Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(114)

And now, according to one of the guys Marty’s stationed around the Westin, the doctor’s on the move.

Which exit did he take? Charley types back.

Point A. It was Luke’s code name for the main entrance.

Earlier that day, she and Luke met Marty and two guys he introduced as his best dudes at a gas station fifteen minutes from the hotel: Trev Rucker, a wiry former marine sniper who seemed to have no use for blinking, and whose new and starchy-looking long-sleeved shirt hid ornate tattoos, and Dave Brasher, a towering, bald-headed wall of muscle who’d apparently learned a mix of patience and perceptiveness doing things Marty didn’t want to mention aside from the fact that they’d earned him a stint in Lompoc. Both men had what Marty called long-term sobriety, and both seemed willing to do anything Marty told them to. Charley cared more about the latter.

The departure of Brasher and Rucker from Temecula has left a crew of three at the surveillance point above the vineyard; one of whom rotates down to the RV at Pala Casino for a five-hour nap before returning to relieve the next in line.

Here at the airport, Brasher’s on Point A, the Westin entrance; Rucker’s on Point B, the hotel’s service entrance connecting to a sidewalk that travels most of the way to the long-term parking lot; and Marty’s at Point C, halfway between the hotel and long-term lot.

Luke’s at Ground Zero, casing the lot on foot, keeping eyes on the brown Camry. As soon as the shuttle she’s about to board gets within striking distance, she’ll text him, and he’ll head back to his Jeep, which is parked inside the lot, and monitor the feed from her contact lenses.

But for now the shuttle is taking its sweet time to show up.

Marty says definitely headed for the lot, comes Luke’s text. All three guys tailing.

Tell them not to get too close.

They know.

Tell them anyway.

K.

She waits, bouncing on her heels, running through everything she doesn’t know.

What’s the Camry’s fate once the abduction’s done? Bailey’s figured out the plates are registered to a woman who died of a stroke at the age of eighty-one last year in Santa Clarita, a woman with no evident connection to Pemberton aside from the license plate. Will Pemberton ditch the car, torch it? Has he used a different car each time? If so, how’s he planning to get back to the hotel for the cocktail reception if he’s got no wheels and his car’s still at the Westin? What a relief it was to have him back in his Cadillac for the drive up from Newport Beach that afternoon. Once again they could follow from a safe distance and use the tracker as a guide. Luke had placed a fresh one under the bumper just before dawn.

In the week since the Camry stash, while Charley and Luke were changing motels to avoid suspicion and Marty was rotating out the guys on his watch crew with actual jobs they had to show up for back in Altamira, Bailey’s tried to fill in the holes in what they know of the doctor’s plan by searching the man’s web history. But he hasn’t turned up anything useful. Charley was hoping he’d find searches for shuttle routes or bus services between potential dump sites for the Camry and the Westin, but as Bailey put it, the guy’s as good at cleaning out his cache as he is at switching cars and abducting women.

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t done the research, though.

But why should she care? If everything goes to plan, Pemberton won’t make it back to the Westin.

Luke texts, Stupid question but you took it, right?

Right when his talk ended. Yeah.

K. How many left?

Six. But I’m sure they’ll give me more if I keep working.

They’re reading these right now. Aren’t they?

Yep. Hi . . . whoever the hell you are.

A few seconds later: Eyes on him. He’s headed for the Camry.

The shuttle’s stuck in traffic two baggage claim entrances away.

Doc’s at the Camry. Pulled some stuff from trunk, got in car. Think it was a jacket. Something else. Just heard from Marty and crew. All lot foot exits covered.

Great, but that asshole’s not leaving that lot on foot, she thinks.

The bus pulls up. The door opens with a hiss. She smiles at the driver as she boards, but he ignores her; already looking for an opening in traffic he can pull in to.

The shuttle’s mostly empty.

They start forward, two more stops before they’re free of the terminal and bound for the long-term lot, and the traffic’s getting thinner the farther they get from the international terminal.

Bus showed up, Luke says.

Not mine. Just got on. Still in terminal.

I know.

Several seats away, a woman frees her pug from its carrier. The dog scans the bus, eyes glassy from whatever drug kept it docile at thirty thousand feet. The question from the man across the aisle about when the dog ate last is too familiar to be chitchat from a stranger; he’s her husband or boyfriend. A few rows up, a mother argues cheerfully with her two young sons about whether or not Xbox is on the agenda when they get home. Apparently the boys didn’t get a lot of rest on the flight from Chicago.

She’s the only single woman on the bus.

But another bus has just pulled into the lot. And she’s not on it.

He’s on the move, Luke writes. Added a jacket and a baseball cap.

Where he’s going?

Lurking. Checking out ppl coming off shuttle.

Can you see the passengers?