Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(111)

“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.

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.