Full Measure: A Novel

by T. Jefferson Parker

  When Ted was climbing into his truck in the Pride Auto Repair lot he saw a tall khaki-suited man standing across the street, seemingly intrigued by the front window display of the photography studio. Ted had sometimes stopped to admire the happy wedding pictures and wholesome family portraits and the flattering graduation pictures of high school students. The man certainly looked like the one in Open Sights and the one who was walking behind him after the Magnus rally the other day. Same big head. Ted wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Again.

  * * *

  He drove around the Carmella Street barrio looking for Edgar. He had the windows down and it was the first time since the fire that the air of Fallbrook smelled alive: trumpet vine and hillside sage, late-season roses. Young people cruised the fragrant evening, rolling along slowly in their cars, music throbbing. The youngsters walked or rode scooters or bikes. There was a big wheeled barbecue set up in a front yard, with a sign, and a husky man and a stout woman cooking and others waiting in line. Some of the girls and young women had Chihuahuas in their arms or on leashes and the dogs on leashes zigzagged the sidewalks, straining for freedom. Ted looked out at the small groups of people on the corners—all of them wanting to see and be seen. Cortez Market was bustling and the music blared from a small discoteca with posters of musicians in the windows.

  Ted put on a Cruzela Storm CD and turned the volume so Cruzela’s voice would be part of the world but not dominate it. Her voice was low and smooth, but it could climb high and not lose its honey quality. Ted found it almost unbelievable that someone as talented as Cruzela Storm would perform at Fallbrook High School. And just to build lighted crosswalks that the city didn’t need. He’d still pay to see her. Although if arrogant Mayor Evelyn got up on her soapbox she’d probably ruin the whole show for him, and for everybody else.

  Then there he was—Edgar—standing at the corner of Old Stage and Via Entrada, not two hundred feet from where he had robbed Ted. A streetlamp held him in a cone of light: shorts past his knees and a singlet and the killah shades even after dark. Ted felt his heart speed up and his hearing crank into overdrive. He turned off Cruzela and let the truck move at idle. Edgar’s girlfriend was there, tight jeans and black boots, and they were arguing. Ted saw Edgar register his truck, then who was driving it. He braked and stopped at the corner where they stood. Before even thinking Ted raised his left hand, which was dangling out the window, and made a gun of it and pointed it at the big high school boy. Edgar tracked the motion from behind the dark lenses like a creature with compound eyes. “What do you want, man?”

  Ted went brittle with anger. Or was it fear? Edgar’s voice was loud and clear, and Ted was aware of the distant throb of the music and the sound of the truck engine and the sudden silence of the pedestrians at the intersection. When he finally heard it, his voice was high-pitched and wavering. “You owe me twenty-two dollars.”

  “I’ve never seen you. How can I owe you? Come on, Jessie, let’s go.”

  “I want my money back,” Ted said

  “Then get outta that truck and try to take it.”

  “Oh, no. You might pull your gun again.”

  “I don’t have a gun. He’s trash-talking, Jessie. Let’s go.”

  Edgar took her hand and turned away but she wrenched loose and stepped into the street and up to Ted’s open window. “Get fucked, you fat shit.” Edgar grabbed her wrist again and pulled her to the curb and up Via Entrada. Ted heard her laughter and her boot heels as they disappeared gradually into the darkness. Get with the program. Get even. Get fucked. He drove away with his heart beating hard and his ears ringing with defeat and rage. He would love to get even. Love to. And then some.

  With everybody.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Evelyn Anders stood under a shade canopy at the Emergency Resource Center, waiting to tell her fellow citizens what the city could do for victims of the fire. It was a warm Saturday morning, eleven days since the blaze had been extinguished. The tables in front of her had stacks of informational pamphlets, anchored by rocks against the breeze. The Emergency Resource Center was set up in a church parking lot in the hills east of downtown. The centerpiece was a large gleaming trailer with the words CERTIFIED EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM—C.E.R.T. emblazoned across its flanks.

  The mayor looked around at the olive drab National Guard trucks and uniformed guardsmen, the trailers and booths staffed by FEMA and various state and county agencies. There were sheriff’s patrol cars, vans, and SUVs, California Highway Patrol, police cars from outlying cities, and newspaper, TV, and radio vehicles everywhere she looked. Iris Cash from the Village View waved at her then turned back to a fireman wearing a yellow helmet and a bulky fire-fighting suit. The cannons of Pendleton began booming in the west, a sound that made Evelyn cringe. They could go on for hours.

  “Does anybody know who started the fire?” asked a tall boy whom Evelyn recognized as a classmate of her son.

  “There has not been an arrest,” said Evelyn.

  “I don’t understand why someone would do that.”

  “Here, watch this.” She touched Play on her laptop and turned it to face the boy. She had made this video segment, “Arson,” with the help of her son and daughter. They’d enlarged some of the photographs she’d taken out in Rice Canyon where the fire had been started, then used a Flip to shoot them. Also on the video were sketches she’d drawn of the weirdly fused triggering device and container for accelerant that she had found. The DA wouldn’t release forensic photos to the public before trial, so Evelyn had drawn her own. Then they had recorded Iris Cash interviewing Fire Chief Bruck and two sheriff’s detectives familiar with arsonist behavior. “Arsonists are often secretive, introverted individuals,” one of the detectives explained. “They often derive feelings of power and superiority from the fire itself, as well as the human efforts to control the fire. Some arsonists join in to fight the fire as a way of enjoying their control. Some arsonists experience a sexual component when observing the fire.”

  “That’s totally gross,” said the boy. “It’s murder if someone dies, right?”

  “Some arsonists have been charged with homicide,” said Evelyn. “And have done years in prison or in mental hospitals.”

  “Mental hospitals creep me out,” said the boy, staring down at the monitor. Another boy, apparently a friend, came over and stood beside him. Evelyn watched the emotions play across their faces as they tried to understand the psychopathy of fire-setting. The first boy looked offended, the second amused. On-screen the detective explained in a deadpan cop voice that mental illness and antisocial tendencies sometimes found expression in arson. “It’s a crime of control and power,” he said. “Most arsonists are repeat offenders. They begin with small fires and escalate. This Fallbrook fire is one of the largest arson fires in the history of California. It is likely that whoever set this fire has set others. The damage is in the billions of dollars and three lives were lost. It is one of the most heinous crimes I’ve ever investigated. So please, if any of you saw anything suspicious at or around the time of the fire, please contact the San Diego Sheriff’s Department.”

  “How much is the reward up to?” asked the second boy.

  “Ninety-eight thousand dollars,” said Evelyn. “That jar there is for reward donations.” She had spiked it with three fives earlier, and since then had collected a handful of change and two wadded-up dollar bills.

  “I wish I had seen something,” said the first. “That would have been cool. All I saw was smoke and Mom trying to catch the cat.”

  By noon there had been far fewer attendees than Evelyn had expected. She knew why, too—because the routed, exhausted, burned-out, and grieving people of her city understood that, in practical terms, their government could do very little for anybody. The city could offer bottled water donated by Major Market. There were pallets of it stacked up beside her table, heavy twenty-four-packs, all free. And the Red Cross had come through with bags of rice and beans, boxes of hot cocoa
mix and marshmallows, though most if it was quickly claimed by people Evelyn knew to be the local poor, most of whom lived downtown, which was untouched by the fire. And that was about all the help the City of Fallbrook could give.

  Evelyn left her table to check out the FEMA trailers, which were set up directly across from her position. She saw battle-ready ICE and DHS and Border Patrol agents and wondered how they fit into disaster relief. She approached and found the FEMA tables sagging under a bounty of puzzling donations: box after box of ocean-scent deodorant bar soap, large bottles of cider vinegar, cheap socket-wrench sets, cotton balls, bagged garlic cloves, two-packs of aerosol air freshener, bundles of week-old magazines, cartons of single-serve crouton pouches, and pile upon pile of new jeans all in one size—thirty-six-inch waists, thirty-inch inseams. Pawing through the jeans, looking for just one pair in a varying size, was like seeing into the mad mind of government itself, thought Evelyn. So much waste. So many good intentions. Who’s governing it?

  She went back to her table and straightened the stacks of pamphlets and sat. Her video detective droned on about arson. From this elevation she could see the blackened hills to the east and south, and the San Luis Rey River Valley still mostly green and spared the burn, and a small housing tract, Meadows, to the north. Meadows was newer and hard-hit by the mortgage meltdown and real estate crash, and Evelyn knew two families who had lived in that tract and just recently sold short and left Fallbrook. The parents of one family were both in the mortgage business itself—loan originators. The other family’s breadwinner was a project manager for a commercial builder, and was laid off with little chance of finding work in that moribund industry. Adios. Now the fire had raged through it and Meadows looked as if it had hosted a neighborhood war, some homes burned flat, some scorched but standing, maybe half of them left untouched. Even at this distance Evelyn could see a family picking through the rubble of one house, while across the street an older man stood and watched the sprinklers water his lawn.

  “We’re staying over at the Baptist church for a few days,” a bedraggled woman told her. She had two small children with her. She lifted a pamphlet, scanned it, and set it back under the rock. “They’ve been good to us there. Hot meals and cots. It’s chilly at night. We’re not even Baptist but maybe we’ll consider joining up.”

  “You’re free to take all the water you can carry.”

  “We’ve got plenty of water, thank you. Did you see this?”

  The woman handed her a flyer entitled “Take Back Main Street!”

  “Cade Magnus,” said Evelyn.

  “I had no idea he was back.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “There was a stack of them at the Donut Bin this morning. And they’re all over the telephone poles and bulletin boards in town.”

  Evelyn wondered why Cade Magnus would even want to come back to a town that disliked him. “It’s like having a relapse of cancer. It was so nice just to be rid of his father and him.”

  “My husband has never met those people,” said the woman. “But he wants to join the protest. He said Main Street needs taking back. Plus he has guns, so he’d fit in. He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong.”

  “The less he has to do with Cade Magnus the better. Oh, wait a minute—I’m the mayor and I can’t oppose lawful assembly. I will not oppose lawful assembly, because that would mean Cade Magnus wins? Right? Just tell your husband to exercise caution. We don’t need people carrying guns around Fallbrook.”

  “I agree.”

  “Thanks for coming by. I’m sorry there isn’t more the city can do for you.”

  “Our house burnt to the ground and we’re underinsured.”

  “Talk to FEMA. They’re good at plugging those kind of financial holes.”

  “Already did. We’re still a hundred grand short of a rebuild. Credit’s completely shot. So, we can sell the lot or build something smaller. Real small, like a dog house. You should have seen what a nice home we had. Not big, just … home. An actual white picket fence, roses, everything. I always loved that sentimental stuff. It stood for something.”

  “Good luck. I mean that.”

  “Too late, but thanks anyway.”

  Evelyn talked to several more people who were being sheltered in various churches and in the synagogue. She asked lots of questions and concluded the worship centers were outperforming government relief agencies about ten to one. She decided to stop by the Presbyterian church after this, the one that she attended on major Christian holidays, just to see if they needed her help. She vowed to go there more regularly, though she dearly loved sleeping in on Sunday mornings.

  Special Agent Knechtl, pale-faced and wearing a gray suit, appeared at Evelyn’s table. He was slender and tall, with a domelike forehead, brief mustache, and soulful, almost pitying eyes. He looked behind him then turned his attention back to her. “Mayor.”

  “So we meet again, Agent Knechtl.”

  “It’s special agent, but you can call me Max.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me what you know about Theodore Norris.”

  “Almost nothing. I’ve known him since he was born but never well.” Special Agent Max Knechtl inspired noncompliance in her. He looked embalmed, but should she judge by looks? Maybe he had cancer. Maybe he was a great guy. She looked up at him, unable to fake a smile, and said nothing.

  “Mayor, if you’ve known Theodore for twenty-six years you must have noticed more than that.”

  “More than what?”

  “Than almost nothing.” He waited, looking down on her with brooding concern. “I saw his cartoon online. It didn’t amuse me. Has he ever threatened you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Has he ever contacted you in any way?”

  “I babysat him once and he sent me a thank-you card that he’d made.”

  “When was this?”

  “Seventeen, eighteen years ago? I no longer have the card.”

  “He made it? What theme or motif did he use?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Three innocent lives are serious to me.”

  “Exactly what department, or bureau or agency, are you with again?”

  “I’m a special agent of the Homeland Security Department, Homeland Security Investigations—formerly Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE—which is part of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, or JTTF, Western Division, South Sector.”

  She was momentarily speechless, but slowly gathered her senses by an act of will. “Well … the card made for me by Ted Norris was a piece of red construction paper with a picture of a frog on it. I think it was a frog. He was nine years old or something.”

  “Why did you only babysit him once?”

  “I misspoke. I meant to say, one time I babysat him and he sent me a thank-you card. Not that I babysat him only one time.”

  He nodded and turned around again to see if they were still alone. “Has he contacted you since the cartoon posting?”

  “He apologized by e-mail but I chose not to respond.”

  “Did you know that Cade Magnus has moved back to town?”

  “Of course. I’m the mayor.”

  “And you’ve known him for a long time also?”

  “Yes. Maybe his whole life, too. We were in fourth and sixth grades together, right here in Fallbrook. It’s a small town.”

  “Does Ted Norris seem like the kind of man who might enjoy the racist opinions of Cade Magnus and the Rogue Wolves?”

  “I have no idea what Ted enjoys, except complaining that the city spends too much public money on things he doesn’t need. First it was the library. Now I’m sure it’s the lighted crosswalks, or water and blankets for fire victims.”

  “Ted Norris spent some time at Pride Auto Repair two days ago.”

  “I think that’s still legal.”

  Knechtl glanced behind him again. “Do you think it’s interesting that in the last month, Ted Norris has publicly ridiculed you as mayor, Ca
de Magnus has moved back to Fallbrook, the worst arson fire in the history of North County has killed three, and these two fellows are assembling?”

  “I doubt that either of them set the fire.”

  “Why? Someone did.”

  Evelyn felt affronted that this federal superman would accuse her citizens—though admittedly not her favorite citizens—of such a crime. But she also had the small wriggling thought that one of them could easily have done exactly that. “They just … didn’t.”

  “Oh. Do you recognize these people? Press the arrow on the right.”

  He handed her a phone and Evelyn took off her sunglasses and looked at the screen. The first was a police mug shot of a thick-necked young man, freckle-faced and handsome in his own way. Next a mug of a slender dark-haired woman, kind of hard-looking. Then a candid shot of another female, which, judging by the faint background, looked taken from far away.

  “No. I don’t know them. I’ve never seen them.” She handed him the phone and put her sunglasses back on.

  “Are you acquainted with Firooz and Simone Roshdieh?”

  “They run the Domino’s Pizza downtown.”

  “What about Ibrahim Sadal?”

  “He manages the GasPro station. They’re all legal Middle Eastern immigrants, living here peacefully.”

  “Are you sure they’re legal?”

  “Well, no. I’ll leave it to you to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Thank you.” He held out a card.

  “You gave me one of those days ago, at City Hall.”

  He slipped the card between one of the rocks and a stack of flyers. “Call me if I can help.”

  “Help what?”

  “Put this nice little town back together.”