He checked his watch: eleven minutes left.
Next from the orange crate at Hood’s feet came photographs of Erin, mostly on stage and printed on photographic paper, some amateur candids of her backstage with the Inmates. There was a high school annual from an Austin, Texas, high school that had a small picture of her as a junior, and another of her playing a guitar at a gig of some kind. Hood leafed through newspaper and magazine clips and printed Internet blogs taped to the notebook pages-reviews of her CDs and performances, features, interviews. She had been featured just this year in Guitar Player and the whole magazine had been slipped into a plastic sheath and sealed neatly with clear tape. Hood read her name on the cover, then set it back in the crate along with the rest.
He pushed the box back under the table with his foot and stood. He felt dizzy in the heat. Nine minutes. His flanks were slick with sweat and the holster dug smartly into the flesh of his back.
He pushed the chair back to where it had been, then turned off the banker’s lamps. At the window he let the sweet gulf air waft over him. The hopeful pigeon, a big white and caramel colored bird, eyed him with his head held high. Hood walked over and offered his hand and the bird jumped on. He stroked it and felt its warmth and nervous strength, then he unfastened the small message container from its leg and set the bird back atop the coop. Hood turned and looked down at the alley, then opened the canister and worked out the small, tightly wadded piece of silk. He held it open and to the window where he read the words in the closing light of evening.
Hey Red,
I got six ready and you won’t find any stronger fliers on planet Earth. Five hundred each, firm. Let me know soon as I got plenty of other buyers in a hurry.
Jason
Hood read it twice, then put it back in the canister and twisted it shut. The pigeon climbed onto his hand again and Hood pressed the little keg back onto its leg. The other birds scattered histrionically as Hood set the free pigeon back on top of the coop.
Outside the tires must have been screeching before Hood registered the sound of them. Suddenly they were close and when he looked down he saw a loud black SUV skidding into the alley from M. Doblado. Its headlights were on but Hood could see that the driver was a young Mexican man and the passenger was Mike Finnegan. The vehicle screeched to a stop below and Mike bailed out and ran toward his apartment, the tail of his pale suit coat flapping. The SUV tore off.
Hood ran down the steps to the hallway, then past the bedrooms and the kitchen and into the main room. He pulled open the louvered doors to the balcony, but saw that it was ensconced in the decorative wrought iron, at an ankle-snapping height from the alley. He shut the doors and ran to the far and darkest corner of the room and worked himself back into the folds of the heavy drapes. He bowed his head and watched the foyer. Outside another vehicle roared down the alley, then another. The foyer was lit by its single light but the rest of the apartment was nearly dark and he could see the shapes of things but no detail.
A long moment later the foyer light went out and Mike stepped into the main room and stopped. He stood in the gloom, holding what looked like Hood’s white Panama hat. “Yoo-hoo. Charlie? This must belong to you.”
37
Hood stepped out from the drapes. “Hello, Mike.”
Finnegan smiled. “A gun?”
“If you run I’ll shoot you with it. That’s a promise.”
“Run where? This is my home. May I offer you a beverage?”
“No, thanks.”
“May I get one for myself? I’ve just been through a rather harrowing few minutes.”
“I’ll follow you into the kitchen. If you make a move I’ll use this thing.”
“Kill an unarmed man in his own home? An LASD deputy and ATF-sanctioned U.S. Marshall? Charlie, don’t be bumbling and ridiculous. I am a citizen of Mexico, you know. As well as the United States of America.”
Hood stood with the gun at rest in both hands and followed him through the darkened room into the kitchen. Finnegan set the hat on the counter, then retrieved a bottle of an orange-yellow juice from the refrigerator. In the pale light from the appliance Hood found a switch and threw it. The incandescent ceiling fixture offered a thin light. Mike got a plastic tumbler from the cabinet and poured the glass half full then turned to Hood and held it out.
“Mango-tangerine, bit of lemon? Blended just for me.”
“No, thank you.”
Mike leaned back against the counter and drank. “You look good, Charlie. Healthy and eager.”
“What happened out there in the alley?” Hood asked.
“How is the lovely Dr. Petty?”
“What happened just now?”
“Is she tiring of your passion for law enforcement? Then how is dusty, quaint, violent little Buenavista? And your ailing father and long-suffering mother? Converse with me, Charlie. We are acquaintances in a room together.”
Hood watched him sip the drink but said nothing. Finnegan had a familiar twinkle in his eye, the look of mischief enjoyed. He drank again and looked at Hood’s gun and waited awhile. Finally, he sighed quietly.
“In the alley just now? More narco violence, I would guess. We were likely mistaken for cartel gunmen.”
“A priest, two novitiates and a short gringo?”
Finnegan shrugged and nodded. “Correct. But the SUV windows are dark. And the level of stupid violence in Mexico has become intolerable. Even in peaceful, merry cities like Veracruz. Or perhaps our driver tipped some bad guys to four easy snatch-and-ransom marks. And the surprise attack was not a surprise to him at all. He did seem rather calm about the whole thing.”
“You’re going to walk into that room now and sit in the first chair and tell me why you destroyed Sean Ozburn and his wife. And why you orchestrated Erin’s kidnapping and Bradley’s rescue. Everything. It’s full accounting time, Mike.”
Mike looked at Hood steadily and not unkindly. “I do love talking about myself. But I’m asking you to leave my home, Charlie. Now. You have not been invited. The maid hasn’t been here in days. I can call my contacts here in the Mexican Navy Special Enforcement Unit. They’re elite, trained to destroy narcotrafficantes, but I can tell you they are intolerant of any lawbreaking. Such as trespassing. Did you hire a locksmith? Oh, yes-Roberto Acuna. I’ve heard of him. And yes, Josie at El Canario is lovely. Perhaps she recommended Roberto? And her horchata is so very sweet. You sat there like a spy in a movie. Do you see what you’re up against in me? Holster your firearm and leave my home, Charlie Hood. You are neither welcome nor adequate here.”
Hood remembered what Mike had told him three years ago, as he lay in a full body-and-skull cast in Buenavista’s Imperial Mercy Hospital, drinking organic Zinfandel through a straw: For example, if I am within eight feet of someone, I can hear what they think and see what they see. Sometimes very clearly. It’s like hearing a radio or looking at a video. Later, Mike had denied such a skill, saying he was only joking, chalking it up to the wine.