Wild Instinct

38

Early that evening his father’s yellow Challenger is parked in his mother’s driveway, so Gale finds a place on Los Rios Street.

He and Geronima walk the alley toward Gale’s boyhood home, Hulk on a leash, lunging at the butterflies that thrive in the profuse gardens of sage and lion’s-tail and milkweed.

Gale’s alert to the cars and pedestrians on busy Los Rios, his Colt holstered high on his hip under a light sport coat, his ankle cannon secure and uncomfortable.

Gale has activated the Vigilant tracker and left it in a big terra-cotta pot of flowering ice pink hibiscus on Geronima’s front porch, and the matte gray Rivian is nowhere to be seen.

He’s got the Capistrano Sheriff’s patrol units on a hot surveillance of Geronima’s neighborhood on Acjacheme Court.

Now sundown casts a warm orange tone on the world, and Geronima sweeps Hulk into her arms.

“I like this street,” she says. “Had a friend in school who lived near the end.”

“Our house has been in Mom’s family for a hundred and fourteen years,” says Gale.

“Acjacheme all the way,” says Geronima.

“My dad’s here. Mom didn’t tell me. He’s a challenge. Haven’t seen him in a year.”

Inside, the smell of stewed rabbit fills the tiny house.

“Thanks for this, Mom,” Gale says to Sally as she looks at his nose. “You know Geronima. Dad, Geronima Mills.”

“My genuine pleasure,” says his father, with his killer smile. “What a cute little brute you’ve got there!”

Hulk growls at Edward Gallego from the safety of Geronima’s arms. When she sets him down, he stops growling to smell this stranger’s running shoes.

Edward Gallego’s bear hug of his son is powerful, in keeping with his San Diego State University wrestling prowess. His grip on Gale’s cheeks just short of painful.

Sally looks fresh from the salon, her thick, gray-black hair trimmed, wearing a long white dress under a black tunic into which she has woven small seashells.

“I won’t be able to stay long,” Edward announces, sitting down at the table.

Gale sees the forbearance on his mother’s face as she serves Edward a bowl of stew, then one for Geronima and another for him.

“It’s been a while, Ed,” Gale says. “Almost a year.”

“I miss your mom. And you and Frank. Maybe not so much Frank.”

“Does Isabelle know you’re here?” Gale asks.

“We have our arrangement and a good marriage. So let that one go.”

“Tell Geronima about her.”

Edward gives Gale a sharp look and Geronima another smile.

He explains that Isabelle is his third wife, very young and beautiful, a recognized Cahuilla native. They live out in Aguanga — not much more than a general store, a modest sized casino, and a gas station on Highway 371. It’s a bit of a commute, says Edward, because he teaches and coaches football at the high school here in Capistrano.

Which makes Gale think of the native boy, handy with a football, whom Tribal Councilman Roger Winderling is supposed to introduce him to. Apparently, the boy’s mother isn’t so sure about that.

“Well,” says Geronima. “You’re a lucky man to get a woman like her.”

“It’s not all luck,” he says.

Sally sets her bowl on the table and elegantly raises her long white dress to sit.

“You look great tonight, Mom,” Gale says. “You got all beautified for this conquistador?”

His father gives Gale a steely glance. Same flat gray eyes as his son. “Watch it, son.”

“Come on, you two,” says Sally. “Here, let’s drink a toast.”

“To families,” says Edward.

Gale notes the calm detachment on Geronima’s face as she considers his father. She’s wearing what she left home in with Gale early this morning — black jeans, red canvas sneakers, and a red Western shirt with pearl snap buttons.

They raise the bottles of beer.

“Tell us about that nose, son.”

Gale loosely synopsizes his and Daniela’s inspection of the Wildcoast test pit, courtesy of the student activist Geronima, the mountain lion with the dead coyote in its mouth, the nearly silent pickup that tried to run him down. Geronima cleaning him up. Nothing about lithium crystals.

“Geronima,” says Edward Gallego. “You’ve got a lot of Facebook followers, don’t you?”

“Not really. Ten, twelve thousand. More on X.”

“You’re an attractive warrior, but you do say some ugly things.”

“I’m honest about what I see. I’m sorry if you’re offended.”

“Not in the least. Do you and Lew have a thing?”

“We just met.”

“Another dead end for you, son?” he asks, turning to Gale.

“Ed, please,” says Sally.

“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings,” says Ed, looking at Sally, then Geronima.

“My feelings are just fine,” Gale says.

Ed looks at his son with disappointment, something that Gale has tried to avoid his entire life. His father’s disappointment, that is. There’s also a vein of sadness in it, which eats at Gale even more. He’s never been square with his dad about the war. And Sally has honored her promise of silence, so far as Gale knows.

“I want what’s best for you, son,” says Ed. “The love of your life. A family. Sons and daughters. All the things your mother and I have. And more. I was hoping that Geronima might prove to be part of that grand scheme.”

The goddamned killer smile again, Gale notes.

“I’ll get what I deserve,” says Gale.

“I wish you held yourself in higher esteem, son,” says Edward. “I feel like something has been beaten out of you, but I know it wasn’t me that did it. I gave you the best I had, until it was time to leave. I’ve forgiven myself for that, as you know.”

“It’s harder to stay than to go,” Gale says.

“I couldn’t disagree more.”

“Seconds on that stew, Ed?”

Silence while she serves him, then Gale.

Geronima declines seconds, sipping the stew thoughtfully, thinks Gale. Knows her well enough to suspect she’s furious but constrained. She gives him an analytical look, then reaches down and pets Hulk.

“Lew, do you know who was driving that truck?” asks his mother.

“I never saw him. I was trying to get away, jump that wall along Camino Capistrano.”

“But why him, not her?” asks Edward. “You know how some women text and drive — she might not have even seen you.”

“That’s pretty far-fetched, Edward,” says Sally. “Lew, do you think it’s tied to the Tarlow case?”

“I do.”

“Not so fast,” says Edward. “No skeletons in the closet from past cases? No released felons who might want revenge on the cop who busted them? You, as a sheriff’s detective can easily get that kind of information.”

“No skeletons, Ed,” says Gale.

“I like that you’re political, Geronima,” says Edward. No smile now, just his gaze boring into her. “That you are passionate about all things native. Big into the social media, very political, always bad-mouthing the European and American oppressors, as you call them. I teach history. I thought you might like that. But you know, the history I teach isn’t the progressive nonsense you espouse. The Franciscan friars who founded the mission here, and converted and taught the natives, were not genocidal oppressors. They were godly and selfless. And don’t forget, Father Serra sailed all the way here from Spain on a wooden boat with no motor and no lights. It took a year and a half. He arrived here with three Franciscan helpers and eight soldiers. That was the invading army you all talk about. Upon first meeting the Acjacheme here, there was a moment when thirty Indian braves placed arrows in their bows. Father Serra, a tiny man, couldn’t speak their language, and the Indians couldn’t understand his. But he knelt before them and looked them in their eyes while he said a prayer. And when he rose, the native chief ordered his braves to disarm their bows. Later, the Spanish set up camp and the natives — mostly naked people — brought them food and water. The food was uncooked, as was the custom. Raw rabbit and deer and quail. Here was their place to build a mission. For naked primitives with blood dripping down their chins.”

Sally says, “That was somewhat moving, Ed, but don’t forget that those Spaniards killed thousands of us — two-thirds — with their diseases in a few short years, replaced our language with their own. Changed our names. Choked our customs and beliefs as they baptized us into their church, then married the young women and made families.”

“They made you into God-fearing, tax-paying citizens of New Spain,” says Ed.

“Using whips and chains.”

“The Franciscans saw in you what I saw two centuries later, Sally. Native beauty and strength. Unlimited potential.”

“Edward, we’ve been having this conversation since the day we met. I don’t blame you for what your ancestors did to mine. I loved you as well I knew how, but our marriage was a brief moment. I don’t blame you. I forgive you.”

Edward swallows the last of his beer.

“My kingdom for a toothpick,” he says.

Sally moves the shot glass of wooden toothpicks to him.

Edward takes one, sets it deep between his teeth and stands.

“I love coming over here,” he says. “I miss you both. And Lew? I’m sorry we don’t get along and your anger does hurt me. Again, for the thousandth time, I am sorry for what happened to you, though I have no idea what it is. All I know for sure is that I am not responsible.”

“You’re off the hook, Dad,” says Gale. “Except for abandoning your wife and sons.”

“A genuine pleasure to meet you, Geronima Mills. You are native strength and beauty at its finest. I wish you all the best. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Edward heads out the door, Hulk growling along behind him.

Minutes later, Gale parks a few houses down from Geronima’s driveway. The early night sky is moonlit and salted with stars. With his infrared binoculars, he glasses the ’hood — a jumble of old houses built close together. Notes the ice pink hibiscus on Geronima’s porch. Sees the lights in the windows, the cars in driveways and along the street, a young couple getting into a sedan. Hears the doors clunk shut.

Then the rooftops, always the rooftops.

Watching for the shooters watching you.

He’s systematic about it, a left-to-right one-eighty, then back the other way. Notes the air conditioners, the sagging telephone lines and ceramic insulators, the occasional solar panels, the exhaust vents, the skylights, the satellite dishes and coaxial TV cable, the bougainvillea and rocktrumpet climbing the tiles.

“It’s not too late to change your stubborn mind on this, Geronima.”

“I’m not going to a hotel when some giant badass is trying to kill you. He’s not after me. You might need backup. Consider me your Mendez. Who I happen to like and respect but why isn’t she here with her partner?”

“She’s staking out Jeffs’s home and workplace.”

“I understand. I’m all in with you, Lew.”

Gale pulls on to, then off the street, and turns in to Geronima’s driveway.

A Sheriff’s Department radio car glides past in Gale’s rearview.

“Keep Hulk on the leash and both of you moving along,” says Gale. “Have your key ready and don’t touch the tracker. Leave the lights off. I’ll be a few steps behind you.”

“Got it, sarge.”

“I was a private.”

On the porch, he pockets the GPS tracker and slips it into his coat.

Inside, Geronima locks the security screen door and the windowed main door.

Gale cracks the bright serape-print drapes, turns on and mutes the TV. Wants the place to look occupied.

They sit at opposite ends of the couch, facing the living room windows. Geronima sets her tiny rose-colored .22-caliber handgun on the steamer trunk.

Hulk between them sitting upright, button-eared and alert.

“Is he always like this?” asks Gale.

“When he’s not tearing his toys apart. He’s a natural-born guard dog.”

“Perfect.”

“He knows that we’re on the lookout for trouble,” she says.

Hulk turns to look at each of them, knows they’re talking about him, too.

“I took in a street dog when I was ten and he was like that,” Gale says. “Sparky. Mom and Dad didn’t like him much. But I fed him and cleaned up after him and housebroke him. Taught him basic obedience, and he won them over. He was about half-feral when I got him, but he grew out of it. Took years, though. He was like Hulk, always on guard. Always looking for the enemy.”

“Good for you. Good for Sparky.”

Silence as an old VW hippie van putts down Via Acjacheme. Gale likes the yellow-on-white paint job, visible in the mission-bell-shaped streetlights.

Then another sheriff’s cruiser going the other way.

Eat that Rivian alive, thinks Gale.

“Very cool of Sally to harbor us gunslingers,” says Geronima. “But I really wanted out of there.”

“I knew your hair was on fire.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“He’s clueless and mean-spirited,” says Gale. “Sexist and vain.”

“Make America Great Again.”

“That’s him. He’s trying.”

The hippie van backfires and suddenly, Gale’s in Sangin on that steep, rocky path leading from the FOB down into the river valley, Guy Flatly on point.

Then, just as suddenly, he’s back in Geronima’s darkened living room.

“You okay, Gale? You flinched.”

“I used to a lot. Now, not much.”

The hippie van has made a U-turn and is now coming back toward them, one headlight canted up, the other down.

“Doesn’t seem like Vernon Jeffs to drive a car like that,” says Geronima. “From what you’ve told me about him.”

“I doubt it. They put out about forty horsepower. It’s a good disguise though.”

The van crawls down the road toward the mission and Ortega Highway.

“Do you think he’ll come tonight?” she asks.

“The tracker is broadcasting to his phone right now,” says Gale. “He’ll come here when he’s ready.”

“So it’s a question of when.”

“He’s got choices. He might not try the pickup truck again because we’d see it coming. He could come up on foot.”

“Use the twenty-two he used on Tarlow?”

“Maybe, but it’s hard to get up close to a target who’s watching and ready. A rifle is best. Jeffs sniped in Bosnia. Hush-hush CIA stuff. Claims ten kills. He has a Barrett, like mine. Keeps it behind the bedroom door.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Yes. I’m afraid of rattlesnakes and killer mountain lions, too.”

“I remember you talking about it in the interview, how with a rifle in your hands time speeds up, your heart slows down, and you can sit still for hours, all night or all day sometimes. Take your finger off the trigger and fall asleep right where you’re lying. Then wake up and do it again. Eat from your pack. A bucket for a pot.

“I’m really sad you shot the wrong guy, Gale. But you shot a lot of the right ones, too. So maybe if they tally up the good things and the bad things at the end, maybe you’ll come out ahead. I’ll never forget that picture of you in your dress blues. Absent. Broken down.”

Gale nods, watching through cracked blinds as moths tap against the porch lights. “I don’t like to remember any of that.”

“Shitcan the bad memories,” says Geronima. “Play the good ones, over and over.”

Gale pinches the bandage, his nose bruised but the swelling down a little.

“I remember, before the war, when I got married to Marilyn I thought I was going to die because I was so happy. Die of a heart attack or a stroke or an aneurysm. Something launched from inside me, not a car wreck or a bullet. But something my happiness had caused. Death by happiness.”

Those were the happiest days of my life, he thinks, that old Pretenders song drifting through his brainpan.

Silence then, as Gale sees a big pale owl winging by above them through a skylight. One of Tarlow’s obsessions? He wonders. Very rare, so what are the chances?

Conspiracies, coincidences, connections, he thinks.

“Gale, I’m brain dead.”

“Get some sleep. Hulk and I are on watch.”

She stands, picks up her gun. “I’ll leave my door open so the dog can get in. That goes for you, too.”

Gale considers. Contemplates the dull eternity of not being able to be a man in that way.

“Just sayin’, Lew.”

“Thank you. I brought Verdad to keep me company,” he says.

“I love Luis Verdad.”

Gale makes coffee and turns the lights off except for the slender, flexible reading light on the end table next to him.

A few minutes later Geronima comes from her room, still in her jeans and Western shirt, but she’s traded her red sneakers for shearling moccasins.

She sits at the opposite end of the couch again, sets her rose-colored pistol on the trunk, leans back, and crosses her feet next to the gun.

“Read to me,” she says. “Mom read Arabian Nights to me every night for a year. Over and over. I miss that.”