The Famous and the Dead ch-6

by T. Jefferson Parker

  The beers went down swiftly and Clint listened to the waves and the quiet spaces between them, then the next crash and hiss. Too bad about Mary Kate, he thought, because this is the kind of time you want your honey around, when you’ve had a long hard day and you want to relax and feel good. The sky opened and the rain fell hard. He sat for a moment and watched the drops pelt the wet sand. He went inside and browsed the late-night porn titles on TV but what fun was it watching what you couldn’t get none of?

  He surfed way up in the channels where he never watched, clicking through them fast. It was hard to believe people paid to watch this stuff. Junk jewelry and online college courses and something to keep the spices in your cupboard from tipping over. When he came to diamond-fanged ATF agent Charlie Hood on Fox News at Eleven, admitting to losing a thousand machine guns, one of which had been used in the killing of Representative Scott Freeman, Clint knew he’d had more than enough of this guy. He’d be doing the country another favor if he just took him out.

  He looked at his watch: Eleven hours from now, Glitter Gums would be waiting for him to pick up Mary Kate Boyle at the Greyhound station in San Diego, based on MK’s fine acting and Hooper’s gigantic stupidity. Of course, Mary Kate was already in San Diego, at a different hotel, that ratty-looking Regal, down in the Gaslamp District. You really fooled me, MK. She’d looked a little rattled walking down the street the other day, talking on the phone. To Hooper? Hatching some crafty little plan? Probably. It had been much easier for him to watch unnoticed from the Kia than a brand-new cobalt blue SUV. Clint wondered how many agents Hooper would bring to bust him at the Greyhound station. He wondered what a Stinger would do to them. He wondered what a Stinger would do to the Imperial Bank building that housed the ATF office in Buenavista, to all the other offices inside, and to the little cafe that had so many people in it that evening when he’d seen MK and Charlie Hooper come out together and walk across the street. He could tell by the way she walked and looked up at him that she was trying to get his attention. You got alla my attention, Mary Kate. Then some. My stuff is all ready. Clint’s on his way.

  40

  Hood woke up with first light and listened to the rain roaring down on his roof. He pictured himself on the TV the night before, answering Theresa Brewer’s questions with his usual lack of guile. I am what I am, he thought.

  Beth lay beside him, breathing slowly and quietly. Her honey hair was a tangle and the bare curve of her shoulder showed from under the sheet. For a while he lay still and was thankful. Four and a half hours until the Greyhound station, he thought. Clint wouldn’t show, but Hood knew that he himself had to show, just in case. Was Wampler crazy enough to try something with thirty lawmen waiting for him to show his face? He has to know we are on to him, Hood thought. He has to know.

  Through a kitchen window he watched the raindrops boil on the desert rocks and waited for the coffee to brew. The sky was gray and the wind was strong enough to shiver the yuccas and sway the paloverdes.

  Beth came in with her warmest robe and shearling boots. She came around the counter and they hugged. “I thought you were awake,” he said.

  “I couldn’t sleep again.”

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “My head is full of worries.”

  “Thomas is healthy and good.”

  “I love him and he’s only a day old. What was all that with you and Bradley? What’s going on?”

  Hood watched the rain roar down. “Mike.”

  “Somehow I knew that. What did big bad Mike do now?”

  “He wants to decide how Thomas is raised. He’s wants Bradley and Owens to raise him. Not Erin.”

  “She’ll fight to the death to keep him.”

  Hood gave her a joyless glance.

  “He wouldn’t. .”

  “No. Not directly. But he can persuade and manipulate and get people to do things for him. I’ve seen the aftermath of what Mike does, Beth. It’s ugly stuff.”

  “So, now more than ever, you want to lock him up.”

  “I’m going to do it.”

  “Good heavens, Charlie. God.”

  Hood poured coffee and added the milk and gave Beth a cup. She sat on a stool at the breakfast counter and Hood sat beside her. Outside the rain slackened and the daylight grew slightly. From her robe pocket Beth brought a wadded tissue and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

  “For what?”

  “For being what I am. A scientist. A humanist, I’d like to think.”

  “I love you for those things.”

  “You can’t blame Mike for everything bad that happens to people you love.”

  “No, not everything at all.”

  “Any of it! It’s irrational, Charlie.” She studied him and wiped her eyes again with the tissue. Beth was a woman who usually tamped down her emotions, but when she decided to let them go they would rise and burst like fireworks.

  “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone? It’s not easy to admit.”

  “I want to know.”

  “When I was a little girl, I went to church and I believed. It felt so good. Then, when I got to be a teenager I looked around and I started doubting. Then, when I started studying life-biology, for my medical training-I came to see that life multiplies and sustains itself without any help from God, and it ends without any help from Satan. And the more I looked, the more I saw that there is no God and no Satan, no heaven or hell. These are stories we’ve told ourselves to answer the fear and mysteries of death. I’m an atheist, Charlie. Right down to my godless marrow. I haven’t believed what you believe about Mike since I was a little girl. But I’ve done what you wanted. I’ve tried to make you happy. I love you. I wanted to be with you. So I gave up my home for yours, and I’ve taken care of Erin and Reyes and you. And now, you want to trap another human being and lock him up? Do you not see how crazy that is? How can you not see it?”

  “I believe. I’ve seen and heard.”

  “I know. I respect it. It’s irrational but I respect your beliefs. I told you four months ago, when I moved in here with you, that our relationship was day-to-day. I still feel that way. I’m moving home, Charlie. I don’t want to lose you. But I won’t be a part of this. I will not.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. Hood could smell her tears and taste the salt in them. When he spread his hands against her cheeks, they were wet and he brushed the tears into her hair. She stood, went back into the bedroom, and shut the door.

  • • •

  Later, out in the kitchen for more coffee and radio news, Hood called Mary Kate. He was fairly sure he’d awakened her. She told him she’d called the play director and they’d been able to postpone last night’s rehearsal for two days. Hood warned her again not to go outside her room unless she absolutely had to. She joked that he was no fun to work for anymore. She said she had a decent view of the street from the Regal, and she’d not seen the blue SUV since she’d checked in sixteen hours ago. She had not left the room and it was getting smaller and smaller. She teased him about getting up so early just to listen to the radio. How could he leave a nice warm bed to do that? What, no one there to talk to? He ignored her and told her to stay alert and rang off just as the next news story came on.

  “Imperial County businessman Israel Castro and two other men were gunned down behind Castro’s Jacumba restaurant last night by an unidentified gunman who is still at large. Kitchen workers at Amigos Restaurant heard. .”

  His phone buzzed and Hood saw Soriana’s name on the screen. “I just heard about Castro,” he said.

  “Forget about Castro for now. Charlie? Hey, look-Lansing called a few minutes ago. You’ve been let go by ATF. I’m sorry.” Hood said nothing. “The attorney general’s going on Face the Nation tomorrow morning. He’s going to announce that six ATF agents have been terminated for the Love Thirty-twos that went to Mexico. Negligence and dereliction of duty. Nothing criminal. Then he’ll talk about sweeping changes at ATF. I don’t know wh
at they’ve come up with at Justice. I’m not sure I want to know. Lansing doesn’t have the balls to call you so I am. Don’t shoot me, Hood, I’m just the messenger. You were a good agent and you deserve better. LASD is probably a better gig anyway.”

  Hood felt his heart in his throat and didn’t speak.

  “Take your gun and badge and ID to the field office in Buenavista. That would be easiest. Yorth will be there this morning. There’s some paperwork. Lansing wants it all done ASAP. They want the laptop but you can keep the Charger ’til the end of the month.”

  “Who else got sacked?”

  “Two from Arizona and two from Texas. And Bly. After the House hearing she told off Lansing in front of his people. Really chewed him a new one. So, she kind of volunteered for this. I feel terrible. I want you to know that.”

  “Nobody from Arizona or Texas even worked the Love Thirty-twos with us.”

  “It’s politics, Charlie. That’s all it is. Point finger. Distribute blame. Wash hands. Forget.”

  “I won’t forget. Who’s going to meet Clint Wampler at the Greyhound station?”

  “I’ve got Velasquez and Morris doing a homeless act, and three more from here with armor and weapons. San Diego PD is on board with the helo if we need it, and two tactical teams. It’s a mean little army. You don’t really think he’ll show up, do you?”

  “No. But we have to.”

  “How’s the girl?”

  “I just talked to her. She’s in the wind but fine.”

  “She’s either brave or not too bright.”

  “Anyone get a look at who shot Castro?”

  “A dishwasher saw someone with Castro a few minutes before the shots. Caucasian, twenties or thirties, medium height, slender, white hair. A heavy coat.”

  “Anyone see his car?”

  “No info on a car.”

  “It’s Clint Wampler, Frank, right down to the heavy coat.”

  “Possibly. But it could have been a down jacket, or a ski jacket or any winter coat. And the hair is wrong.”

  “Dye costs ten bucks and takes half an hour. I’d move on this, Frank.”

  “Move where? Wampler’s got a gift for disappearing.”

  “Get his picture out there to the media again. Now he’s a suspect in three more murders. Someone’s going to notice him.”

  Soriana was silent for a long beat. “Thanks. I’ll get the word out. Maybe Wampler will show up to greet his honey after all. And we’ll slap four murders on him.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Look, Charlie, I’m sorry about this. You need a recommendation, you need anything from me, and it’s a done deal.”

  Hood punched off and poured some coffee and watched the rain come down. Suddenly the roar on the roof decelerated to a thrum and he could hear the runoff clanging down the metal downspouts.

  Half an hour later he had showered and shaved and kissed Beth good-bye. He said nothing about the firing. He carried the laptop and his war bag to the car. He wore his own.45 on his hip and a two-shot.40-caliber derringer-a gift from Suzanne Jones-on his ankle. He kept his head up and his eyes busy. If Theresa Brewer could get his home address, why couldn’t Clint Wampler? Oddly, to Hood this felt like any other workday-starting early, trying to anticipate, assessing available luck. He thought of Beth and of Erin and Thomas and Bradley. Of his mother and father. Memorial service soon. He thought of Suzanne. He tried to think of life without ATF and found it vague. Back to Los Angeles and the sheriffs? What about Beth?

  He made downtown Buenavista in five minutes. He stopped at his usual doughnut shop. For a while he sat in the small bright-orange-and-yellow booth and watched the working people file in and out, on their ways to make their livings, Saturday or not. He wondered how many times he’d been in here since joining Blowdown four years back. He didn’t think he’d miss this place but he did feel that with his firing, a large door had been closed, and that a long and meaningful chapter of his life was over. Would Beth come to L.A.?

  He parked in the underground lot, made sure no news crews were lurking, then carried his war bag and laptop toward the back entrance of the field station. He swept his ID across the sensor and pushed open the door. He wondered if he’d miss this, too: the hugger-mugger of ATF, its insularity and self-propelled intensity, its accomplishments and mistakes, and, well, certainly his agent compadres.

  41

  Clint sat in the Kia and watched the front of the Imperial Bank building from down the street. He wore a new Cardinals baseball cap and sunglasses and his peacoat. His new binoculars were powerful and they brought up the lobby so close it was like he could walk right in. He saw that the bank was closed up and most of the offices were not open yet. There were a few people in the cafe. The girl making the coffee drinks was pretty. The same big blue-shirted security guard he’d seen before was at his station, sitting behind what looked like a marble desk, reading a newspaper. Clint didn’t know exactly where the ATF office was, but the building was only two stories high and not very large. The reflective glass would be no match for the Stinger.

  He glanced into the backseat at the bright Mexican blanket and the shape of the Stinger, armed and ready.

  When the black Charger stopped at the entrance to the parking structure Clint understood that God himself had just singled him out to perform a miracle. He held the glasses absolutely still and watched the window go down and Charlie Hood push a card into the reader. The arm rose and Hood drove in. Clint felt his finger throbbing but he smiled anyway. Should he wait for Hood to drive back out? How long was he going to be in there? What were his chances of hitting the Charger compared with hitting the building? After all, he’d never fired one of these things. Bird in the hand?

  42

  Yorth began to process him out and Hood could tell the man was embarrassed and angry. He seemed to be taking more time than he had to. In his few short months here in Buenavista, Yorth had lost weight and his hair was thinning. The death of one agent and the firing of two more agents under his command would not play well in his file or his soul. Yorth checked his watch. “Hour and a half until Wampler is supposed to show at the Greyhound station.”

  “That’s the last place you’ll find him. He knows we’ll be there and he’s not foolish.”

  “You think he shot Castro last night?”

  “I do. My guess is Castro wanted in on the missiles.”

  “He must have wanted in on something. How’s Mary Kate Boyle?”

  “She’s staying real low.”

  “She won’t talk to me. She only talks to Velasquez and Morris now. And you.”

  “She’s got a real stubborn streak.”

  “Reminds me of my sister.” Yorth shook his head and sighed when Hood emptied his ATF-issue Glock and set it on the desk, focusing on the gun but not looking at Hood. Hood began signing the stack of forms and a few minutes later he walked out.

  Down in the parking structure he had just aimed his key fob at the car when a sharp blast shook the ceiling and shivered the walls and rocked the Charger on its shocks. Chunks of concrete exploded through the glass walls of the elevator bank and skidded across the floor. Then alarms and human screams. Seconds later Hood ran through the blown door of the ATF offices. Inside, the screaming was more and louder, and water from the fire sprinklers rained down. He smelled smoke and explosives and he fell in behind Yorth, who was bleeding from his forehead but charging for the emergency exit with his gun drawn. Smoke had already drifted into the exit hallway. They burst outside to a narrow alley and ran through broken glass around to the front of the building, toward the screams of sirens and people.

  The lobby plate glass was blown out and the far lobby wall was demolished and the reception desk was blown to splinters. Oscar lay twenty feet from his station, on his back near the elevators, and Hood saw that the middle of him was mostly gone, just a huge ragged hole below his chest. Hood followed the screams to the cafe. A woman with a bloody face knelt over what looked like an elderly man,
and beyond them, through the glassless storefront, Hood saw two more women, one screaming and one staring ashen-faced back at the destroyed lobby while her leashed terrier barked furiously at a loose Chihuahua. A big shard of window glass detached from above and whistled down and burst on the sidewalk in front of Hood. A man crouched through the shattered front door of the accounting firm, holding his laptop over his head with both hands. Some fled the building and others ran in to help. The traffic on the boulevard had slowed and there were already gawkers pulled over to record the calamity on their cell phones. Hood watched a red Honda rear-end a black Denali and both drivers spill out with their phones already raised. His attention went to two small boys on the other side of the street who were touching what appeared to be a burning storefront wall. Distant sirens sounded as he ran across the boulevard and waved away the boys, who scattered in opposite directions, laughing. Hood saw that the backblast of the missile had blackened the storefront and the scorched bricks still smoked. He looked up and down the street, trying to spot a new blue Explorer or any young man who resembled Clint Wampler. Anything. He ran to the parked cars and the gathered spectators, yelling questions. One young man said he saw someone standing beside a white car with a “funny-looking bazooka-kind of thing over his shoulder, and the next thing I know there’s a blast of white smoke going backwards out the tube, then the lobby blows up!” The witness could not describe the shooter or the car near which he was standing. When the smoke cleared, both were gone. The other answers Hood got were all no’s and the looks he drew were dubious and fearful.