The Renegades: A Charlie Hood Novel
Parker, T. Jefferson
Penguin Group (2010)
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Some say that outlaws no longer exist, that the true spirit of the American West died with the legendary bandits of pulp novels and bedtime stories. Charlie Hood knows that nothing could be further from the truth. These days he patrols vast stretches of the new American West, not on horseback but in his cruiser.
The outlaws may not carry six-shooters, but they’re strapped all the same.
Along the desolate and dusty roads of this new frontier, Hood prefers to ride alone, and he prefers to ride at night. At night, his headlights illuminate only the patch of pavement ahead of him; all the better to hide from the demons—and the dead outlaws—receding in his rearview mirror.
But Hood doesn’t always get what he wants; certainly not when he’s assigned a partner in Terry Laws, a County veteran who everyone calls Mr. Wonderful. And not when Laws is shot dead in the passenger seat and Hood is left to bear witness by someone who knew Mr. Wonderful didn’t always live up to his nickname. As he sets out to find the gunman, Hood knows one thing for sure: The West is a state of mind, one where the bad guys sometimes wear white hats—and the good guys seek justice in whatever shade of gray they find it.
Praise for the Novels of T. Jefferson Parker
The Renegades
“Deft characterization and hard-boiled action played out against smartly detailed Southern California landscapes.”
—Los Angeles Times
“An interesting and inventive writer. If you’re interested in the best of today’s crime fiction, he’s someone you should read.”
—The Washington Post
“A typically streamlined T. Jefferson Parker thriller…. Think of Parker’s work as sunshine noir. It’s akin to that of Don Winslow, another specialist in the soft white underbelly of Southern California, and that of Louisiana crime poet James Lee Burke. The writing is so lean…and the dialogue can ricochet.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“‘Stromsoe was in high school when he met the boy who would someday murder his wife and son.’ It’s hard not to keep turning the pages after that opener…. In The Renegades, Parker surpasses himself in…a book that ranks among his most original.”
—The Toronto Star
“Another stylish, cleverly plotted yarn by one of the most consistent performers in the crime-novel genre.”
—The Associated Press
“Superb…. Two-time Edgar winner Parker vividly evokes the spirit of the Wild West…. He delivers steady suspense and a cast of damaged characters…. Readers will likely find themselves rattled—and riveted.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“It’s quite a showdown, done the Edgar Award–winning Parker way, in this engrossing tale of justice and redemption. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“A beautifully crafted thriller.”
—Mysterious Reviewed
“[A] wild ride…turns and tensions and brilliant dialog…a testament to Parker’s abilities as a master storyteller and a true craftsman. Parker’s fans will love Renegades, and it will certainly draw in some new readers.”
—CrimeCritics
“Parker is one of my favorite authors. He writes smart, challenging plots…. If you’re not reading T. Jefferson Parker, you should be.”
—Fresh Fiction
“NO ONE DOES TOUGH LIKE T. JEFFERSON PARKER”*
L.A. Outlaws
“T. Jefferson Parker’s terrific L.A. Outlaws introduces one of the most enticing heroines in recent American crime fiction. All [Parker’s] skills are on display here: vivid writing, strong characters, clockwork plotting, agonizing suspense, and, finally, an ending that manages to be just right. L.A. Outlaws is popular entertainment at its most delicious.”
—The Washington Post
“May be my favorite of T. Jefferson Parker’s thrillers, and that’s saying something about this gifted writer. With its propulsive prose, tightly wound plot, and vivid leading players, it’s a keeper. Think of Elmore Leonard’s Out of Sight with a gender twist…totally compulsive reading.”
—The Seattle Times
“L.A. Outlaws is hard, fast, and etched with characters so sharp they’ll leave you bleeding. This is the best T. Jefferson Parker novel yet.”
—Robert Crais
“Out of Sight meets Gone in 60 Seconds. Bottom Line: Parker can write a tense action sequence—and there’s a peach of a showdown.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Terrific…. Parker continues to lay claim to literary ownership of all things Southern California. But [his] story and themes…stretch way beyond that. L.A. Outlaws is the best book of its kind since No Country for Old Men, and Lupercio rivals Anton Chigurh as psychopath of the century. Simply stated, once again Parker has penned the best mystery of the year.”
—The Providence Journal-Bulletin
“At once a noir thriller and a Western ballad of desperadoes and doomed lovers. The book is both hard-boiled and heartbreaking, Ross Macdonald as sung by Marty Robbins. His concise prose, at once low-key and lyrical, plays almost like cowboy poetry…. Casting Parker as a mere mystery writer is a little like writing off Graham Greene’s work as espionage fiction.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Allison Murrieta [is] a combination of Robin Hood, Zorro, Catherine Zeta Jones, and Gloria Steinem. An amazing read.”
—*Elizabeth George
“[A] marvelous love story wrapped around a rip-roaring plot. The characters make this novel even more exciting than the chase, and Allison Murrieta is poised to become a pop hero. In L.A. Outlaws, Parker’s best work to date, you’ll enjoy mulling which actress to cast as Allison in the movie.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“T. Jefferson Parker evokes the spirit of outlaw heroes like Jesse James with his latest thriller, L.A. Outlaws. Parker’s protagonist this time is something different: a self-styled Robin Hood for the twenty-first century…a bandit for the media age, performing for the cell phone cameras of her victims. A suspenseful and original story, L.A. Outlaws…is a fun one to read.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Two-time Edgar winner Parker may find himself picking up more awards with L.A. Outlaws, a tightly plotted tale that surprises at each turn and excels with strong characters. [He] continues to be one of the genre’s most original authors, proven by his fresh approach with L.A. Outlaws.”
—The South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“Two-time Edgar winner Parker…once again displays his knack for creating captivating characters and his unabashed passion for California lore. Only two other authors—Dick Francis and James Lee Burke—have won the Edgar for best novel twice. Don’t be surprised if Parker is on his way to a third.”
—Booklist
“[A] brilliant new thriller…. In a city full of gritty Los Angeles literati, Parker takes a seat at the head of the class next to Michael Connelly with L.A. Outlaws, a novel that just might garner him his third Edgar, which is street cred even Connelly can’t claim.”
—The Sunday Oregonian
“Compulsively readable. Parker operates at a high level of audacity…. He takes huge chances in characterization and plotting. He handles potential prose land mines with such assurance that he seems barely to acknowledge the presence of risk. In L.A. Outlaws, he sets up three principal characters—good guy, very bad guy, and…a woman who is somewhere in between—and turns them loose.”
—The Toronto Star
“[An] irresistible antihero…[an] outstanding thriller. This
tour de force of plotting and characterization may well be Parker’s best book.”
—Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY T. JEFFERSON PARKER
Laguna Heat
Little Saigon
Pacific Beat
Summer of Fear
The Triggerman’s Dance
Where Serpents Lie
The Blue Hour
Red Light
Silent Joe
Black Water
Cold Pursuit
California Girl
The Fallen
Storm Runners
L.A. Outlaws
T. JEFFERSON PARKER
THE RENEGADES
A CHARLIE HOOD NOVEL
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.
Copyright © T. Jefferson Parker, 2009
Excerpt from Iron River copyright © T. Jefferson Parker, 2010 All rights reserved
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-101-50269-3
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my father and mother, Robert and Caroline, who put bread on our table and stories in our heads.
Thank you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgement
1
Hood got partnered up with Terry Laws that night, another swing shift in the desert, another hundred and fifty miles of motion on asphalt, another Crown Victoria Law Enforcement Interceptor that would feel like home.
They walked to the motor yard without talking. Hood was tall and lanky and Laws had a weight lifter’s body that made his jacket tight across his shoulders. Various sections of the lot were marked by signs bearing the names of fallen deputies, and there were other sections awaiting names.
Hood logged the mileage and checked the tires for pressure and wear while Terry checked the fluid levels. The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department patrol fleet was old and worn, so they had to check even the obvious. Two days ago the LASD Lancaster station had lost another prowl car engine, more than 260K miles on it, finally succumbing just half a mile short of the yard with a clanging metallic death rattle. The deputy had pushed it to the curb and called a tow.
Hood drove. He bounced the car from the yard onto the boulevard and felt the comforting sense of motion that connected him with last night’s motion, which connected him with the motion of the night before, and of the week and the months before that. Motion ruled. He believed that it might lead him to what he was looking for. It had to do with a woman who had died, and a piece of something in him, perhaps soul, that had gone missing.
It was windy and getting dark, and the desert cold was sharp and weightless as a razor blade. A tumbleweed skipped across Avenue J. The overhead traffic light at Division Street shivered on its cables. Snow was coming and Hood had not yet seen snow in this desert.
He drove and watched and listened as Terry talked about his young daughters—basketball players, good students. Terry’s friends called him Mr. Wonderful because he was a two-time L.A. Sheriff’s Department bodybuilding champion, a devoted father, and a Toys for Tots warrior each Christmas season. He had a heroic chin and an open face and a quick smile. He’d made a high-profile arrest on a double homicide almost two years back, which gave him good mojo in the department. He was thirty-nine, ten years older than Hood. Hood had patrolled with Laws before and had thought that something was eating the big man, but Hood believed there was something eating most of us.
They drove north on Division, east on Avenue I past the fairgrounds. Tuesday nights in winter were slow.
Hood’s world was the Antelope Valley, north of L.A. The valley is the new frontier, the final part of the county to be heavily developed. It is high desert, ferociously hot and cold, and dry. The cities are booming but not quite prosperous. Thousands of the homes are new. They’re affordable. The cities have nice names, like Palmdale and Rosamond and Pearblossom and Quartz Hill. There were no antelope in the Antelope Valley until the twentieth century, when some were released so the valley could live up to its name, a California thing, to dream big and fill in the details later. Beyond the Antelope Valley is the vast Mojave Desert.
“What do you make of AV after six months?” asked Laws.
“I like that you can see so far.”
“Yeah, you get the wide open spaces. It’s not for everybody. You’ll like the snow.”
Antelope Valley was in fact the Siberia of the Sheriff’s Department, but Hood had asked to be transferred here after some trouble in L.A. He wanted to forget and not be seen. He had been a Bulldog-in-training—LASD homicide—for about fou
r weeks but it didn’t work out. Then he had talked to Internal Affairs about a superior he mistook for an honest man, and who was soon to stand trial for eight felonies. Hood would be called as a witness by the prosecution, which he dreaded.
They got coffee and continued out Avenue I, made the loop around Eastside Park. On the western horizon the last yellow strip of day flattened under the black weight of night. Hood looked out at the new walled neighborhoods stretching for miles, tract upon tract, houses huddled roof-to-roof like they were trying to beat the cold. Hood had thought that he would like Siberia and he did. He was a Bakersfield boy, used to open land, heat and wind, fast cars and good music.
“I hate these Housing Authority raids,” said Terry. “They make me feel like a hired thug.”
“Me, too,” said Hood. At roll call they’d been told to expect an early shift assignment to assist L.A. County Housing Authority at the Legacy in east Lancaster. The Legacy was Section 8, federally subsidized housing. When the owners had a problem with tenants they went to the Housing Authority, but HA officials had no real authority at all—they were not armed, could not make arrests or serve warrants. Tenants were not even required to allow them into their homes. But HA could request assistance from LASD deputies, and fear opens doors. Hood resented these assignments, which played out by class and race: the owners and renters, the landed and the poor, white and black.
Dispatch called a drunk and disorderly out at the Orbit Lounge and a west side cruiser rolled on it. Hood had quickly learned that the AV is flight country—from Edwards Air Force Base and Yeager and the Right Stuff to the Stealth Skunkworks to the huge commercial aircraft plants that once flourished here. He knew that most of that work was done elsewhere now, but the bars still had names like the Orbit or the Firing Range or the Barrier.
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