The Jaguar

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.

“It’s gone up to almost thirty feet since then,” said Mike. “I’m improving. Evolving, as you are. See?”

Hood waved the pistol toward the big room and Mike set down his drink and picked up the cordless phone.

“Excuse me, then,” he said.

“Put it back.”

“You are trespassing against me, Charlie.” Finnegan looked at him while he pressed the buttons.

Hood took hold of the phone and Finnegan grabbed the gun and they clutched like wrestlers, crouched, pulling and pushing. Hood was surprised by the strength of the little man’s grip on the gun. They circled once, then twice, trading control of balance, locked to each other by the objects of their desires. Hood let go the phone, wrenched hard on the pistol with both hands and when Mike stumbled back against the counter the gun flew into the big room, landing with a crack then sliding along the tile.

Finnegan was breathing fast and his pupils were large. “I ask you again to leave my home. Collect your firearm and go.”

Hood’s anger suddenly blinded him. He had completed his quest and found his man. Now he had no more questions and he wanted no more answers-just swift and severe retribution. He blitzed hard, hitting Mike mid-body with his lowered head and shoulder. But instead of taking the man down Hood was solidly repelled, then locked in another wrestler’s grip, hand to hand, matched again by Finnegan’s lesser weight and greater strength. They circled, hands touching and feinting and pulling.

“I enjoy the ancient sport of wrestling, Charlie. You’re heavier but I’ve got experience on you.”

Hood had never wrestled but he’d been trained in hand combat by the Navy and his skills were good. He was rangy and well muscled and fast. He charged into Mike and felt his relative lightness. Then Mike crashed back into him and Hood felt his strength.

“Why did you kill Sean?”

“Sean killed himself. I only challenged his faith.”

“Why?”

“To offer him freedom and life. But he chose death.”

Hood lunged in, feinting with one elbow and slashing out with the other. He caught Mike flush on the temple and he felt its softness. Finnegan’s blue eyes gushed tears.

“Why did you infect Seliah, too?”

Mike charged and drove his head into Hood’s middle. The breath puffed out of Hood and he clutched Finnegan’s arms and pushed the little man away.

“Seliah was part of the whole project. And Sean and Seliah’s parents, yes? And their brothers and sisters, and perhaps even their children and their children not yet born. And you and Blowdown. This is chaos. Chaos is what I create. It spreads like the rings in a pool when a good solid rock like Sean goes in.”

They circled and clutched, Hood breathing hard. He couldn’t control the smaller man and he began to doubt himself. Finnegan had that light of mischief in his eyes again, and he fought with his head at a cocky angle, talking excitedly and rapidly as if there was no end to his breath.

“But chaos is a blessing, Charlie! In it people have a chance to see the beauty and the power and the glory of their own freedom. Freedom. It’s right there, so obvious in the aloneness that chaos offers. Freedom stares back at them from every mirror, calls out to them in every waking moment and every dream. But not all of you will see it. Some will see it and deny seeing it. Some will curse it. I told you three years ago that I represent a naturally occurring, ordering principle. There is no word for it in your or any other language. And I told you that my highest mission is to demonstrate to men and women that they are free. They are free to choose their acts and to decide what is right and meaningful and beautiful. And what is not. Nothing is chosen for them by powers high or low. Nothing is fated or ordained or written. Nothing happens for the better, or for a reason. Angels and devils may scurry about like lobbyists trying to persuade, but men and women are free.”

“Got it, Mike. I’m clear on everything now.” Hood let himself be drawn in, then he pivoted and drove the heel of his right hand toward the bridge of Mike’s nose. It was a devastating blow for a taller man to throw, always debilitating and occasionally fatal. But Finnegan slipped it and crabbed on to him, arms and legs clamping hard, and Hood toppled to the floor.

Finnegan’s hold was paralyzing and Hood couldn’t figure it. His neck and one shoulder quickly lost their flow of blood and he knew they were close to breaking. He was strong enough to protect them but not strong enough to work them free. Finnegan’s stout legs gripped his own just above the knees, which left only his calves and feet to swing free but uselessly. Ears roaring, Hood relaxed one shoulder against Mike’s grip, and when Finnegan tightened it, Hood slipped his head and other arm free and locked his elbow just below Mike’s jaw. Hood squeezed ferociously and he felt the man shudder with pain.

But he kept talking, his voice reduced to a choking soprano whisper: “Charlie, I wanted Sean to choose life. Seliah and the doctors could have…saved him. All he needed was to choose…with his own…free will. Freedom. He broke my heart. Because I loved him.…I love mankind…You are my…music…You are what we work for through the…ages. The ages, Charlie. You are a strong one. Just like Sean.”

Hood squeezed even harder and he felt the trembling in Mike’s arms. But he couldn’t maintain this power. The moment he let up, Finnegan pulled his sweat-slick head loose and turned it away, sucking air. Hood shot one arm under his armpit and around the back of the man’s head in a half-nelson. Mike grunted as Hood slowly turned him. When the time was right Hood brought his weight and strength to bear. He drove the little man to the floor, hard. Finnegan’s shoulder joint separated with a muted wet snap and from deep within Hood’s grip came a gasp of pain.

Hood uncoiled and stood. He was dizzy and panting and his eyes burned from sweat. He watched Finnegan climb to his knees and one hand, the dislocated shoulder drooping.

Mike turned and looked up at him. His expression was pained but not anguished. He was pale. He pivoted slowly on his good hand, his little legs churning and his shiny black shoes slipping on the tile. He spun a half-circle to face Hood and wobbled upright, then backpedaled until the kitchen counter stopped him.

“Nice moves, Charlie. Sheesh…I hate it when this happens.” With his good hand he took his dangling elbow and raised it up steady and studied it. He arranged it just so and smiled wanly at Hood, then buckled his knees and dropped. His elbow slammed loudly into the counter and broke his fall. He pulled himself back upright, shoulder in place again. He straightened and faced Hood, adjusting and smoothing his jacket with both hands, though the seams had burst at the armpits and a button was missing and the whole thing was smeared with sweat.

“Charlie, you have won. Now please go.”

“You cased the Valley Center property and passed along the information to Armenta. Why Bradley and Erin? For the same reasons as Sean and Seliah? To destroy what’s good? To create chaos and hurt everyone around them and make them all doubt their faiths?”

Finnegan shook his head while he rolled his shoulders one at a time, then together. The color was back in his face and his breathing was even and his eyes were blue and lively. “No, no, of course not. See, Charlie. Please see. Sean and Seliah were just busywork, to keep me in shape. Very rewarding, though, with strong resonance through strong people. The echo will sound through two generations. Not every job can be an epic. But Bradley is my life work-well, one of them. Bradley is very different than Sean. Sean never believed in himself and I couldn’t make him. When he lost his spiritual faith he lost everything. But Bradley believes almost totally in himself now, after his heroic rescue of Erin and defeat of a cartel kingpin. To solidify the remainder of his self-belief is my goal for next year. It will effectively replace the last of his conscience. And what a subject he is. Ambitious. Courageous. Insatiable. His potential is vast. He may even partner with me someday. I tremble with joy at that thought, but it could happen-he has the blood for it.”

“Suzanne. Joaquin.”

“Oh, them and before them, Charlie. Before them! Doesn’t your narrow vision infuriate you? And the tight little prophylactic you keep on your imagination? Don’t you feel constipated by your answers?”

“Erin?”

“A supporting actor, of course. Like you, Charlie. I’d love to help a brave and skillful law enforcer. Or a talented young artist. Any of us would. But we can’t get to everyone. You and Erin are too decent and too strong, and not large enough. Your egos lack the monstrous size and weight, the prodigious selfishness it takes to move men and women in numbers.”

Hood looked at the little man. “Is that you on the Taberna Roja sign? Or an amusing coincidence?”

“Will you believe my answer?”

“Should I? Once you told me that you rode with Murrieta and saw Vasquez hanged and met a whore in Wyatt Earp’s saloon in San Diego. I thought you were simply what Owens said you are: smart and insane. Because those things can’t be done, Mike. You cannot be hundreds of years old.”

“But I confessed to you that I am a journeyman devil with modest powers. That I have superiors and underlings, competitive associates, good assignments and bad. And partnerships with men and women and a few children. I told you this years ago. I was being as honest and forthcoming with you as I could be. I wanted you to think about these things, Charlie. As a lawman your chance of believing me was very small and I knew this. Most of you are cut from rational cloth. But since then you have witnessed certain acts and discovered certain truths. You have given me considerable thought and energy, as much as any man has ever given me. You have shared your interest in me with the world. So what do you believe I am, Charlie, what do you believe I am, right this minute, right now?”

“Does it matter?”

“It will determine the course of your life.”

Hood said the words he thought he would never say. It was like listening to someone else. “I believe you’re what you said you are.”

Finnegan’s expression went to cautious wonder. “I am truly moved by your belief, Charlie. I knew you were courageous. But this makes you rare. And dangerous. A man can defeat what he sees. And only through belief can he see.”

“I despise you.”

“Take your trusty pistol and leave my home.”

“You’re mine. We’re going to the American Consulate now. Then back to the United States.”

“Oh, that’s funny, Charlie. No warrant, no charges. Forcibly removing a Mexican citizen from his home to another country? You’d be up for kidnapping at the very least.”

“I’m federal. I’ll find a way to take you back with me.”

Hood brought the plastic cuff from his pants pocket and Mike’s face went pale again but he crouched and squared off, arms extended for battle and the injured shoulder tucked for protection.

“You don’t need any more of this, Mike.”

“You give me no choice. And I have asked you to leave. If you don’t, then I apologize now for anything that happens.”

Hood grabbed the injured wrist, turned it in sharply, then twisted Mike’s arm behind him. The little man yelped in pain and spun around. He was facing the counter when he spoke.

“There are clean towels and a bottle of alcohol in the bathroom, Charlie. Your hair will hide most of the scar.”

Hood had placed the restraint around Mike’s wrist before he understood. He grabbed for the other arm, but Mike turned fast. Hood saw a flash of coat sleeve in his face and he heard a swift grinding sound. He stepped back.

Finnegan’s face and coat were flecked with blood. His eyes were concerned and the knife in his hand was dark and short. “I’m sorry. I adore you, Charlie, but you can’t take me captive. I’d rather die but that’s not an option. Use the alcohol. Tropical infection should not be taken lightly.”

By then the blood had sheeted Hood’s eyes and his world was a red swamp. He pushed a hand to his scalp and looked out through the hot morass. He could feel the liquid pooling, then overflowing his fingers. Mike was across the room and out the door before Hood had willed the strength back into his legs.

He ran out and through the courtyard past the hibiscus blossoms folded in for the night. He shielded his brow like a man fighting sun, and looked down and up the alley but the blood ran fast and all he could do was blink into the darkness where he saw no Mike, saw nothing with clarity except for the green wall of El Canario and its singing birds. He climbed the steps back into the apartment and in a bathroom cabinet he found clean towels. In the mirror he saw the cut running straight along his hairline, deep and clean pink for a moment before it welled up again and the blood cascaded down.

He pressed the hand towel to the wound and stumbled upstairs and slipped a handful of compact discs into a side pocket of his coat. The pigeons eyed him nervously. He crushed one of the sketchbooks into thirds and jammed it lengthwise into his back pocket, then yanked the plug from the laptop and hefted the machine. In the living room he fetched his pistol from under the couch as his blood splattered onto the floor tiles. He rose and found his way back down to the alley and trudged toward El Canario. When he got close Josie was running toward him as her customers stared.