The Famous and the Dead (34 page)

S
ix days later, Bradley called Hood and told him he was back home at Valley Center. He said they needed to talk—now—use the gate code from the other night, Charlie. Hood heard a rare doubtful waver in Bradley's voice, then he heard the clatter of the phone hitting something hard, and an explosion so loud it turned to static, then another. Gunning his Charger down the dirt road, Hood called the Valley Center Sheriff Substation.

When he got there, three San Diego County fire companies and a half dozen sheriff's cruisers littered the barnyard and two helos hovered low over the hills. The barn was a smoking, blackened husk. Bradley lay sprawled faceup on the floor near the quad runners, most of his face and head gone and his entire body badly burnt. A semiautomatic pistol lay close by. And a cell phone. And a steel military-style fuel can lay scorched in the rubble. Hood recognized Bradley's roasted leather duster and the remnants of the same fancy shirt and boots he'd worn the night he'd renounced his life of crime. Now he was a scorched corpse with a face that had collapsed into the violently emptied space behind it. Hood figured two shotgun blasts. At least. Armenta's soldiers, catching up with him? Herredia's enemies here in California, finding him out? Or something Hood might know nothing about—an old score now settled?

Back outside he leaned against his car in the good sun and looked out at the oak tree and the house and the pond. He wondered at the journey that had begun here and pulled him and others through their lives and had now brought him back to this death. A cool breeze hit him and he understood that it would blow through here for centuries unending and he hoped this bloody smudge of history and the people who lived it would not be erased and forgotten. Bradley Jones had been twenty-two years old.

B
y late spring, Bradley had been buried for nearly two months. Thomas was growing fast and Erin seemed oddly hopeful considering what she had been through. Hood was impressed, once again, with her calm strength, and the way that she could turn the catastrophes of life into the beauty of music. She had seven songs ready for the next CD. She moved back down to Valley Center on the first day of summer, declaring herself ready for “the next chapter.” Owens went with her. Hood watched them drive away down the dusty road and he saw both of their hands come up through the opened windows and wave good-bye.

Over the weeks Hood called acquaintances within the San Diego County Sheriff's Department for updates on the Jones murder investigation. The deputies were not trusting of Hood and they offered him little more than what SDSD gave out to the media: death by shotgun, the fire apparently set to destroy evidence, no suspects and no clear motive. LASD said publicly that Bradley had been “questioned” as part of a larger investigation of Mexican drug-cartel activity in Los Angeles County and this angle was well covered by the
Los Angeles Times
.

The story of his outlaw mother, Suzanne, was exhumed and revisited, complete with videos of Suzanne in action. Her self-proclaimed relationship to Joaquin Murrieta was given enthused but skeptical attention once again, with learned historians weighing in on its great unlikelihood. A university professor from Davis said that the Joneses “were a clearly troubled family but blaming their exploits on a notorious outlaw is flimsy rationalization at best.” Hood thought of the head and gun and the saddle and the vest, of Suzanne's and Bradley's powerful lusts for danger and acquisition and lawlessness. A&E kept calling for an interview and Hood kept dodging them.

In the San Diego media, the flurry was over in less than one week, replaced by fresher woes and the county's irrepressible passions for the Chargers and Padres. Hood was able to extract one unpublished fact from SDPD, though it was of questionable value: Bradley's sidearm had contained nine of eleven possible shells and two brass casings had been recovered in the rubble. The two shells had been fired from Bradley's gun, but because of the ensuing fire, they couldn't say with certainty that he had fired them, and if so, when or at what.

In mid-July, Lonnie Rovanna was ruled unfit to assist in his own defense and housed in a high-security mental ward for treatment. Hood saw the video of Rovanna over and over, a staple on the San Diego news stations. They never showed any of the victims being hit by bullets, only Rovanna being tackled by Scott Freeman's hefty associate. Hood's own name continued to appear deep in several of the newspaper and magazine articles, linking Rovanna's illegal possession of the fatal gun and a botched ATF operation. Dale Yorth kept Hood current on ATF musical chairs: Soriana bumped up to L.A., the L.A. Special Agent in Charge off to D.C., Fredrick Lansing demoted to a Justice Department job in Kansas City, Bly and three of the other fired agents filing a suit against Justice for wrongful termination. Hood enjoyed the information but didn't miss the bureaucracy. He felt less like a law enforcer than an unemployed citizen-kidnapper.

Clint Wampler was charged with five murders, including that of Federal Agent Reginald Cepeda. Clint's use of an explosive device in the bombing of the ATF field office, and the resulting death of Oscar Reitin, could qualify him for the death penalty. There was a news clip of Wampler also, limping into a room at the San Diego Superior Court, shackled at his wrists and ankles and held fast by two burly marshals. He looked as skinny and feral as Hood remembered him and he was ejected from his own arraignment for contempt.

•   •   •

Through summer Hood and Beth's time together trailed off. She admitted considering a job offer in San Diego, and to spending more time with friends and coworkers. She refused to set foot in Hood's home, telling him she'd either have to let Mike go free or call the cops so they could do it. She told Hood he would have to answer for Mike someday, then stopped mentioning him altogether. She spent two back-to-back, three-day weekends in San Diego, apartment hunting and bike riding in Balboa Park. She had such a blast. She implied that Hood should visit her often in San Diego, but the implication was faint and a direct invitation did not follow. She cried often and unexpectedly.

Beth left for her new position at Scripps Medical Center in San Diego late in July. It was a solid promotion and a vote of confidence and a nice hike in pay and benefits. A package arrived for Hood the day she left, a small rectangular box that contained a tissue-wrapped red apple and a note that said, “I love you.”

Hood saw himself as freakish and alone. He remained proud and encouraging of her, though what he felt most of all was flattened. He imagined letting Mike go free, then hustling off to San Diego, maybe apply at some car dealers for a sales position. The fantasy would linger for a few minutes or hours, then be dashed the next time Hood looked through one of the grates at the little man reading, watching TV, listening to music, reading, reading, reading, writing, writing, writing.

I can do this a lot longer than you can,
Mike liked to say. He often wore a wry smile and even from the Hood-to-Mike distance his eyes were blue and clear and merry. He'd grown a beard and mustache and favored plaid flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up, which gave him a woodsy, lumberjack kind of look.

•   •   •

Over the summer Hood traded phone calls with Mary Kate Boyle once a week. Today it was her turn to call and she told him opening night was just a week away and she'd have two tickets for him at will call. She gave him the address of the Lowell and the box office phone number, just in case he needed it. She was happy to have been promoted to front-of-shop supervisor at KFC, which was worth seventy cents more an hour, and she'd bought a used car, the first car she'd ever owned. They talked about the car, then there was a long silence. “Charlie? Just so's you know? I'm not going to be badgering you or waiting around on you anymore.”

“Please don't.”

“Not that I've minded it. But I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm too young and dumb for you.”

“You are younger and smarter than I am.”

“I'm nineteen years old. Quick figurin' says I'm twenty-five and ready for babies when you're forty. And I'd be forty years old and still hot as a tamale when you're fifty-five. And so forth. The difference is the same year to year, but the relativity of it gets smaller. God, I sound like Clint.”

“It's not that, Mary Kate.”

“That I sound like Clint? I'm funnin' with you, Mr. Former FAT agent. I know what you mean. You mean it's not my age. So okay, then, what exactly
is
it?”

Hood slid the end table out of the way and unlatched the grate lid with his toe. He knelt and slid it open and looked in. “Move her right in, Charlie,” said Mike. “Party
central.
”

“Who's that?” asked Mary Kate.

Hood slammed the grate closed and set the latch and walked outside. “I want the
best
for you, Mary Kate. I want you to live and love and act and let your heart run free in the world. I want you to get your dreams. I'm sorry to sound so corny but I can't say it better than that.”

“Dreams aren't corny! And what if you're one of my dreams?”

“Get a bigger one, Mary Kate.”

“It is me, then.”

They said nothing for a long while. Hood sat on the rock wall and looked out at the Devil's Claws and the downy white clouds in the west.

“Okay, Charlie. I'll put in for a dream upgrade but I'm still holding two tickets for you at will call. You bring whatever guest you want, and it can be a woman or a man.”

“I'll be there.”

“I don't
want
an upgrade, Hood.”

•   •   •

Hood applied for jobs online so as not to be drawn away from his duties, but the rough economy and his questionable terminations didn't help. He did have a few thousand dollars left in the bank and wasn't particularly worried. There were security positions listed often, as well as janitorial work and a veterinary hospital night-attendant job that ran in the
Buenavista Beacon
classifieds every week. He figured that the job was noisy and stinky and sleep-robbing and difficult to fill.

Accepting Owens's offer to stand guard in his absence, Hood started leaving the house for an hour a day. He worked his way up to four and sometimes five-hour breaks. He'd go for a run or to the library and sometimes even a movie. He had the diamonds in his tooth removed and had his biannual periodontal cleaning. These excursions went without a hitch back home. His design of the vault, and the workmanship of the builders, had apparently been more than adequate. When he came home from hours away, Mike would sometimes glance up at him in irritation at the intrusion and continue his conversation with Owens, and sometimes ignore Hood altogether. The three had occasional conversations and drank some wine, Hood lowering the recorked bottle and a foam cup into the dungeon with a kite string. Of course Hood never entertained or invited anyone into his home, and at first he worried when the mailman came trundling up the road in his delivery Jeep. But the vault soundproofing was excellent and he would always leave the living room stereo on at some volume when he was gone. No calamities so far, though he truly missed Beth. Life was livable.

•   •   •

Mid-September Hood got a call from Erin with a dinner invite for the coming Saturday. The occasion was the nearly completed rebuilding of the barn. It would be her and Thomas, Owens, Reyes, Beatrice, the Little Chiefs from next door, and the contractor who'd done the barn, whom she said she hoped Hood would like. Hood's antenna vibrated at this.

He drove out through the Imperial County heat and arrived at Valley Center well before sunset. The memories ganged up on Hood as always when he was here—and now he had the flamboyant shedding of Bradley's past, his unsolved murder, and Beth's departure to add to the canon. For a while they all sat in a circle on the thick grass in the shade of the big oak tree and let Thomas crawl from one pair of outstretched arms to another. He laughed and slobbered and the light in his eyes flared with young life.

Hood sipped a margarita and let Thomas climb on his crossed legs. The infant's hands seemed remarkably small and well formed. Hood could hear the contractor, Jason, spitting away with a nail gun inside the barn, still “putting on the frosting,” as Erin put it. She said Jason had quoted six weeks for a complete rebuild, shown up with a three-man crew and brought the job in, under budget, in four weeks. Well, almost brought it in. She said he had some good ideas how to improve it, such as turning Bradley's old bunker into a wine cellar. Hood saw him come through the barn door, a man with square shoulders and big safety goggles and thick blond hair held back in a bandana. Hood handed his margarita off to Owens and stood Thomas up in front of him and let the boy stand upright, clutching Hood's thumbs for balance. Hood saw that Thomas had Erin's lithe frame and Bradley's head. Murrieta's head.
Don't start
, thought Hood. Don't remember. William had it only half right. Sometimes the past is dead and should be.

They ate on the big porch. Hood sat next to Owens and they talked about everything but Mike. She was working again, doing a series of commercials for Hyundai, where she appeared to be piloting a two-hundred-and-fifty-horsepower sports coupe through the curves of California 1 near Big Sur. She never actually drove it, just got in and out. Tonight she wore a retro dress of big black polka dots on a white background, and shiny black bracelets that didn't hide her scarred wrists. In the yellow glow of the bug lights her black hair looked touched by gold and Hood silently noted her beauty. He liked it that she wore her scars as trophies, not shames, because, as she had explained—she had finally chosen life.

Erin was more relaxed and happy than Hood had seen her since her kidnapping nearly a year ago. She'd gained a little weight. Reyes waited on her hand and foot, a hangover from the old days in Hood's Buenavista home. Beatrice ate with some semblance of self-control. She'd gained seventy-five pounds since her release from the mine and had slowed down her intake accordingly. Fully nourished, her body had regained its natural proportions and she was a tall, strong, and handsome woman.

Jason the contractor joined them late at dinner and left the table early. He was followed to and from by the dogs. Hood figured he was middle twenties at most and he was well muscled and had an unusually deep, clear voice. He sat at the opposite end of the table from Erin, ignoring everyone except Betty Little Chief on one side of him and Beatrice on the other. He appeared more interested in his food than in the conversation and he only looked at Hood once. For Hood it was enough. Soon Jason was gone and Hood heard the nail gun firing away across the barnyard and he looked out at the light from inside the barn forming a trapezoid on the grass.

Hood filled his wineglass, then walked under the oak tree to the pond, then over to the barn. Inside Jason was nailing pegboard to the drywall where the quads were kept. Hood stepped in and looked around. The inside of the barn was almost completely restored and the workmanship looked very good. Jason stood with his back to Hood, not twenty feet from where Bradley had died. The dogs whirled and dashed over to Hood and panted and yapped but kept their distance as Bradley had trained them to do. Jason turned and pushed the safety goggles up onto his forehead. Call ran his big head under Jason's hand.

“Nice work on the barn here,” said Hood.

Jason nodded and petted the dog. “Glad you like it.”

“Funny you called the vault a wine cellar. I used the same line when I built mine.”

Jason smiled. His jaw was a little wider and his eyes had a soulful suggestion of innocence that was new. Fuller lips, by just a little. Subtle differences, Hood saw, but noticeable if you were looking.