The Jaguar ch-5

by T. Jefferson Parker

  The hallway ended at a stairway leading up. Hood climbed lightly on the stone until he was standing in the open doorway of a large half-story. He smelled the dank stink of birds and heard cooing and across the room saw the tall coop that stretched along one entire wall. The high casement windows over the birds were open for sunshine and ventilation and the waning daylight caught the dust motes. The pigeons studied Hood in their bewildered, one-eye-at-a-time manner. One of them sat atop the coop and Hood saw the canister affixed to its leg.

  Three of the walls were lined with bookshelves heavy with volumes. The walls above the shelves were hung with swords and lances, clubs, battle knives, primitive firearms and instruments of torture. There were rusted rings bolted to the wall, laced with chains and shackles.

  In one corner was a leather chair and ottoman with a reading lamp on a stand beside them. In the middle of the room stood a banquet-sized rough-hewn table with a laptop computer closed down and material strewn over every other available inch: printed papers, sketches, stacks of yellow legal pads, magazines, compact discs, magnifiers, stacks of maps, cans filled with pencils and pens and scissors. And of course more books in English and Spanish and other languages unrecognized by Hood.

  Under the table there were half a dozen wooden orange crates with their trademark colorful labels. Some of the crates housed more weapons and dire instruments, and these looked more Mesoamerican than European-made mostly of stone and wood. Other crates contained yellowed rolls of paper, and others what looked like notebooks and scrapbooks.

  He looked down at an old wooden chair on ivory casters and saw that the casters had ground a long shallow trough around the table. It was easy to picture Mike sitting there, rolling about from task to task, now to the computer, now around to the sketch of, well, what exactly was it a sketch of?

  He sat down and turned on one of three green-shaded banker’s lamps spaced along the table. He looked down at the sketchpad and saw an accurate and accomplished portrait of a pigeon. Turning the pages he found another and another. The book was filled with them.

  A different sketchpad offered variety: more pigeons, then several studies of Owens’s lovely face, and some sketches of the prison at San Juan de Ulua. Hood closed it and set it down and tried another, which was filled with drawings of Benjamin Armenta’s Castle. How did Mike manage that? From a visit? From a photo? Through Owens? Some pages were filled with tiny crosshatching patterns that weaved and wavered dizzily. A two-page diptych showed the planets of the solar system on their various orbits around the sun but the sun was a heart tilted at an angle, with the veins and arteries severed short and clean so that it appeared almost round. Hood opened the computer and turned it on and tried passwords based on Mike’s various names and wide interests. All failed.

  His toe touched one of the orange crates under the table and looked down at it. The familiar graphics of the old California citrus industry caught his eye. Hood had always liked the bold colors and romanticized scenes of the crate labels. This label was for Queen of the Valley oranges in Valley Center, California. It showed a regal Indian woman holding a large orange, with a fruit-heavy grove and a perfect blue sky behind her. Valley Center, thought Hood: Bradley and Erin’s home. Where he’d first met Suzanne and later her son and his red-haired singer girlfriend.

  He rolled closer to the crate, felt the casters following the gentle groove along the floor. The pigeon that was locked out of the coop stood on the mesh roof and looked at him, Hood thought, hopefully. Hood had always been intrigued by the fact that most domesticated birds preferred their cages to freedom. The others fluttered in half-alarm, then settled as he leaned over and pulled the crate closer and lifted another sketchbook from inside.

  He opened it at about the halfway point and saw a hasty but identifiable image of Bradley’s Valley Center barnyard and the huge oak tree and the west side of the ranch house. The next page was a closer view of the same barn and tree. Distances between the tree and the house and between the tree and the barn were written in the neat hand of an engineer or architect: “From center oak trunk to deck steps of house 68m; from center oak trunk to east barn door 74m.” Hood skipped forward a few pages to an interior drawing of the barn, depicting the old stalls that Hood had seen with his own eyes years ago, and the new ATVs and the John Deere and the walls of tools and false ceiling and hidden room over the bathroom where Suzanne had once kept the head of Joaquin in a jar of alcohol.

  Hood’s heart was beating hard now and he turned the pages faster. There were sketches of the outbuildings on Bradley and Erin’s property, and of the hillsides around it and the creek on its southern border. And sketches of the only gate and the eight-foot-high chain-link fence that stretched up into a rocky escarpment in one direction and terminated at the densely wooded creek in the other. And of the well packed decomposed-granite roadway that led to the buildings. And specific measurements: “Gate to barnyard.54km; south-southeast fence.93km to escarpment; south-southwest fence.65km to creek NOTE: gate secured with silent alarm (phone line run underground at some expense) but chain-link fence UNSECURED likely due to natural animal activity including Jones’s dogs…” On another page Hood found a list of dogs by breed and size, twelve in all. Some were sketched on the facing page. Hood recognized the big husky-St. Bernard mix, Call, the unchallenged leader of Bradley and Erin’s pack. “Dogs kenneled outside unless cold or rain.” One of the last pages was a study of a wheeled measuring device of the type used by fence builders, leaning against the barn. The artist had taken the time to get the peeling paint and the shadows and the blades of grass. Hood could see small Mike rolling it from the oak tree to the house.

  He turned back to the beginning pages and found macroscopic sketches of Southern California, San Diego County, North San Diego County. A simple map or two would have given greater detail and Hood realized that Mike had drawn these pictures because he liked drawing them. They had subtle shadings for mountains and crisply outlined bodies of water. There was an overview of Valley Center, with S6 running through it and the recommended route to the Jones property highlighted with neat arrows.

  Toward the end of the notebook were the details: drawings of each room of the house, rendered in an architect’s fine hand, and dimensions of the rooms and connecting hallways, locations of doors, windows, closets, right down to the his-and-her sinks in the master bath. The alarm pad in the foyer took up half a page, drawn to scale by the look of it, and beneath it was the “deactivation code” for the homeowner to use upon entering: “BOACDM11.” There was a sketch of an upstairs closet that hid a “secret hideout,” and the location of the switch hidden in the closet. The necessary distances and dimensions had been written in by hand, in metric measures. This is a playbook for what happened to Erin McKenna, Hood reasoned-everything, right down to the code that would let someone barge into her house and turn off the alarm and not bring the cavalry charging.

  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.

  Hey Red,

  I got six ready and you won’t find any stronger fliers on planet Earth. Five hundred each, firm. Let me know soon as I got plenty of other buyers in a hurry.

  Jason

  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.”

  37

  Hood 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 caugh
t 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.”