• • •
By eight thirty, he had passed through both Mexican and U.S. customs with only cursory inspections. Both sets of officials had cheerful words about the high quality of the new Fords made in Mexico but neither asked why he’d driven nearly five hundred miles out of his way, or endured the tedious Guaymas–to–Santa Rosalía ferry, instead of just crossing at Nogales. He felt safe in using his cell phone now that he was stateside, and his heart fluttered when he saw that Erin had left him not one but three texts. Thomas turned! No caesarean needed! Due in eight days and I feel very happy right now!
Shifting quickly through the low gears as he left the customs plaza, Bradley felt the great weight of his dread diminishing and he noticed that his headache was gone and his hands were no longer so tightly clenched to the wheel. El Centro was just little over an hour out. He set his phone on the seat beside him and voice-dialed Erin.
27
Hood cruised by Castro Ford and saw that Israel’s Flex was parked up front. He continued down the street and made two right turns that brought him again to the back side of the lot, the parts-and-service yard and the new-car intake bay. The bay looked ready for the nine-thirty delivery—all three rolling doors up and Israel and two other men all standing out in the cool morning sunshine, smoking and checking their watches and kicking around one of the promotional Castro Ford soccer balls that Hood had seen in the showroom. Again he pictured a life as a car salesman should his law enforcement career not pan out.
He parked well away in the meager shade of a stand of greasewoods and rolled down the windows. The greasewoods gave off a clean scent but Hood knew from a boyhood of shooting doves from the shade of Bakersfield windbreaks that they were greasy and home to all manner of spiders, scorpions, ticks, and other biting things. Dug into the bank of fallen greasewood needles he saw a silk-lined cavern in which a fat spider sat. Then another. Looking through his camera he could see the men still horsing around with the ball, Israel apparently the best athlete. Hood shot a couple of pictures.
At 9:43, Hood saw the big tractor-trailer coming down the avenue toward him, the new cars catching the sun. He raised the camera and saw the Hermosillo Fusions and Ford Tauruses and Lincoln MKZs tethered tightly but still rocking slightly against their moorings. The sun was just high enough now to blast into the powerful lens of the camera, and Hood had to hold it low to get a look at the drivers.
There was only one driver this time. No man in an olive suit, no man in a blue Ford shirt. Just Bradley Jones, signaling his turn and throwing his weight into the downshift, sending a plume of gray smoke out the stacks above him.
Hood smiled and let the motor drive rip.
28
Bradley and Erin sat in the courtyard of Hood’s Buenavista adobe. Bradley saw Gabriel Reyes loitering in the kitchen inside, peeking through the window intermittently at them. Bradley saluted him. He wondered what Hood was doing on this fine day. Working his ass off for not much reward, was Bradley’s guess; probably wondering where Congressman Grossly had gotten such good documentation of the Love 32 fiasco from three years back. And wait until Hood got a load of Dez’s Yucatán dossier, and a likely investigative exposé by his admirer Theresa Brewer at Fox News. Amazing how Mike could look and plan ahead. Not just weeks and months, but years. As he had done for his mother, Suzanne. And if Mike was to be believed, for many others. The biggest question about Mike was, could he be trusted? And the answer was, of course, too late.
“So, what are bathroom-products people like?” asked Erin.
“They vary.”
“I don’t like you spending time with Mike. No matter how many good things Owens has to say about him. I think the truth about Mike is closer to the way Charlie tells it. And he’s got that scar to prove it. Was she there, Owens?”
“Of course. The two peas.”
“Did Mike try to get you two together?”
“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I always had the feeling that he wished I was her. So he’d have more control over you. She’s very beautiful and mysterious. Are you tempted by her?”
“I’m tempted by you.”
Her smile was faint but a smile nonetheless. Without asking permission he reached over and placed his hand over her distended middle. She closed her eyes. His heart was beating strong and hard. Sitting on the table near them was the Victorian-style wrought-iron birdcage and two blue parakeets he’d bought cowered together on a perch as far from the humans as they could get.
“Why parakeets?” she asked.
“Why not parakeets?”
“They don’t look super happy.”
“They’re the happiest creatures on earth. These two are just afraid. It will take them a little time to get used to the new cage. Then they’ll sing to you. See, they’ll sing for you, the singer. They can live to fifteen. Thomas will be just about ready for his learner’s permit.”
She opened her eyes. Bradley studied the blue surfaces of them and wondered exactly what she was thinking. He told her about his last few days of working the STAR Unit. He talked up the value of the program for troubled as well as untroubled youth. He spoke highly of Gail Padilla. He thought of the $34,000 stashed in the spare-tire well of his Porsche, which had been waiting for him at Castro Ford. Not only waiting but washed, as Herredia had promised. It was good seeing Israel again after so many years, he thought. A good businessman. Then Bradley had a fleeting image of El Tigre and the two women standing there at El Dorado just six short hours ago.
“What are you smiling at?” she asked.
“The way the sunlight makes your hair shine.”
“Gabe says it’s the avocados he puts in the salads.”
“You talk girl stuff with Gabriel?”
“He’s got four daughters and four granddaughters.”
Bradley nodded. “I hope to have daughters and granddaughters someday. What did Dr. David say this morning?”
“Everything is fine. Now that he’s turned I can have him without a surgery. It’s exactly eight days until he’s due. I think he’s going to make it real clear when he’s coming. He seems . . . assured.”
“I love you.”
“You’re immature and deceitful and reckless.”
“Those days are over. Behold the new Bradley Jones.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly, then closed his eyes and let the winter sun warm his face. For the first time in four months, since her ordeal in Yucatán, Erin let her hand stay in his for longer than ten seconds. He felt his heart large in his chest and he knew his luck had changed and he knew he was going to write himself back into her book of days. He would be the best father in the history of Western civilization.
• • •
Back in Valley Center that evening Bradley took the dogs on a long run down to the creek on the far side of the property. He rode a noisy ATV with a toolbox in back and kept to the fence lines, checking the sensors and electrified wires. Never again, he thought, never again will someone breech this border. The dogs bounded along with him, all twelve, led by Call, a Husky–Saint Bernard mix. The dogs were all dragging their tongues by the time they got back to the house. The Labradors waded, panting, into the pond to drink chest deep, while the others lapped noisily at the edge.
Suddenly he heard someone calling his name from across the pond. The dogs heard it too and they stopped their drinking and perked their ears. The woman was older and small and from what he could see she was wearing an old-fashioned Victorian dress. He actually rubbed his eyes but it did no good. Eva. She waved and called out his name again and started out around the pond toward him. The dogs charged around the water toward her, led by Call, but when they reached the small woman she raised her hand confidently and they halted and some sat and some crept up to her but didn’t quite touch their noses to her dress. Bradley came up behind them. “How in the hell did you get past the fence?”
“I jumped over it.”
“It’s eight feet high and electrif
ied.”
“I’m well aware of that! You do remember me from the convention, don’t you? Eva?”
“Of course I do.”
“For you.” She slipped the silver flask from a slit pocket in the abundant hip ruffles of the dress and held it out to him.
“No, thank you.”
“Drink the damned stuff, Bradley. I’ve got unhappy news for you.” He took the flask and drank without taking his eyes off her. The flask and potion were both cold. “Mike is not happy with your behavior at the convention, or since. He believes you are spoiled, truculent, thankless, and selfish. Now, these kinds of disagreements do come up, and they usually resolve positively. However, during such standoffs, competitors often attempt to forge an advantage. Some of Mike’s envious coworkers here in the Western Territory have decided to try just that. I have this on good authority. It’s imperative that you refuse to speak to them or hear them out. They can’t and won’t coerce you in any physical way, but . . . well, you should know that they can be very, very persuasive. Especially with you soon to be so vulnerable. And for the first time.”
“First time?”
“Becoming a father. They’ll try to manipulate you using Thomas. But mark my word: What they really want is for Thomas to be theirs.”
“That will never happen.” He drank again and gave the flask back. She drank and pocketed it. He began to feel the confidence and clarity, the alert well-being that the potion caused. He felt his vision becoming stronger and his imagination more boldly visual.
“Do not negotiate with them. Mike has worked himself to the bone to provide for your family. They’ll claim to be friends of his. They’ll claim they have been ordered to replace him. They’ll tell you anything to get you talking back. And, of course, they’ll bribe you with pretty much anything you want. Say nothing. And, please, Bradley, don’t mention me or this visit. I’m breaking a hundred rules just by jumping your little fence. Now, I’ll leave you to yourself. Bradley. Dogs. Good evening.”
Bradley took her offered hand—a cool, soft-skinned, bony hand—and he shook it firmly but he felt the unlikely strength in it. She smiled and turned and glided back into the thick chaparral from which she had apparently come. The dogs trotted along behind her and Bradley loped into the brush, too, in strong pursuit. But the manzanita and the scrub oak and Spanish saber were thick and high, and Bradley had not gone fifty feet before he lost sight of them. He heard the faint cracking of branches and brush far ahead. The dogs were not barking. He put his hands up over his face and plowed through. What there was of the trail soon narrowed to nothing and he was left to shoulder his way between the trees and stout strong shrubs. He could feel the branches scratching his forearms and cutting at the scalp of his lowered head. Finally he broke into a clearing and joined the dogs looking out at Eva, who was already far on the other side of the eight-foot-high, electric, motion-sensing fence—nearly a hundred yards beyond it, in fact—striding through a low grassy swale with a speed that Bradley could hardly believe. She turned and waved and a white van came rocking along the Forest Service fire road and picked her up. Call was as close to the fence as he had learned to get, watching her intently.
• • •
Late that night Bradley’s cell phone buzzed from his bed stand. He saw Jack Cleary’s number and answered.
“It looks like Warren flipped Rocky Carrasco,” said Cleary. “They spent two hours in the Gallo in Cudahy today. My informant says she saw a voice recorder on the booth between them. Your name was spoken. And my ears in Warren’s office tell me Warren can’t wait for Dez to hear it.”
“Rocky can hurt us. This is not good.”
“We can hope he’s just bullshitting.”
Bradley thought it through. Rocky was a La Eme OG, respected, well off, well protected. An aging family man. He’d taken over the North Baja Cartel’s L.A. franchise from Hector Avalos and he ran it well, employing the youngsters of Florencia 13 and kicking heavy taxes up to his old bosses in the prisons. He also allowed Bradley to function as courier to Herredia, a coveted and lucrative position. For which Rocky took a tithe from Bradley, of course. Rocky also had Florencia’s 18th Street competitors dying to put some bullets in him, and at least one informant in his organization passing along damaging information to LASD. Thus making him vulnerable to Warren. Thus giving him the need for something solid to keep Warren happy. If Rocky was ready to sing in earnest, Bradley was cooked and he knew it.
“We’ll hope that. I want updates before they happen. If your people can keep any closer eye on Rocky, we could use it.”
“I’ll do what I can do. You a father yet?”
“Soon.”
“Love to Erin.”
29
Rovanna walked onto the campus of SDSU when the San Diego Alternative Book Festival opened at ten that Sunday morning. He wore long pants and a different colored Windbreaker than at the church and a black wig he’d bought at a drugstore two days ago. He had on sunglasses and carried a free book bag, courtesy of KPBS. He had a backpack slung over his shoulders, as did many of the students in attendance. The day was cool and clear and Rovanna stopped to look at the roses just budding out in the open-air quadrangle near the bell tower. There were tables and booths set up throughout the quad, banners strung to advertise various publishers, a food area and a stage and the Children’s Big Top. He got a festival schedule and a large coffee, then sat on a bench and let the sunshine hit his face.
He heard Joan: The most important thing you can do is to not stalk Representative Freeman at the book festival.
He heard one of the Identical Men: You must act decisively, as an extension of impulse.
He heard Stren: Use this gift to protect yourself and those around you and to advance the ideals you believe in.
He heard Hood: If Stren calls or comes again, call me immediately. He’s evil, Lonnie. He will hurt you.
He heard a voice from one of his radios: Exterminate Freeman!
An hour later he saw Representative Freeman making his way toward the stage. Upon seeing him again Rovanna felt the familiar shiver, a physical as well as psychic reaction. Freeman. Orbitoclasts came to his mind and he was helpless to dispel the images until they were ready to depart on their own. Then he saw Dr. Walter Freeman himself, leaning over a patient, orbitoclast and mallet in hand. Rovanna closed his eyes, hard. Finally Dr. Walter Freeman was gone, and Rovanna’s mind was at least partially his own again.
He watched the representative. This Freeman was an unassuming man, early forties, imperfect posture and a head of gray-brown curls. Again Rovanna saw the subtle similarities between him and the pictures of Dr. Walter Freeman. Scott Freeman’s wife was with him, along with a young, broad-shouldered man who had quick eyes. Today Freeman was dressed in jeans and running shoes, a work shirt, and a black blazer. He stopped and shook hands, talked, seemed to be in no hurry.
Rovanna stood and ambled toward the seats in front of the stage. The first few rows were already filled but there was plenty of room in the middle and rear, so Rovanna took off his backpack and sat in the very last row, the first seat on the aisle that Freeman would likely walk. Freeman would go right past him, no more than a few feet away. Rovanna set the book bag on the ground and the backpack on his lap and opened the large compartment and took out a pack of small doughnuts.
Identical Man: When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to neutralize radical individuals, exceptional men will receive the call. You are an exceptional man.
Hood: You’d be good in the world, I think. Otherwise it’s just yourself and all the things that torment you.
Stren: There is nothing wrong with you, Lonnie. Sometimes friends are all we have. And voices speak to all of us . . .
Joan: Do not talk to Stren again. If he shows up, hit him with that Bible. Literally pound him with it. It will repel him.
Radio Voice: Onward, Lonnie. Defeat Freeman in the name of free men everywhere. Do what you know you must do. History has left a space t
hat only you can fill.
Freeman and a small group came into the seating area. Lonnie turned his face away but watched him through his sunglasses. When the representative chose to walk around the seats rather than use the aisle leading directly to the stage, Rovanna felt the terrible anger surge through him. Doesn’t that just figure?
As always, this anger was visible to Rovanna: a bucket of black liquid upended inside his skull, working its way down into his body, demanding violence. The anger would try to hold Rovanna hostage until he delivered such violence. The anger was far more frightening to him than any nightmare, even those of Dr. Walter Freeman, because he could not wake up from it, and he could not escape it and, yes, he could resist it but sometimes it was stronger than he was. And he would be forced to act.
Stren, from last night’s dream: You know the purifying fire of violence, don’t you, Lonnie?
Joan: You are a troubled man now being manipulated by a devil, and the final cost to you will not be the pain you inflict, but the pain you will receive. It will be utterly unbearable and you will not survive it.
Rovanna set the half-eaten doughnuts back in his pack. They rested upon the silver flank of the Love 32. The silencer was screwed into place, but Rovanna had not deployed the skeleton butt because it made the gun too long for the backpack. He folded his hands over the top and watched Freeman kiss his wife then spring onto the stage. The representative went to the podium as the crowd mostly applauded but also booed. Off to one side of the stage was a long table stacked with Freeman’s book, The Cost of Liberty: Paying for the American Dream. The cover was a dollar bill waving from a pole, with the stars and bars of the American flag superimposed.
Freeman smiled and waved and buttoned his blazer, then waved some more. Three couples in the front row stood and shouted in unison, “Right to life! Right to life! Right to life!”
The Famous and the Dead Page 21