A motel off the 101.
After getting the Google alert on his phone, he’d tried to make it all the way to his destination last night. But there’d been delays. He’d needed to steal a car – an old black Chevy, it turned out – from the long-term lot at Monterey Regional Airport. He’d thought there was a possibility he’d have to abandon his wheels when he arrived at the destination and he wasn’t prepared to lose the Honda just yet.
There were better ways to get an untraceable car than theft, much better, but this matter was urgent and he’d had no choice but to steal the vehicle. Hotwiring, it turned out, was really quite simple: pull the ignition harness bundle out, gang together everything but the – in this case – blue wire. Rig a toggle, then touch the blue wire to the bound leads (let go right away or you’ll ruin the starter). Then pop the cover off the lock assembly and knock out the steering-wheel pin. Easy.
Still, he hadn’t hit the road until about two a.m.
Several hours later, fatigue had caught up with him there, near Oxnard, and he’d had to stop for some rest. He imagined what would have happened if he’d dipped to snoozing and run off the road. The Highway Patrol, suspecting drinking, would have possibly found the Glock 9mm and a car registration that had someone else’s name on it. And the evening would not have gone well.
So he’d made a stop there, at a dive of a motel, along with truck drivers, Disney-bound tourists and college students, whose energy for copulation was quite astonishing, as well as noisy.
Now, close to eight a.m., March rose slowly to waking, thinking about the dream he’d just had.
Often Serena. Sometimes Jessica.
This one had been about Todd.
Todd at Harrison Gorge. It was in upstate New York, on a busy river, one that led ultimately to the Hudson.
The park and nearby town, Colonial era, was a romantic getaway, four hours from Manhattan. The day he was thinking of, the Day of Todd, was nestled in the midst of leaf season. Officially out of school then, working in sales, he’d been in Ithaca, New York, a call. He’d kept some sentimental ties to academia by working for a company that sold audio-visual equipment to colleges. After a lackluster pitch at Cornell, he’d recognized the symptoms: edgy, depressed. The Get was prodding. He’d cancelled a second meeting and left, driving back to his motel.
He’d seen the park on the way and decided, on a whim, to check it out. March spent an hour hiking along the trails, surrounded by leaves spectacular even in light mellowed by low-hanging clouds. March had his camera and shot some pictures as he walked. The rocks, brown and gray like ancient bone, and stark tree trunks impressed him more than the colors.
Click, click, click …
March had spotted a sign, Harrison Gorge, and followed the arrow.
Although the weather had thinned the visitors, he came upon a cluster of people – mostly young, rugged outdoor people, rock-climbing people. Helmets and ropes and well-used backpacks. One young man had stood off to the side, looking down at the water. Someone had called his name.
Todd …
Blonde, cut and muscled, about March’s age. Lean, handsome face. Eyes that would probably be confident at any other time. But not today. Then his companions were gone. Todd was now alone.
And March had approached.
Listen, Todd, I know it’s a big leap. I know you’re scared. But come on, don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine. If you never try something, you never know, do you?
I see you have a Get of your own to scratch.
Come on … A little closer, closer.
Go for it, Todd. Go for it.
Yes, yes, yes …
Antioch March smiled at the memory. It seemed both from another life and as real as yesterday.
He stretched. Okay. Time to get to work. He showered and dressed. He looked in the mirror and his face grew wry. The blond hair was just plain odd.
He made coffee in the cheap unit on the desk and used the powdered creamer. Breakfast was included but he certainly wouldn’t go to the common room, where others might see him. The description of the man who had ‘allegedly’ caused the Solitude Creek tragedy did not include his face. But he thought it best to be cautious. He sipped the pungent brew and turned on the TV.
March finished packing. He dumped the coffee out, wiped away fingerprints throughout the place using a sanitizer wipe (plain cloth doesn’t work). He stepped outside into the clear, cool air. Gazing around, at the oak and brush, the brown hills, the parking lot for anyone watching him, any threats.
None.
Then he slipped into the car, which was parked in the back. Toggle the power. Blue wire to the bundle.
The car started.
Then he was on the road again, piloting the cigarette-smoke-scented Chevy Malibu, heading south.
Two hours later he was in Orange County, closing in on the apartment of the man who’d posted the bizarre Vidster rant by someone named or nicknamed Ahmed, linking the Solitude Creek incident and several other mass tragedies to fundamentalist Islamist terror.
And putting Antioch March in a spotlight he could not afford to be in.
CHAPTER 38
After the autobot had alerted March last night to the video, he’d called in some favors to find the address of the poster. It was in Tustin, a pleasant, nondescript suburb in the heart of Orange County. He now passed a lot of stores, restaurants, strip malls, modest homes.
March found Ahmed’s apartment in a quiet residential area, and parked the Chevy Malibu four blocks away, in front of an empty storefront. No security cameras to record the tag number, or him, though he was at the moment largely unrecognizable. The workman’s beige jacket was a thick one for this hot Southern California weather and he was sweating under it and the baseball cap. But nothing to do about that. He was used to being physically uncomfortable on the job. The Get always put you through your paces.