out through the exit, into bright sun and the cool fall air. As he walked, he pictured in his mind where the three men had died. There were no blood stains or bullet holes, no hint of the carnage that had taken place. The only thing that had changed, was that the area appeared a lot cleaner than it had before. Over at the curb, three teenagers stood laughing at the spot where Thorne had fallen. Normally, the spot was part of his walk-through, but he decided to give it a miss this time. He’d seen enough of it anyway from that video. There was something magnetic about the clip that made you want to keep viewing it. This didn’t make him like Thorne any more, he’d just watched the clip more times than was healthy. He walked toward his cruiser in the parking lot. As he drew alongside the teenagers, he saw that two were now lying on the asphalt; one of them, a male, with his head resting in a girl’s lap, while the third took a picture.
Recreating Thorne’s final shot and his death-like gaze.
He got into his Taurus and fed a stick of gum in his mouth. There was a flavor in there he just couldn’t get rid of, no matter how much spearmint he chewed. When he returned to the Sheriff’s Office, it was to find that someone had parked a cherry red Prius in his usual spot. He glared at it for several long seconds, before moving down the lot to another space. It was trivial, yet it needled him just the same. When he came back out he knew the red car would be gone, but would likely be replaced by another. That was part of the problem; the rogue car establishes a precedent that other drivers soon follow. If he wasn’t careful, it would be open season on that spot, one he’d been using without a problem for ten years.
He walked inside the building, head down and hands in his pockets.
The inconsistent timelines were a problem. He knew Thorne was involved, he felt it in his bones. Thorne Arrived First. He could almost see the words, as if he’d already written them on his notepad. How had this fact and its obvious implications escaped him for so long? Almost immediately, the answer came to him: rust. He hadn’t investigated a case like this since he’d arrived in Santa Cruz. There weren’t that many homicides in the county. If he was being honest with himself, that was what had drawn him to the area in the first place. Now, approaching retirement, he craved it. He hadn’t been this fired up in years. Whether he ran for sheriff or not, this would be the last big case of his career and he wanted a good result.
Night Passenger Page 22
