Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(110)

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,” Marty 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?”