Iron River

25

That night Hood walked up the Imperial Mercy driveway with a bottle of the peppery organic zinfandel that Mike Finnegan had requested, and a straw. The broad semicircular drive was now a parking lot of media uplink vans and portable lights and camera crews and generators and miles of cable. He saw vehicles from all the big news networks and from stations he’d never heard of and affiliates from all over the American Southwest. Network helicopters crisscrossed the sky above. Reporters and videographers roamed and gave Hood the curious eye. He recognized two New York network anchors he’d been watching for years and several reporters, amazed that tiny Buenavista had spawned a tragedy of such interest.

He dodged the reporters and showed his badge to a deputy at the lobby entrance, then showed it again to another deputy when he got off the elevator on the ninth floor.

He walked toward Finnegan’s room, stunned by the day. Hood had seen the TV evening news, already bristling with angry citizens wanting to go get Jimmy back from people who were supposedly our friends. The American president had just finished a televised news conference reassuring the American people that they were safe from criminals from all nations, urging patience, and pledging to secure the border “decisively and by any means necessary.” The Mexican president had warned the United States that any form of “retaliation” across the border would, under international law, constitute the invasion of a sovereign state.

Finnegan held the lidded blue plastic hospital cup with his good left hand and raised the straw to his mouth to drink.

“Oh, that is good,” he said. “I haven’t had a glass of wine in months. What did you think of the president’s words?”

“How do you know so much about Jimmy?”

“Oh, straight to the point tonight. You’ve had a dismal day, I know. Web searches mostly. I once purchased access to law-enforcement-only sites but realized I didn’t need to. I’m pretty handy with a computer, Charlie.”

“So you hack in?”

“It’s easier than that. Passwords and protocols are not created by geniuses. They’re just people. I’ve never used my information for anything but good. I really have no one to discuss my findings with. I’ve never compromised an operation or an investigation or an undercover agent. Nor will I. Ever.”

“You haven’t been around a computer since you came here. But you’ve discovered things about Jimmy that have occurred lately.”

“Discovered or imagined?”

“True things, Mike.”

“Imagination is often truthful. Truth can even come from those who were not there-Homer and Matthew and Hawkings.”

“How did you know the Zetas would come for him again?”

“How could you not know it?”

“What will they do with him?”

“Bring him great pain.”

Hood studied the little man’s face. He had round cheeks and a pink tone of skin and his whiskers were red and getting longer, and with his cheerful blue eyes, he looked like an aging cherub.

Finnegan raised the blue cup, and the straw found his mouth. He sipped and swallowed. “I know who you are, Charlie. I closely followed the exploits of Allison Murrieta as did so many Angelenos. Video of the funeral was all over the Web, of course, so imagine my surprise when her arresting officer-shown so very briefly on a late news clip-turned up as a mourner, too. Turned out to be you. Certain law enforcement and courthouse blogs were revealing. You were much talked about. How is Bradley, her son?”

“Fine.”

“Getting married, I hear.”

“This is what I mean, Finnegan-just exactly how did you hear it?”

“You’re getting exasperated. The same as Reyes.”

“How did you hear it?”

“He told me weeks ago, Charlie!”

“Where? Why?”

“I was right there in the Viper Room. Owens was with me. It was the night the band changed its name to Erin and the Inmates. I was very much minding my own business. But Bradley Jones is immensely vain and immensely proud of Erin McKenna. He told me everything-the date, the location, the early Californio fiesta theme. I couldn’t shut the boy up.”

Hood drank some of the wine.

“Charlie, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I can’t hold my liquor. Nor can I resist it. May I?”

Mike slowly extended the cup, and Hood refilled it and handed it back. Finnegan took a long sip, then let go of the straw and sighed. “In Napa we grew a grape called carignane. It was a filler grape, like merlot, and we mixed it with the big cabs and petite syrah and some zinfandels. A very strong, very opinionated varietal. Personally I loved it better than all of them. I wanted to bottle and sell it. But commercial wine making is driven by marketing, and the marketers could never even pronounce carignane, let alone sell a bottle of it to a blockhead in a supermarket. So merlot won out. Merlot got to be the new star. Largely because the name is easy to pronounce and fun to say. It’s got that subversive little t at the end, silent and suggestive and a little French. But as a grape, it’s gutless next to my beloved carignane.”

“You never lived on a vineyard in Napa, Mike. You made it all up. Even Owens stopped believing that story years ago.”

Mike stared at Hood for a long beat. In his eyes Hood saw broad contemplation but of past or future or of this moment he couldn’t guess.

“True, to a point,” said Mike. “But it’s a good memory, made up or not. I need all of those I can get. Don’t you?”

Mike sipped again. Hood saw a sparkle in his eyes now, the joy of getting caught in a lie and truly not caring.

“Tell me another story,” said Hood.

“Once there were two powerful brothers who lived hidden in a forest. From there, they and their loyal helpers watched over a village. No one in the village ever saw them, but the brothers and their helpers made the sun rise each day and the rain fall and they caused every seed to grow or not grow. The brothers loved the village and every person and animal and plant and every living thing in it.

“These brothers were not equal in their powers. The stronger was not the smarter, and the smarter was not the stronger. The stronger called himself the King, and the smarter called himself the Prince. They argued constantly about the best way to guide and watch over the village. The King believed that his rules should be revealed and followed, while the Prince believed that the villagers should be free to discover and be true to their own nature. One day they fought, and the King drove the Prince and all of his followers out of the forest and into the desert beyond.

“Now the strong King from the forest revealed his rules to the village, and many believed and followed. Unbelievers were tortured and slain though the King did not approve this. So the smart Prince from the desert sent his followers into the village, disguised as citizens. These helpers tried to sway the villagers away from the King, using words and song and dance and art of every kind. Many men and women came to believe what the Prince’s helpers said-that the King was nothing but a cruel old fool and that men were noble enough to make their own good rules. And the King, seeing that his might alone was not enough to rule the village, likewise sent his helpers disguised as citizens to persuade with words and song and dance and art of every kind.

“And the village became a city, and the city became a state, and the state covered the earth.

“So life on this earth became a contest between the King and the Prince, each unseen but each represented by his helpers. They compete for the hearts and minds of humankind. They are envious of humankind. Neither King nor Prince is powerful enough to defeat the other absolutely. This, Deputy Hood, is a way to understand what you see around you and what you do not see.”

Hood sipped his wine. “Stories are lies.”

“Through which we see the truth.”

“It’s a Christian parable.”

“Christ is neither mentioned nor implied.”

“It reminds me of some Native American myths.”

“A very insightful people. Doomed by trust, disease, and alcohol.”

“I suppose there’s more you want to tell me.”

“Surely you’re curious, Charlie.”

Hood had the thought that he could indulge Mike Finnegan’s fantasies in exchange for whatever truth Mike might offer about himself, and about Jimmy Holdstock. “Which are you, Mike, the King’s helper or the Prince’s?”

Finnegan chuckled, raised the cup again, drank, and lowered it to his belly. “Why not a simple villager?”

“I’m appealing to your arrogance so you’ll tell me who you are and what you know about Jimmy.”

“Charlie, I can’t tell you who I am. Nondisclosure agreements, you know. Most organizations have them. But I can tell you what I do.”

Hood waited, sipped the wine. “What do you do?”

“First you have to understand that I’m part of a huge bureaucracy. There are high levels and middle levels and then just basic workers. I’m a journeyman, a midlevel pro. Mainly we influence. Mostly we just talk. We certainly listen, very closely, I might add. We encourage. We dissuade. We cajole. We will at times frighten. We arrange meetings between key villagers without their knowing it. But we have no huge powers. We can do dream placements, which I told you about earlier, which are risky because they are unpredictable. We can cause or cure minor illnesses-colds and headaches and some allergies. Our senses are keener than those of most villagers, so it appears that we are prescient but we are not. We can read a villager’s thoughts so long as those thoughts are clear and strong and we are physically close to the person. 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. There is much clutter to sort through, I will tell you; on a crowded street, for instance, one thought intrudes upon others just like conversations going on at once. That’s why we live and work only in our assigned geographical divisions-because often we need physical proximity with our contacts. We develop relationships with some villagers, though far fewer than you might think. We can’t waste our time with the petty, the small-minded, the insane. We can easily use them when we need them, but they have no lasting value. We seek relationships with those of ambition and force and monstrous desire. We like to begin with children. Our relationships can become what we call partnerships. These partners come to accept who we are and what we stand for. My division, of course, is California. I got lucky, because I really love California -its geography and history and its various peoples. I inherited Holly-wood and all its glorious powers of persuasion and suggestion. See, our only real power is our influence over the villagers. Villagers run the village. Their will is free. Nothing is fated nor preordained. No one is possessed. Men and women are in most ways much stronger than we will ever be, much more capable of tremendous good and tremendous evil. You are our work.”

Hood felt the same odd and indescribable sensation that he had felt when he saw the escaped tiger walking the street in Bakersfield. It was the feeling of being unprepared for this experience, ignorant and surprised and awed.

“We’re six feet apart, Mike. I’ll think a clear thought and you can tell me what it is.”

“I don’t do parlor tricks. More wine?”

“It’s gone.”

“For the best. I’ve already talked too much.”

Hood took Finnegan’s empty cup and poured some wine into it from his own. “Do you go to hell when you die?”

“We don’t die. We heal. It’s the one small advantage we have over humankind. There is no hell.”

“So you saw Tiburcio hang. Personally. You were there.”

“Oh, yes. Half a century before that, I was helping Father Serra teach agriculture to the Cahuillas. Trying to teach them, I should say. The missions were important to both the King and the Prince because faith is amplified by numbers, but it is also very easy to manipulate and to corrupt. But you know this. I took part in Fremont ’s Bear Flag Rebellion, though, to be honest, I was little more than a spectator. Two years later Mexico gave up Alta California and the fun really started. I was at Sutter’s Mill a week after gold was discovered. I rode with Harry Love and the California Rangers and was there at the shoot-out at Cantua Creek. Love never killed or beheaded Murrieta. The severed head that Bradley now possesses belonged to a bandit named Chappo. I knew Bradley’s mother, Allison Murrieta, fairly well. What a woman. She had courage and beauty and such… appetites. In fact, I introduced her to the man who first seduced her, Bradley’s father. Nature took its course from there, as it usually does. She shot him in a bit of a rage, though not fatally. I can relate to that, the being-shot part. I’ve kept an eye on Bradley over the years, from a distance. When I introduced myself to him in the Viper Room that night, he had no idea I’d helped his parents meet. But Allison lacked vision. She was a solo artist, not a team player. I know her mother, too, who has vision but no courage and no talent. Their progenitor Joaquin, El Famoso, was blond-haired and gray eyed, nothing like swarthy Chappo. I intercepted Earp late in his days in San Diego, as I did Frank James in L.A. Ditto Bugsy, Dragna, Mickey, Bompisiero, all the gangsters a few years after Frank. Later, Sirhan Sirhan, Manson, I knew them all, some well, some not. Small, selfish criminals don’t interest us because they’re of minimal utility and they’re everywhere. I’m not allowed to go gallivanting across the nation in search of partnerships. I have to look for them nearby. I’ve never been east of Utah. I mention these individuals because they have become known. They were the apparent stars. But the overwhelming majority of my partners you, Charlie, have never heard of. The men and women who make the history books are simply the ones who manage to commit the final act, stumble across the finish line. Unseen machinations both large and small are the stage on which they act. Making history is like painting the inside of a house-it’s mostly prep work.”

“You’re with the Prince.”

“Isn’t it interesting that you’re not quite sure?”

“Then what’s your goal?”

“Annihilation. The annihilation of the King’s law and all his followers.”

“You just made a hash of that nondisclosure agreement, Mike.”

“It was the wine.”

“No, it wasn’t. So why? If you’re who you say you are now, why tell me all this?”

Finnegan was quiet for a long moment. “First, because I know you won’t believe me. I’m completely safe with you. I’ve told the truth to law enforcement officers before, but you refuse to listen and hear. Which is half the reason we’re able to get anything at all accomplished-people in general just will not believe. Second, I tell you all this because you are just the kind of person I would love to form a relationship, then a partnership, with. It likely wouldn’t happen-you’re much too strong-willed and law-abiding for the likes of me. Unless, of course, there was something that you wanted very, very badly… something I could help you with.”

Hood thought for a moment. “What about the King’s helpers? Are they like you?”

“By and large. We follow the same rules. They outnumber us badly. They are not terrifically intelligent, more like frat boys in a way. We have opposing goals, of course. We don’t mix. To us, the King’s men and women smell bad. And we smell bad to them. It’s an evolutionary thing, rather doggish actually. I can ID one of Bigfoot’s helpers just by smell alone from ten, maybe fifteen feet away.”

“Bigfoot?”

“We make up other nicknames for the King because we don’t enjoy saying his true name, and to bring some sense of humor to things-Bigfoot is popular now. The Fist, Big Bore, the Fat Lady. These days, Bigfoot’s helpers are calling the Prince the Queen, or the Shitbird, or Slimebucket, things like that. Some of those names they got from you in law enforcement. We all love TV and crime novels. You’ll hear some pretty colorful language fly when we get to drinking.”

“Like a bar full of you?”

“Exactly. We socialize some, trade information, mostly just get sloshed and complain about the hours and the bosses. I have my sympathies for the workingman and -woman, I can tell you.”

“I’d like to sit in on one of those,” said Hood.

“Those are private, Charlie,” Mike said quietly.

“What did you do while the Zetas stormed in here?”

“What do you mean, do? I can’t move.”

“Did you know when it would happen?”

“Only that it had to. The nature of things. When I heard the first shots, I summoned the nurse with the CALL button and tried to dial the phone for security, but with one hand it took a while. Five dead. It sounded like many more. I’ll give you some advice if you want it. Don’t count on Luna for help again. Don’t count on him at all.”

Hood got the tiger feeling again. “How do you know about Luna?”

“Oh, that’s funny, Charlie. My beat doesn’t stop at the border!”

Hood took Finnegan’s cup and poured the last of his wine into it. “Has Owens heard all this?”

“Bits. Hints. I don’t want to burden her. She believes fully in my alleged madness. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“I don’t believe she’s your daughter.”

“She is not. But she believes she is my daughter, Charlie. And my heart sinks every time I see those scars.”

“Then what is she to you?”

“Do the scars draw you to her or push you away from her?”

“Is she a partner?”

“She’s too damaged.”

“I went to your place on Aviation. You’re not running a bath products business out of there. If you are, it’s small and disorganized and occasional.”

“It’s all of that. It’s one of many stories, Charlie, all partially true. The story of the carignane is not totally false.”

Hood nodded. He watched Finnegan. The little man slurped the last of the wine like a child finishing a milk shake. Then he sighed.

“What’s that steel mesh vest in your closet for?”

Finnegan stared at Hood. “It’s to be a gift. It’s bullet- and knife-proof. It belonged to an acquaintance, handcrafted by a Frenchman in Bakersfield. This was some time ago. I know someone who should have it now.”

“What about the clips in your notebooks-the white-collar criminals, the precocious children, the inventions? All in California, weren’t they?”

Finnegan exhaled loud and long. “You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.”

“Did Bradley tell you he has the head of Joaquin?”

“Oh, yes. As I said, I could hardly shut the boy up. He thought he was dazzling me.”

A tiger on the march, thought Hood. His scalp crawled. “Tell me about Ron Pace.”

“I’ve met him. The last of the Ring of Fire, Ron, a gunmaker extraordinaire. Just a kid. I don’t think I have to explain his potential to a Blowdown agent.”

“Do you have a partnership with him?”

“No. He was immature, suspicious, reactionary. When Pace Arms ceased manufacture, I moved him down on the roster. Injured reserve, so to speak. Do you really believe these things I’m telling you?”

“Why would you help me get Jimmy back?”

Finnegan stared at him for another long moment. “Mere killers must not always prevail. Our goal is that chaos and strife and enmity prevail. Some good competition. Personally I’d like to see you go forth and kick some ass, Charlie. I understand your problem. You are suffering under the rules of play. I know how badly you’d love to run down there and behead a few of those bad men. And rescue poor Jimmy. I’m on your side.”

“Then help me do it, Mike.”

Finnegan’s eyes twinkled back beyond the wraps. “I think I’m beginning to convince you. We have partnerships with law enforcement all over the planet, you know.”

“I’m too old and stubborn. Old dog, new tricks, all that. What if I got mad and pitched you out a window or something?”

“I’d come crawling back up.” Mike cackled softly. “Charlie, good partnerships between two beings, whoever or whatever they might be, can be built upon only one thing-truth. We are all of us saddled by this, men and women, the blessed and the damned. Thus do I stand in truth before you. Lay before you, actually.”

Hood picked up the empty wine bottle and set it in the small wastebasket beside Finnegan’s bed. “Where’s Jimmy?”

“I’d tell you if I knew.”

“What good is drinking with the devil if I can’t get some good intel?”

“Not the devil. A devil. A mere journeyman. But let me see what I can do.”

From home, Hood called Soriana and told him there was a patient at Imperial Mercy who knew more than he should about too many classified things. He asked Soriana to file a federal request-for-information between ATFE and the FBI, DEA, CIA, military intelligence agencies, the postal service-any federal bodies that may have employed the man. Soriana said that, given the current situation, the request would be low priority and weeks in the filling. He’d try. Hood made a note to petition Sacramento and all Southern California county governments tomorrow morning early.

He went outside and cracked a beer and sat in the dark heat and watched another Guard convoy rolling in from the west. He thought that Mike Finnegan was probably insane and possibly dangerous. Information could be a weapon. Hood did not believe that armies of devils had worked for centuries on earth to win the hearts and minds of frail and temporary humanity. Stories are lies that lead us to the truth.

The navy helos prowled above, their searchlights straining to reveal an event that had happened and was now both over and ongoing.