“It wasn’t botched. We got outmaneuvered.”
“But the guns went into Mexico, correct?”
“We believe so.”
“And now, apparently, at least one has come back to kill a United States congressman.”
Hood hustled up the stairs to the second-story ATF offices. The steel steps made a ringing sound that echoed in the concrete stairwell. He heard Theresa Brewer’s footsteps behind him. “Representative Darren Grossly accused ATF of ‘irresponsible actions’ regarding these automatic weapons. He said the Department of Justice is, at the highest levels, quote, ‘trying to cover up these actions by stonewalling’ his investigation. Is this true?”
Hood stepped onto the first floor landing and turned to face the journalist. “I testified. I didn’t stonewall. Have a nice day.”
“Did you act alone?”
“We always work in teams. Good-bye. I’m going to go to work now.”
“Before you testified, did your superiors at ATF ask you to protect their superiors? Maybe even the attorney general himself?”
“Don’t be silly.” Hood tipped his hat and unlocked the ATF suite with his name tag chip. Dale Yorth glanced at him from the water-cooler in the hallway. Theresa Brewer was asking another question as the heavy door locked behind Hood. He made it to his cubicle, aimlessly enraged, his heart beating hard.
Yorth soon stood looking down at Hood over the low fabric partitions of the workspace. “Fox News?”
“They must have seen me on C-Span.”
“So did everybody else. I’m so sorry about this, Charlie. Can I come in?”
Yorth sat next to Hood’s desk in the crowded cubicle. He had a slip of paper in his hand. “I just got off the phone with San Diego. Frank’s gotten interview requests from The New York and Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, Time . . .” He looked down at the paper. “Well . . . I couldn’t write fast enough. They all want to know about the Love Thirty-twos and they all want interviews with you. Soriana referred them to Washington but you know damned well they’ll be back. That Union-Tribune story yesterday really caught fire. Shit. Hold on.” Yorth pulled his cell, checked the number and answered, then was quiet for a long while. “Yes, sir. Okay. Now that’s a damned shame. He’s here now. Yes, sir, I will. No, sir, he won’t.”
He hung up and shook his head. “Lansing just let IA loose on you, Charlie. You’re officially jammed as of right now. ATF has to show that something is being done. So I’m to put you on administrative leave. The leave is paid—you just have to stay home and be accounted for. In a way it’s good. It will let you dodge these reporters. You know how it is—they’ll lose interest in a few days. Sorry, but this is direct from Lansing.”
“Can I keep working?”
“AL is fully paid.”
“It’s not about the pay. It’s about Wampler. For all we know he’s still got that Stinger and he intends to use it.”
“Do what you need to do, Charlie. Bust Wampler’s ass. But I don’t want to know about it. Just pick up the phone when IA calls. Be there. Act good. I’m on your side.”
“I’m taking the laptop.”
“I don’t hear you.”
• • •
Hood went to his office and called Mary Kate’s parents and siblings. Only her brother knew of Clint Wampler at all, and he knew very little—just some badass punk from a few towns over. But they all admitted to having told friends and neighbors about Mary Kate’s move to California. Her mother had to inform the school district, that was the law. Hood realized that scores of people in Russell County could know she’d gone to L.A. and the ones who knew her might assume she’d gone to stay with her old friend, Amy. All it took was one of them to be an acquaintance of Wampler and the circuit was complete.
When Hood reached Amy by phone in L.A. she sounded vague and dismissive. Hood smelled fear. It took a few minutes of earnest cajoling but she finally admitted that Clint Wampler had showed up at her apartment when Victor was working. He’d put his hand on her throat and demanded to know where Mary Kate Boyle had got to and said if she went to the cops he’d come back and strangle her and leave her for Victor to explain. I’m real afraid, she said. Is Mary Kate okay? I shoulda called the cops. I shoulda, I shoulda.
Hood told Mary Kate by phone, and for the first time in the several hours he’d spent with her, she was temporarily speechless.
“Where are you now?”
“Walking to work.”
“Are you close?”
“Yeah, another two blocks.”
“Good. Once you’re inside, don’t leave. Make sure you aren’t alone there.”
“Hard to be alone, with a crew of four.”
“I’m going to make arrangements with a motel we work with in San Diego. It’s a decent place. I’ll send a cab for you at work and it will bring you there. Figure about one hour. Don’t go back to the Windsor Arms. Don’t pack. Don’t panic. Just do your job and get into that taxi when it arrives. You’re going to vanish for a few days, Mary Kate. Be invisible. Can you do that?”
“That hick bastard. I’m gonna lose my job and my room because of him? I got rehearsal later, you know.”
“You’ll get back everything. Right now, just stay invisible.”
“I don’t scare easy but he gives me the genuine creeps, Charlie.”
Hood read the news to ATF Buenavista: The crazy with the Stinger was on to Mary Kate Boyle, and probably on to them, too.
• • •
An hour later Yorth scouted the parking lot for reporters, then Hood locked the laptop in the trunk of his Charger and climbed in. The car bounced into the bright sunlight of Buenavista. He drove toward Castro Ford listening to the reports of rain in San Diego and he looked out at the endless blue sky overhead. He felt betrayed but free. ATF would fire him soon and loudly, he thought: damage control. It was a perilous feeling to know how very small he was within the bureaucracy, how unimportant and discardable, a single-use man. He wondered if the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department would can him, too.
He drove around to the rear of the dealership lot and parked in his usual place. He fished his camera from behind his seat and brought the new-car intake area into focus. All three rolling doors were up and he could see two men working on a white Taurus. There were three other vehicles waiting for attention but the dazzling cobalt blue Explorer was not one of them. His heart fell a little. He heard a Tejano-style song coming from the prep men’s radio.
Mary Kate called and told him she had walked right past KFC and checked into a hotel of her own damn choice, using cash and a fake name, and Clint was nowhere to be seen. Hood took the name and address and told her to have food delivered and she said she’d already bought enough stuff at the market to last two days. She had a microwave and a pint-size fridge. And she’d talked to Tony at KFC, too, and he said he’d cover for her, no problem, just come back when she could and she’d have her old job. He’d offered to help but she hadn’t told him squat about what was really going on.
“Don’t rehearse tonight.”
“It’s an evening rehearsal and I’m going.”
“He’ll cruise downtown when you don’t go back to the Windsor. Easy to spot you. Don’t be a fool.”
“I’m nobody’s fool, Charlie Hood. Not even yours.”
She hung up on him. Hood dialed but she didn’t take the call. He drove around front and parked near Castro’s silver Flex. The salesmen eyed him with a new humorlessness and Hood figured he’d been made. He headed across the lot to where the new SUVs were waiting but no salesman bothered to follow. He walked the rows of Explorers but the one he’d seen in the prep area—much like the one described by Mary Kate Boyle—was not there. He circled back and stepped inside the showroom to find that the display cars had been changed. He paused to check out the new black F-150 outfitted for off-road, a pink Fiesta, and a burgundy-colored Flex. The pickup stirred him.
“Hey, it’s Charlie Hood, ATF’s finest.” Castro came toward
him, tossing one of the promotional Castro Ford soccer balls from hand to hand. “Come back to buy that Taurus?”
“I had my eyes on a cobalt blue Explorer but now it’s gone.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Castro’s face. “That’s what happens to cars. Kind of like guns. They just vanish sometimes. I saw you for a few seconds on TV and I thought, man, I’m trying to sell that guy a Ford. Congress! You’re a mover and shaker, Charlie. You should be thinking Lincoln Town Car, not Taurus or Explorer.”
“You sold it?”
“To a very nice soccer mom.” Castro spun the soccer ball on one finger, as if this confirmed his statement.
“Can you get another one?”
“Sure. But I can sell you a black one you’d like even better. Look, you’ve got black shoes and a black belt. Black is what a secret agent should drive.” Castro shot the soccer ball into the big bin of balls over by the Fiesta. “Of course, since you’re government you’ve got that Charger for free, right? So why do you need to buy an Explorer?”
“I need a car of my own.”
Castro studied him. “No. I don’t want to sell to you. Never thought I’d hear myself say that. What I want is for you to get out of my dealership. You proved on TV that feds are idiots. I don’t sell Fords to idiots. Ford Motor Company didn’t take fed bailouts either, like Chrysler. You deserve that piece-of-junk, government-subsidized wop Charger.” Castro barged through the front door and stood with his hands on his hips, barking out at the salesmen. “Hey, men! You see this guy drive up again, call the cops, okay? Tell them Israel Castro needs their help with a trespasser!”
Hood tipped his hat to Castro and burned rubber on his way out. Down Interstate 8 he tried again and got Mary Kate to pick up. “Keep inside, Mary Kate. Please. And call nine-one-one if something happens—if you even suspect that something is happening. Tell them you’re part of a federal investigation and you’re afraid for your life. Then call me. I’m asking you to do this.”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“Don’t go to rehearsal. Keep the deadbolt thrown and don’t leave the room.”
“I know what to—”
“Don’t leave the room.”
“Okay! Okay! Fine. I’ll sit right here at this rickety little table and wait for a handsome man with diamonds in his teeth to come rescue me.”
Hood said nothing, watched the ocotillo flashing past.
“You’d at least do that for me, Charlie. Right?”
“I would do that. Please, Mary Kate, stay low.”
“Charlie, I’m a blacksnake crawlin’ through the berry patch.”
• • •
He drove up the steep dirt road toward his home. Cresting the rise he saw his home and the familiar carport and the Fox News van and Erin standing at the open front door, talking to Theresa Brewer while Gabe Reyes yelled and waved at the video guy, who was backing up slowly but shooting. The dogs bounded around, barking. Hood gunned the Charger and skidded to a stop in the gravel. The video shooter swung away from Gabe and captured Hood’s brisk advance.
“Here’s Agent Hood just now,” said Theresa Brewer.
“No, Charlie!” called Erin. “It’s okay!”
“Be cool, Charlie!” yelled Reyes. “I got this.”
Hood was not only tall but fast and he covered the ground to the videographer before the man could get the camera down. Hood twisted it away and fumbled distractedly for the delete buttons as Daisy and Minnie herded and barked at the cameraman.
“These dogs bite?” he asked, backpedaling.
Erin waddled from the house wearing a loose muumuu, white hibiscus on a red background, both hands under her giant middle for support. “It’s okay! I asked them to leave and they were leaving, Charlie!”
“And you’re committing a crime,” Brewer told Hood. “You’re abridging the constitutional rights of a free press.”
“You’re trespassing, lady. Get out now.”
Beth spilled out of the house wrapped in a bedspread, hair wild and eyes squinting, freshly wrenched from sleep.
“Who are you?” Theresa Brewer asked.
“I’m a woman who resents being awakened by trespassers. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Charlie, can you make these people go away?”
By then the dogs had the cameraman backed against the low stone wall. Hood strode over and called them off to no avail and gave up on the delete. He two-handed the recorder into the shooter’s chest and the man managed to hang on to it and not fall backward over the rocks. Hood dragged Daisy and Minnie by their collars into the house and slammed the door on them. He could hear them barking behind the heavy wood and adobe. The video guy ran for the van and Brewer scrambled away also, reaching back with her microphone to catch the last of the chaos. Reyes was on his cell phone, and Hood figured he was calling in his old buddies on Buenavista PD. Beth clutched the bedspread at her neck with one hand and helped Erin back up the steps to the front door. The Fox News van made a dramatic gravel-spraying turn.
“Don’t miss Fox News at Eleven!” Theresa Brewer called out. “I love your music, Erin!” When Beth opened the front door, Daisy and Minnie bolted after the van in a yelping frenzy and chased it down the hill.
Hood looked for Erin’s reaction. She was steadying herself on Beth’s shoulder and looking down toward her feet. “Guys? My water just broke?”
37
Hood watched through a window as Dr. David delivered Thomas Firth Jones. Beth assisted in the birth. It took nearly two hours, but when it was over, Beth held up a robust-looking baby boy. Hood’s eyes misted over when he saw Erin’s face, dazed, exhausted but joyful. He’d never seen an expression like that on her before. Beth looked at him through the glass, hopeful and proud of her work. Hood thought he saw a glimmer of maybe us someday? in Beth’s smile and in spite of the things that seemed to be collapsing upon him, the idea pleased him and he smiled back.
Thomas Firth Jones himself was seven-plus pounds, ruddy and wrinkled and doubtful. Doubting Thomas, thought Hood. His eyes were shut tight and his fists were clenched up at his mouth and the plastic bracelet was large upon his small wrist. His hair was fine and sparse, light brown. He didn’t cry much after the shock of being born was over. He seemed to be recuperating. Hood wondered if he was even more spent than his mother. Thomas was outfitted in a white blanket and a small blue cap to fight off the chill of his brave new world, and he looked perfect in Erin’s arms.
Hood stayed at the hospital, looking in on her but trying not to be a nuisance. For some reason the birth of Thomas made him think of his father, but the memory was not lugubrious or sad. The death of Douglas and the birth of Thomas, having come so close together, were just two more reminders that you get life for a while, then it goes somewhere else. So make the most of it. Put that on my headstone, thought Hood. Douglas would be buried in two days.
A couple of hours later Bradley, wearing his LASD uniform, came running down the hallway toward Hood and braked to a stop outside Erin’s room. “We need to talk, Charlie.”
“Ready when you are.”
Bradley took a deep breath and stepped inside. Hood waited awhile, then looked in. Bradley had worked himself into the bed beside Erin, and Thomas was asleep between them. Erin was asleep, too. Bradley, up on one elbow, looked at Hood with unusual gravity.
• • •
They sat at a plastic patio table out in the hospital courtyard. The late afternoon was cool and they were alone. Bradley’s uniform was crisp and clean, but he looked anxious, dark around the eyes and unkempt. “I’m a father.”
“Congratulations.”
“I feel different. Everybody said I would and I do. But not how I thought it would be.”
“Talk.”
“I partnered with Mike. It’s a simple oath and he accepted. I did it to get his help. It seemed to have worked. Certain aspects of my life started to flourish again. Then I realized he wants Thomas. I’m in way over my head. You understand how dangerous Mike is?”
Hood lifted his hair to expose the knife scar. Bradley eyed it long and hard, and Hood saw fear in his young eyes. Bradley scooted his chair up closer and spoke in a whisper. “He hung around Mom and me for years. Since before I was even aware of him. When I got older he’d haunt the L.A. club scene when Erin was playing and I was there. He always knew things about people. Sometimes he seemed to know things he really couldn’t know. Then he started coming up with things he shouldn’t have—pictures of himself at a hanging that took place over a hundred years ago. And a bulletproof vest that he claimed once belonged to Joaquin Murrieta—and it really was old enough to have belonged to him. Mike and Owens gave it to us as a wedding present. Isn’t that touching? Years of weirdness like that. Then, a few weeks ago he shows me pictures of you and the Blowdown team surveilling me at Pace Arms with the Love Thirty-twos. And he’s got video of you down in Yucatán, lugging that ransom money around for Armenta. It’s all there—the jungle, Armenta’s castle, Luna, the Mexican Army, even you in his apartment in Veracruz. He can’t have this stuff, Charlie. But he does! Get this: He can actually read my mind. He’s done it more than once. Word for word, the exact words, the inflection perfect. And get this, too: He’s got a woman trapped in a mineshaft way out in the desert above Adelanto. Beatrice. He says she’s an angel—one of his enemies—and he’s had her down there in the mine for ninety-four years. Ninety-four years! Mike says devils and angels live ten to twelve times longer than men and you can’t kill them. They don’t have to eat or drink. I heard Beatrice’s voice. She wasn’t hysterical and didn’t seem afraid. Apparently, they pull this kind of shit on one another all the time. She pleaded with me to resist him and save my soul. Mike threw her meat sticks and beer and teased her. At first it blew my mind. Then later, he said something that made my scalp crawl. He said I should take Thomas away from Erin and raise him with Owens.”
“No court would let you take him from Erin.”
“What if there is no Erin? I’m afraid for them, Charlie.”
“You should be.”
Bradley nodded and stared off. Hood saw the tremble of his chin and the wet shine of his eyes and he saw how much it hurt Bradley to have placed them—his wife and his just-born son—so far beyond his ability to protect them. It was the first time Hood had seen Bradley put anyone truly ahead of himself. “God, I’m a fuckup.”
The Famous and the Dead Page 26