“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 shuttle, 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.