Mendoza in Hollywood (40 page)

It was going to be tricky keeping him alive and safe, in his line of work, but I could do it, if I stayed by him the rest of his life. How to manage that? I’d find some way. Porfirio had his pet mortals, didn’t he? The Company let him go to them, stay with them, help them when they needed his help. All I’d need do is learn clever makeup skills, appear to age with Edward as he aged.

Full body appliance makeup to make me look like an old woman
with my clothes off obviously wouldn’t work. What then, live with him as is and hope for the best? The best would be some mortal disease felling him comparatively early, before he could notice that his hair was graying while I still looked eighteen.

If I took the chance and lived an idyll with him, and if he loved me enough, might I gradually let him in on my little secret? But look what had happened the last time he discovered I wasn’t human.

But we were in the modern era now, and this was a man with a strong belief in the virtues of science, unlikely to attribute my inexplicable abilities to Satan. Maybe I could explain, maybe he could be brought to understand, maybe he could become one of Dr. Zeus’s paid mortals with a control implant . . .

No. But something would suggest itself, something could be worked out. Who knows, perhaps we’d live blissfully awhile and then lose interest in each other, as so many mortals did, as
we
might have if he’d lived, and go our separate ways without pain. Perhaps fate had brought him back for just that closure on the events of 1555, to heal my life at last.

When he opened his eyes, though, I stopped thinking.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, alert at once. The charm went on as though a switch had been flipped, and his courtly smirk acknowledged that he’d very much enjoyed my company last night, wink wink, squeeze squeeze, yet his eyes also tracked around the room. Saddlebags still there, weapons still there, no intruders. Having ticked these off his mental list, he smiled down at me. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very well indeed, señor,” I said, smiling back at him, but I had logistical problems of my own: here was a mortal man who’d been without food or water for at least twenty hours. “Though the land of dreams is a poor place to visit after one has been to heaven.”

“Ah, but I was in paradise all night,” he said gallantly, getting to his feet and offering me his hand to rise. “Now, my dear, our first business is to feed and water the horses. Where did the redoubtable John Charles Fremont attend to such things?”

I accessed a topographical survey. The nearest water should be a little creek flowing down a ravine just over our turreted hill. What was this footnote? Future site of Harrison Ford residence? I made a mental note not to download map information from Einar again. Movie star homes, my foot. Was the damn creek there in time of drought, that was the information I needed. I smiled prettily at Edward and pointed vaguely north. “Woman’s intuition tells me, señor, that there is a spring in yonder canyon.”

We led the horses to where there was a little green forage. But the spring had dwindled to a seep, an uninviting trickle in a black muddy bog at the canyon bottom, full of amoebic guests that wouldn’t bother a horse but would be only too happy to give a mortal dysentery. We had to prise up a couple of big rocks and grub out a hole for the water to collect in so the horses could drink. No bullwhip-wielding hero showed up to offer us assistance, but it was 1863, after all. My own hero produced a canteen from his saddlebag and offered it to me.

“You’ll find it brackish, I’m afraid, but safe,” he said. How did he know about the shigella I had detected here? And see how expertly he was avoiding the poison oak as he looked for a clean place to sit down. He settled on a boulder at the approximate location of what would one day be Mr. Ford’s front step, and nonchalantly proceeded to shave himself with a clasp knife that appeared in his hand out of nowhere.

I was distracted from my awestruck contemplation of this feat (no soap, no water, and he didn’t nick himself once) by an annoying little signal pulsing through the ether.

Mendoza
?

What is it, Juan Bautista? I’m busy
.

Are you coming back today
?

No. Fix your own breakfast. Wait, this is important. I need you to put some food together and bring it up to me. Make it look as though you’d fixed yourself a very large picnic lunch. I’m going to lead my mortal friend back in your direction, and we’re going to just accidentally on purpose run into you as you’re out hunting, okay
?

What’s going on
?

I’m doing fieldwork for Imarte
.

Hey, is that guy a real British secret agent? Like in the James Bond movies
?

Uh, yes, I guess he is
.

Edward was standing up, neatly folding away the clasp knife. A day and a night of living rough in the field, and he hadn’t so much as a smudge on those fawn wool trousers of his. Whatever secret device kept James Bond’s tuxedo impeccably pressed, it seemed to have been already in use by the British secret service in 1863.

Neat! Can I help with whatever it is you’re doing
?

No, just bring us food. And this is secret, okay, J. BJ I’m trying to keep this man out of danger while I find out more about his plot
.

Right
.

I’ll broadcast a directional signal as we come. Do your best to look surprised when you meet us. Spanish only, and remember, he probably understands it as well as you do, so watch what you say
.

Gotcha
.

Edward was coming toward me. “Well, my dear,” he said. “I find nothing especially edible hereabouts, with the possible exception of rattlesnakes. What are the chances we might purchase food from that farmer you mentioned?”

“He is an inhospitable man,” I said. It might have been true, too, for all I knew. “I recollect a farm near the Rodeo de Las Aguas where they are friendlier. It would be our wisest course to keep to the heights and work our way over there. We will pass near the stagecoach inn, but not near enough to be seen. Does that suit you, seftor?”

“Very well indeed,” he said.

We saddled our horses and rode out, working our way back in the direction of the inn, with me broadcasting a steady signal to Juan Bautista. As we were edging our way down onto what would one day be Mulholland Drive, I spotted him lounging ever-so-casually against a rock.

“Ay,” he said in Mexican Spanish. “Señora Mendoza, I was afraid when you did not return last night. I am out hunting, as you see.” He
waved one of our rifles unconvincingly. Edward raised an eyebrow at him.

“And I am safe, as
you
see. Is that food you have in your basket, boy?” I said.

“Oh, yes—I packed myself a lunch.” Juan Bautista was trying not to stare at Edward. “It’s a very good lunch.”

“Well, listen to me, I’m going to ask you for it. My friend here is a kind gentleman who is being pursued by thieves. We had to flee Los Diablos last night, and he has had nothing to eat. We would go back to the inn for a meal, but I am afraid they may come looking for him there.”

“Oh, they have already,” Juan Bautista said.

“What?”
What? Why the hell didn’t you tell me
?

I thought you knew
. “Yes, señora, two Yankee men. They said they were the friends of the Englishman who had been there. They came to collect the valise he left behind. I pretended not to understand them because, as you know, I do not trust the Yankee oppressors of our people.” Juan Bautista gave the rifle a dramatic flourish.

I turned to look at Edward. His face was a perfect mask of polite incomprehension, but he had turned pale. “Señor,” I told him, “the boy says that two Yankee men came to the inn asking for the valise an Englishman left there. He doesn’t like Yankees, so he wouldn’t speak with them.”

“Really,” Edward drawled. He made an odd little gesture that I would have taken for a shrug, if I hadn’t known where all his concealed weapons were. He was quietly assuring himself each was in place. “Ask him when they were at the inn.”

“When was this, Juanito?”

You’re scared, aren’t you? What’s wrong
? “It was this morning, señora, just after first light.”

They’ll kill him if they find him
. “And are they still there now, boy?”

“No, señora, but I think they did not go far away. I think they are hiding to watch the stagecoach come and go, but, as you know, I am
an Indian and white men cannot conceal themselves from me.”
Can I help? Can 1 be your Indian guide? Please? I could throw the bad guys off the scent if they followed us
.

God damn it, this isn’t a movie
. “He says they were here at dawn,” I told Edward. “He says they left, but he thinks they’re still hiding in the pass, waiting for you to come.”

Edward just nodded. I was feeling a slow anger building in him, sullen and exasperated. Not much fear, though for all he knew the Yankees might have had him in their sights at that very moment. But I was terrified for him, señors.

“I think you ought to ambush and kill those Yankees, Juanito,” I said. “I assure you they are very bad men.”

Juan Bautista did a good job of looking crafty. “Perhaps that can be arranged, señora.”
So what do you want me to do about them, really
?

Like I said
.

That shook Juan Bautista’s little world. Even though Einar had been nailing mortal hides to the wall for months. After all, wasn’t this Los Angeles, where such things were done every day? The boy shuffled his feet and looked at the ground.
Mendoza, I can’t kill mortals
.

Why not? James Bond does
.

Edward apparently came to some kind of decision, because he looked up at this point and said, “Thank the boy and tell him to go on with his business. If he meets the Yankees again, on no account is he to mention that he’s seen me. But he should avoid them if he can, because they are very dangerous men.”

“Give me that food now,” I told Juan Bautista. “My friend offers his thanks and says to stay away from those Yankees, but don’t tell them about him if you do encounter them. I assume this means he does not wish them to die. What a pity. However, your soul is free of two mortal sins. How fortunate for you.”

Juan Bautista was too unnerved to play back. He just handed me the lunch basket and muttered, “Good day, good fortune on your journey,” before vanishing into the sagebrush.

I hefted the basket and flashed Edward a brittle smile. “The boy has kindly surrendered his luncheon repast to our greater need. Poor fare, señor, but sustaining. I suggest we find a secure place to eat and revise our plans.”

He shook his head grimly. “If I were a free man, we’d be riding for San Francisco this moment. Unfortunately I have a duty to salvage what I can from Rubery’s incompetence.”

This gave me an idea, but all I said was “One cannot make decisions on an empty stomach. Let us ride back to the high ground, señor.”

We returned to the vicinity of Fremont’s outpost and stopped in a grove of oak trees on the saddleback ridge just below. We still had a good view of the north end of the pass, but from a more sheltered spot. If anyone tracking us should find our previous night’s camp, we’d have warning of their presence and a reasonably clear shot at them.

I unpacked the basket. Left to himself, Juan Bautista had grilled beef and made severely deformed tortillas for supper last night, and we had lots of the leftovers. He had also included a jug of water, a jar of olives, some cheese, a can of sardines, and a couple of cakes of Theobromos.

I should mention that I didn’t have to explain any of the food to Edward, or show him how to roll up a filling in a tortilla. He’d learned how, somewhere. Perhaps in secret agent school; more likely in Veracruz, whatever he’d been doing there. From his saddlebag, he drew out an immense white handkerchief and spread it across his lap. I watched in amazement as he made himself sardine tacos and ate them without getting one spot of oil on those immaculate clothes.

“As regards this plan, señor,” I said at length, when we’d consumed half the contents of the basket and neatly packed the rest for later. “As I said: my honor will not permit me to leave you. But clearly we are dealing in matters of life and death now. For your sake, I will be my father’s sword at the throat of your enemies. Yet I begin to
question whether your government is wise enough to rule the world. What fool ever trusted your Mr. Rubery with important papers?”

Yes, that touched a nerve. What a cold, bleak look in his eyes as he stared out at Cahuenga Pass, and how well I remembered the bitter anger that pulled the corners of his mouth down. He mastered his temper, though, and turned to face me with a rueful smile and a shrug.

“I can’t deny the truth, my dear, particularly in this instance, since we’re facing considerable danger as a result of it. I have at least the satisfaction of pointing out that well-born imbeciles tend to get themselves killed before they manage to breed, leaving room for men of ability to replace them. And not all well-born men are idiots! I can assure you that there is an office in Whitehall where a very wise and noble man makes national policy, one whose judgment I’d utterly trust, for all that he’s seldom quoted in the
Times
. That same man who made the decision to give Alfred a task he was barely fit for had the foresight to send me after him, guessing no doubt that Alfred would make the wretched mess he has.”

I shook my head. “Why send the boy in the first place? If your people think you’re expendable, their aristocratic brains are no better than Mr. Rubery’s. I’ll grant you, the idea of this land in peace and prosperity under British rule is a splendid one. I’d die myself if that would bring it into being. But I don’t see how it can be accomplished now, do you? Martha must have gone straight to the Yankees and told them about the valise; or if she did not, some other indiscretion of Mr. Rubery’s put them on the scent. They surely know everything now. I don’t see how your masters can blame you for pulling out and saving what you can of the affair.”