The Jaguar (40 page)

Finnegan shook his head while he rolled his shoulders one at a time, then together. The color was back in his face and his breathing was even and his eyes were blue and lively. “No, no, of course not.
See,
Charlie. Please
see.
Sean and Seliah were just busywork, to keep me in shape. Very rewarding, though, with strong resonance through strong people. The echo will sound through two generations. Not every job can be an epic. But Bradley is my life work—well, one of them. Bradley is very different than Sean. Sean never believed in himself and I couldn’t make him. When he lost his spiritual faith he lost everything. But Bradley believes almost totally in himself now, after his heroic rescue of Erin and defeat of a cartel kingpin. To solidify the remainder of his self-belief is my goal for next year. It will effectively replace the last of his conscience. And what a subject he is. Ambitious. Courageous. Insatiable. His potential is vast. He may even partner with me someday. I tremble with joy at that thought, but it could happen—he has the blood for it.”

“Suzanne. Joaquin.”

“Oh, them and before them, Charlie.
Before them!
Doesn’t your narrow vision infuriate you? And the tight little prophylactic you keep on your imagination? Don’t you feel constipated by your
answers
?”

“Erin?”

“A supporting actor, of course. Like you, Charlie. I’d love to help a brave and skillful law enforcer. Or a talented young artist. Any of us would. But we can’t get to everyone. You and Erin are too decent and too strong, and not large enough. Your egos lack the monstrous size and weight, the prodigious selfishness it takes to move men and women in numbers.”

Hood looked at the little man. “Is that you on the Taberna Roja sign? Or an amusing coincidence?”

“Will you believe my answer?”

“Should I? Once you told me that you rode with Murrieta and saw Vasquez hanged and met a whore in Wyatt Earp’s saloon in San Diego. I thought you were simply what Owens said you are: smart and insane. Because those things can’t be done, Mike. You cannot be hundreds of years old.”

“But I confessed to you that I am a journeyman devil with modest powers. That I have superiors and underlings, competitive associates, good assignments and bad. And partnerships with men and women and a few children. I told you this years ago. I was being as honest and forthcoming with you as I could be. I wanted you to think about these things, Charlie. As a lawman your chance of believing me was very small and I knew this. Most of you are cut from rational cloth. But since then you have witnessed certain acts and discovered certain truths. You have given me considerable thought and energy, as much as any man has ever given me. You have shared your interest in me with the world. So what do you believe I am, Charlie, what do you believe I am, right this minute, right
now
?”

“Does it matter?”

“It will determine the course of your life.”

Hood said the words he thought he would never say. It was like listening to someone else. “I believe you’re what you said you are.”

Finnegan’s expression went to cautious wonder. “I am truly moved by your belief, Charlie. I knew you were courageous. But this makes you rare. And dangerous. A man can defeat what he sees. And only through belief can he see.”

“I despise you.”

“Take your trusty pistol and leave my home.”

“You’re mine. We’re going to the American Consulate now. Then back to the United States.”

“Oh, that’s funny, Charlie. No warrant, no charges. Forcibly removing a Mexican citizen from his home to another country? You’d be up for kidnapping at the very least.”

“I’m federal. I’ll find a way to take you back with me.”

Hood brought the plastic cuff from his pants pocket and Mike’s face went pale again but he crouched and squared off, arms extended for battle and the injured shoulder tucked for protection.

“You don’t need any more of this, Mike.”

“You give me no choice. And I have asked you to leave. If you don’t, then I apologize now for anything that happens.”

Hood grabbed the injured wrist, turned it in sharply, then twisted Mike’s arm behind him. The little man yelped in pain and spun around. He was facing the counter when he spoke.

“There are clean towels and a bottle of alcohol in the bathroom, Charlie. Your hair will hide most of the scar.”

Hood had placed the restraint around Mike’s wrist before he understood. He grabbed for the other arm, but Mike turned fast. Hood saw a flash of coat sleeve in his face and he heard a swift grinding sound. He stepped back.

Finnegan’s face and coat were flecked with blood. His eyes were concerned and the knife in his hand was dark and short. “I’m sorry. I adore you, Charlie, but you can’t take me captive. I’d rather die but
that’s not an option. Use the alcohol. Tropical infection should not be taken lightly.”

By then the blood had sheeted Hood’s eyes and his world was a red swamp. He pushed a hand to his scalp and looked out through the hot morass. He could feel the liquid pooling, then overflowing his fingers. Mike was across the room and out the door before Hood had willed the strength back into his legs.

He ran out and through the courtyard past the hibiscus blossoms folded in for the night. He shielded his brow like a man fighting sun, and looked down and up the alley but the blood ran fast and all he could do was blink into the darkness where he saw no Mike, saw nothing with clarity except for the green wall of El Canario and its singing birds. He climbed the steps back into the apartment and in a bathroom cabinet he found clean towels. In the mirror he saw the cut running straight along his hairline, deep and clean pink for a moment before it welled up again and the blood cascaded down.

He pressed the hand towel to the wound and stumbled upstairs and slipped a handful of compact discs into a side pocket of his coat. The pigeons eyed him nervously. He crushed one of the sketchbooks into thirds and jammed it lengthwise into his back pocket, then yanked the plug from the laptop and hefted the machine. In the living room he fetched his pistol from under the couch as his blood splattered onto the floor tiles. He rose and found his way back down to the alley and trudged toward El Canario. When he got close Josie was running toward him as her customers stared.

T
WO WEEKS LATER
B
RADLEY LABORED
under a fretful November sky, installing underground electrical line for motion sensors on the perimeter fence of his Valley Center property. Last week a crew had added shiny new razor wire to the existing eight feet of chain link. Even on this cloudy day the blades caught the sun in muted flashes that spiraled back and forth along the length of coils according to a watcher’s position. Bradley looked at the improving fence. There was nearly a mile of it and it was not cheap but certainly worth the money.

He had rented hand-trenchers for the digging. The soil was mostly decomposed granite but there was plenty of just plain granite and the work was slow and punishing. Old friends Stone, the car thief, and Clayton, the counterfeiter, were helping. At Bradley’s suggestion Stone was now moonlighting as a GMC salesman up in Escondido. Clayton had a consignment space in the tony SoLo building of Solana Beach where his lovely watercolors were sold.

Bradley had the boom box going and a cooler with ice and beer in it. The dogs were out, some of them crowding the men for a good view of the project, others in the shade of the cottonwoods. The two Jack Russells were digging enormous caverns in search of gophers and ground squirrels. The trencher was gas-powered and loud and Bradley wasn’t aware of the quad runner buzzing toward the nearby gate until it was practically there.

He hit the kill button and swung the machine pistol around his back. In his peripheral vision he could see Stone reaching for his shotgun and Clayton, never armed, standing with his hands on his hips, smiling at the whining intruder.

Mike skidded to a stop with a flourish, throwing up dust. He wore red-and-white leathers and a matching helmet and goggles and to Bradley he looked, as always, ridiculous.

“Men! How goes the security upgrade?”

“It takes a cold twelver to join the club,” said Bradley.

“Fresh out. But you don’t mind if I hang around for a just a bit, do you?”

“As long as you don’t warble for hours on end.”

“Fine then,” said Finnegan, pulling off the helmet and setting the goggles up on his forehead.

Bradley saw Stone glance at him as he set the barrel of his scattergun against a nearby sagebrush. Stone thought Mike was a weasel, though Clayton adored him. Bradley pulled the trencher back to life and strong-armed it along the inside of the fence. The powerful machine chewed its way along. His sunglasses were frosted with dust but he was still able to see one of the terriers streaking off from his hole with a gopher locked in its mouth, the other terrier in pursuit.

Mike stood in front of him, backing up a few steps when the trencher got closer. After a while Bradley shut off the engine and dropped the handles and shucked his gloves to the ground. From the cooler he got a beer for himself and tossed one to Mike. They walked along the chain link toward the escarpment to the east, the big husky Call trailing behind them with five other dogs.

“Let’s see that happy new smile,” said Mike.

Bradley grimaced down at the little man. Only the perfection of the new implants betrayed them. His facial bruises were faint shadows now and the gun-butt cuts up on his forehead were still red but
smaller. His palm had finally healed. In an attempt to improve his overall appearance Bradley had gotten a short, smart haircut, something between Wall Street and Camp Pendleton, and was giving himself a close shave each morning.

“What gives, Mike?”

“How is she?”

“Showing more and sleeping less. The ultrasound and tests were all good. The baby’s healthy and strong.”

“She showed awe-inspiring resolve against Armenta, according to Owens. Has Erin told you what happened to Saturnino?”

“Of course she has.”

“Astonishing bravery. I’m happy to have done my small part in getting her back.”

“We’re happy too.”

“Funny that I didn’t get one sincere word of thanks from you.” Finnegan stopped walking and looked up at Bradley hopefully, waiting. The dogs sat or stood around them.

“Your birds and your research made it all possible, Mike. You and I both know that. I asked you to be my friend and let you stab the hell out of my hand, which took two weeks to heal. So, well, thanks again if thanks are really what you’re after.”

“Accepted!” Mike raised the beer bottle and drank.

Bradley drank too. “Where is Owens?”

“Laguna Beach. Some well deserved R&R.” Mike smiled, looking along the newly installed razor wire.

“I’m surprised you’d pimp her out to Armenta.”

“I did no such thing. She helped Erin at no little risk to herself. She was free to decline the job. And free to leave his Castle at any time.
Any
time. She liked him and he was quite good to her. There are costs, Bradley. We all make commitments and sometimes sacrifices in order to achieve success, and reap rewards.”

“How long was Owens down there with Armenta?”

“Oh, I forget exactly. Months.”

“So it was just a coincidence that Benjamin grabbed Erin when he did?”

“What do you mean?”

Bradley looked down at Finnegan as he upped his bottle and drank. “Hood said you supplied Armenta with everything his men needed to take Erin that night—drawings of the property, measurements and locations, the hideout, even the alarm code for the house. He found sketchbooks in your apartment in Veracruz.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So Armenta could take Erin, and you and Owens could help me get her back. So you would gain my trust and we would become partners.”

Finnegan laughed quietly.
“Partners,”
he said. Bradley heard humor but an odd longing in the word too.

“That’s what he said.”

“But I already had your trust, or thought I did. Now, after all we’ve been through, you doubt my loyalty to you because of
Charlie Hood
?
Some basic facts, Bradley: how do you know
what
Hood saw in Veracruz? Because I know exactly what he saw and I will prove this to you. Answer me.”

“He saw the sketchbooks. He grabbed one before he left but it was full of pigeon drawings.”

“I do draw pigeons. I confess. But not sketches of this property, or floor plans of rooms I’ve never seen. Or your alarm code! Listen to me, Bradley: Charlie Hood broke into my home. I found him there, rifling through my belongings, for reasons I couldn’t fathom at the time. It was actually good to see an old friend, but he’s changed, and changed drastically. His eyes are wrong, something has become dislodged in him. In my home! The circumstances were an outrage. I
asked him to leave, then ordered him to leave, then begged him to leave. He assaulted me, dislocating my shoulder. I am an older, smaller man. I disabled him in order to escape, not to maim or kill. I stand unblemished, Bradley—I had no choice. Let me tell you something. The real tragedy in all of this is that Charlie Hood has lost his sanity. Decent, moral, upright Charlie. We all knew he had become obsessed with finding me. The world is a witness to that. Some might call it stalking. Okay. Fine. I did not judge. Obsessions can often lead to good things. Well, he finally found me. And assaulted and injured and tried to abduct me.”

Bradley studied him. “Twenty stitches to close him up. How did you ever get the better of him? He’s half a foot taller and outweighs you by fifty pounds.”

“Surprise. The same as every street fight.”

“Hood thinks you’re a devil. Literally. A real one. Not human.”

“A devil? Not human? Then I rest my case against the delaminating Charlie Hood. He was muttering that kind of nonsense as we grappled. And therein lies the tragedy of which I have spoken. I don’t know why it is, Bradley. Why does a good, strong man like Hood break down? Why is it that people need so badly to believe in gods and devils? They crave the existence of something larger than themselves, or so we are told. But they drive themselves literally insane. Why aren’t the travails of humankind enough to keep them busy.
Why?
”