The Jaguar (39 page)

He checked his watch: eleven minutes left.

Next from the orange crate at Hood’s feet came photographs of Erin, mostly on stage and printed on photographic paper, some amateur candids of her backstage with the Inmates. There was a high school annual from an Austin, Texas, high school that had a small picture of her as a junior, and another of her playing a guitar at a gig of some kind. Hood leafed through newspaper and magazine clips and printed Internet blogs taped to the notebook pages—reviews of her CDs and performances, features, interviews. She had been featured just this year in
Guitar Player
and the whole magazine had been slipped into a plastic sheath and sealed neatly with clear tape. Hood read her name on the cover, then set it back in the crate along with the rest.

He pushed the box back under the table with his foot and stood. He felt dizzy in the heat. Nine minutes. His flanks were slick with sweat and the holster dug smartly into the flesh of his back.

He pushed the chair back to where it had been, then turned off the banker’s lamps. At the window he let the sweet gulf air waft over him. The hopeful pigeon, a big white and caramel colored bird, eyed him with his head held high. Hood walked over and offered his hand and the bird jumped on. He stroked it and felt its warmth and nervous strength, then he unfastened the small message container from its leg and set the bird back atop the coop. Hood turned and looked down at the alley, then opened the canister and worked out the small, tightly wadded piece of silk. He held it open and to the window where he read the words in the closing light of evening.

Hood read it twice, then put it back in the canister and twisted it shut. The pigeon climbed onto his hand again and Hood pressed the little keg back onto its leg. The other birds scattered histrionically as Hood set the free pigeon back on top of the coop.

Outside the tires must have been screeching before Hood registered the sound of them. Suddenly they were close and when he looked down he saw a loud black SUV skidding into the alley from M. Doblado. Its headlights were on but Hood could see that the driver was a young Mexican man and the passenger was Mike Finnegan. The vehicle screeched to a stop below and Mike bailed out and ran toward his apartment, the tail of his pale suit coat flapping. The SUV tore off.

Hood ran down the steps to the hallway, then past the bedrooms
and the kitchen and into the main room. He pulled open the louvered doors to the balcony, but saw that it was ensconced in the decorative wrought iron, at an ankle-snapping height from the alley. He shut the doors and ran to the far and darkest corner of the room and worked himself back into the folds of the heavy drapes. He bowed his head and watched the foyer. Outside another vehicle roared down the alley, then another. The foyer was lit by its single light but the rest of the apartment was nearly dark and he could see the shapes of things but no detail.

A long moment later the foyer light went out and Mike stepped into the main room and stopped. He stood in the gloom, holding what looked like Hood’s white Panama hat. “Yoo-hoo. Charlie? This must belong to you.”

H
OOD STEPPED OUT FROM THE
drapes. “Hello, Mike.”

Finnegan smiled. “A gun?”

“If you run I’ll shoot you with it. That’s a promise.”

“Run where? This is my home. May I offer you a beverage?”

“No, thanks.”

“May I get one for myself? I’ve just been through a rather harrowing few minutes.”

“I’ll follow you into the kitchen. If you make a move I’ll use this thing.”

“Kill an unarmed man in his own home? An LASD deputy and ATF-sanctioned U.S. Marshall? Charlie, don’t be bumbling and ridiculous. I am a citizen of Mexico, you know. As well as the United States of America.”

Hood stood with the gun at rest in both hands and followed him through the darkened room into the kitchen. Finnegan set the hat on the counter, then retrieved a bottle of an orange-yellow juice from the refrigerator. In the pale light from the appliance Hood found a switch and threw it. The incandescent ceiling fixture offered a thin light. Mike got a plastic tumbler from the cabinet and poured the glass half full then turned to Hood and held it out.

“Mango-tangerine, bit of lemon? Blended just for me.”

“No, thank you.”

Mike leaned back against the counter and drank. “You look good, Charlie. Healthy and eager.”

“What happened out there in the alley?” Hood asked.

“How is the lovely Dr. Petty?”

“What happened just now?”

“Is she tiring of your passion for law enforcement? Then how is dusty, quaint, violent little Buenavista? And your ailing father and long-suffering mother? Converse with me, Charlie. We are acquaintances in a room together.”

Hood watched him sip the drink but said nothing. Finnegan had a familiar twinkle in his eye, the look of mischief enjoyed. He drank again and looked at Hood’s gun and waited awhile. Finally, he sighed quietly.

“In the alley just now? More
narco
violence, I would guess. We were likely mistaken for cartel gunmen.”

“A priest, two novitiates and a short
gringo
?”

Finnegan shrugged and nodded. “Correct. But the SUV windows are dark. And the level of stupid violence in Mexico has become intolerable. Even in peaceful, merry cities like Veracruz. Or perhaps our driver tipped some bad guys to four easy snatch-and-ransom marks. And the surprise attack was not a surprise to him at all. He did seem rather calm about the whole thing.”

“You’re going to walk into that room now and sit in the first chair and tell me why you destroyed Sean Ozburn and his wife. And why you orchestrated Erin’s kidnapping and Bradley’s rescue. Everything. It’s full accounting time, Mike.”

Mike looked at Hood steadily and not unkindly. “I do love talking about myself. But I’m asking you to leave my home, Charlie. Now. You have not been invited. The maid hasn’t been here in days. I can call my contacts here in the Mexican Navy Special Enforcement Unit. They’re elite, trained to destroy
narcotrafficantes
, but I can tell you they are
intolerant of any lawbreaking. Such as trespassing. Did you hire a locksmith? Oh, yes—Roberto Acuna. I’ve heard of him. And yes, Josie at El Canario is lovely. Perhaps she recommended Roberto? And her
horchata
is so very sweet. You sat there like a spy in a movie. Do you see what you’re up against in me? Holster your firearm and leave my home, Charlie Hood. You are neither welcome nor adequate here.”

Hood remembered what Mike had told him three years ago, as he lay in a full body-and-skull cast in Buenavista’s Imperial Mercy Hospital, drinking organic Zinfandel through a straw:
For example, if I am within eight feet of someone, I can hear what they think and see what they see. Sometimes very clearly. It’s like hearing a radio or looking at a video.
Later, Mike had denied such a skill, saying he was only joking, chalking it up to the wine.

“It’s gone up to almost thirty feet since then,” said Mike. “I’m improving. Evolving, as you are. See?”

Hood waved the pistol toward the big room and Mike set down his drink and picked up the cordless phone.

“Excuse me, then,” he said.

“Put it back.”

“You are trespassing against me, Charlie.” Finnegan looked at him while he pressed the buttons.

Hood took hold of the phone and Finnegan grabbed the gun and they clutched like wrestlers, crouched, pulling and pushing. Hood was surprised by the strength of the little man’s grip on the gun. They circled once, then twice, trading control of balance, locked to each other by the objects of their desires. Hood let go the phone, wrenched hard on the pistol with both hands and when Mike stumbled back against the counter the gun flew into the big room, landing with a crack then sliding along the tile.

Finnegan was breathing fast and his pupils were large. “I ask you again to leave my home. Collect your firearm and go.”

Hood’s anger suddenly blinded him. He had completed his quest and found his man. Now he had no more questions and he wanted no more answers—just swift and severe retribution. He blitzed hard, hitting Mike mid-body with his lowered head and shoulder. But instead of taking the man down Hood was solidly repelled, then locked in another wrestler’s grip, hand to hand, matched again by Finnegan’s lesser weight and greater strength. They circled, hands touching and feinting and pulling.

“I enjoy the ancient sport of wrestling, Charlie. You’re heavier but I’ve got experience on you.”

Hood had never wrestled but he’d been trained in hand combat by the Navy and his skills were good. He was rangy and well muscled and fast. He charged into Mike and felt his relative lightness. Then Mike crashed back into him and Hood felt his strength.

“Why did you kill Sean?”

“Sean killed himself. I only challenged his faith.”

“Why?”

“To offer him freedom and life. But he chose death.”

Hood lunged in, feinting with one elbow and slashing out with the other. He caught Mike flush on the temple and he felt its softness. Finnegan’s blue eyes gushed tears.

“Why did you infect Seliah, too?”

Mike charged and drove his head into Hood’s middle. The breath puffed out of Hood and he clutched Finnegan’s arms and pushed the little man away.

“Seliah was part of the whole project. And Sean and Seliah’s parents, yes? And their brothers and sisters, and perhaps even their children and their children not yet born. And you and Blowdown. This is chaos. Chaos is what I create. It spreads like the rings in a pool when a good solid rock like Sean goes in.”

They circled and clutched, Hood breathing hard. He couldn’t control
the smaller man and he began to doubt himself. Finnegan had that light of mischief in his eyes again, and he fought with his head at a cocky angle, talking excitedly and rapidly as if there was no end to his breath.

“But chaos is a
blessing,
Charlie! In it people have a chance to see the beauty and the power and the glory of their own freedom.
Freedom.
It’s right there, so obvious in the aloneness that chaos offers. Freedom stares back at them from every mirror, calls out to them in every waking moment and every dream. But not all of you will see it. Some will see it and deny seeing it. Some will curse it. I told you three years ago that I represent a naturally occurring, ordering principle. There is no word for it in your or any other language. And I told you that my highest mission is to demonstrate to men and women that they are free. They are free to choose their acts and to decide what is right and meaningful and beautiful. And what is not. Nothing is
chosen
for them by powers high or low. Nothing is fated or ordained or written. Nothing happens for the better, or for a reason. Angels and devils may scurry about like lobbyists trying to persuade, but men and women are free.”

“Got it, Mike. I’m clear on everything now.” Hood let himself be drawn in, then he pivoted and drove the heel of his right hand toward the bridge of Mike’s nose. It was a devastating blow for a taller man to throw, always debilitating and occasionally fatal. But Finnegan slipped it and crabbed on to him, arms and legs clamping hard, and Hood toppled to the floor.

Finnegan’s hold was paralyzing and Hood couldn’t figure it. His neck and one shoulder quickly lost their flow of blood and he knew they were close to breaking. He was strong enough to protect them but not strong enough to work them free. Finnegan’s stout legs gripped his own just above the knees, which left only his calves and feet to swing free but uselessly. Ears roaring, Hood relaxed one shoulder
against Mike’s grip, and when Finnegan tightened it, Hood slipped his head and other arm free and locked his elbow just below Mike’s jaw. Hood squeezed ferociously and he felt the man shudder with pain.

But he kept talking, his voice reduced to a choking soprano whisper: “Charlie, I
wanted
Sean to choose life. Seliah and the doctors could have…saved him. All he needed was to choose…with his own…free will. Freedom. He broke my heart. Because I loved him.…I love mankind…You are my…music…You are what we work for through the…ages. The
ages
, Charlie. You are a strong one. Just like Sean.”

Hood squeezed even harder and he felt the trembling in Mike’s arms. But he couldn’t maintain this power. The moment he let up, Finnegan pulled his sweat-slick head loose and turned it away, sucking air. Hood shot one arm under his armpit and around the back of the man’s head in a half-nelson. Mike grunted as Hood slowly turned him. When the time was right Hood brought his weight and strength to bear. He drove the little man to the floor, hard. Finnegan’s shoulder joint separated with a muted wet snap and from deep within Hood’s grip came a gasp of pain.

Hood uncoiled and stood. He was dizzy and panting and his eyes burned from sweat. He watched Finnegan climb to his knees and one hand, the dislocated shoulder drooping.

Mike turned and looked up at him. His expression was pained but not anguished. He was pale. He pivoted slowly on his good hand, his little legs churning and his shiny black shoes slipping on the tile. He spun a half-circle to face Hood and wobbled upright, then backpedaled until the kitchen counter stopped him.

“Nice moves, Charlie. Sheesh…I hate it when this happens.” With his good hand he took his dangling elbow and raised it up steady and studied it. He arranged it just so and smiled wanly at
Hood, then buckled his knees and dropped. His elbow slammed loudly into the counter and broke his fall. He pulled himself back upright, shoulder in place again. He straightened and faced Hood, adjusting and smoothing his jacket with both hands, though the seams had burst at the armpits and a button was missing and the whole thing was smeared with sweat.

“Charlie, you have won. Now please go.”

“You cased the Valley Center property and passed along the information to Armenta. Why Bradley and Erin? For the same reasons as Sean and Seliah? To destroy what’s good? To create chaos and hurt everyone around them and make them all doubt their faiths?”