Stephen Cannell - Hollywood Tough

"I'll be there."

"She could be the one, Scully. She could live the dream."

Shane nodded and took his hand.

"See, I was right," Amac whispered. "No freedom yet. Maybe next time…" He closed his eyes.

Shane knelt in the sand beside him as the sound of incoming sirens filled the desert. He leaned down and listened for a heartbeat, but there was none. Shane held Amac's lifeless hand, watching the blood pour out of him, staining the desert sand. Oddly, the crimson fanned out symmetrically underneath him, like angel's wings. A brown angel.

But this guy was a drug lord. He killed people, Shane thought.

Then Amac's voice echoed in his memory: Asi es, asi sera… This is how it is. How it's going to be.

In the dream, Amac was standing on the far bank of a raging river, smiling. He looked much younger, much happier-or maybe it was just pure relief. Shane couldn't tell.

"This is some river, gabacho," Amac shouted as the water screamed in their ears. "They call it Rio Bravo, the Great Divide, no? Although it runs between Mexico and the United States, it really runs between you and me. We had to shout across this river, ese, but somehow we could always hear each other. Perhaps someday this river will dry up and there will be no more Great Divide."

Shane called across the river. "You died saving Chooch and me, Alexa and Tony. I can never pay you back."

"Que caballo, ese. You see these things through Anglo eyes. But I am where I belong. There is honor in death… honor more precious than mortality. Do you know the Tarahumara Indians?"

Shane had never heard of them, so he shook his head.

"Their home was in the mountain ranges of Chihuahua. They were one of the tribes that never succumbed to the Spanish. They lived in poverty, but they were proud people, Scully. Proud and happy because they had honor, and never lost their heritage. I am one of those Indians. It is not so hard to die when you believe in what you die for. So remember what I said about Delfina. Make sure she does not forget about her people. Let her live the dream, ese."

When Shane woke up he was in Phoenix Memorial Hospital on a couch in the waiting room. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he felt tears.

He looked over and saw Alexa and Chooch sleeping on couches nearby. Then he remembered: A few hours ago they had brought Tony to the hospital by ambulance, along with the surviving bangers.

In the car, Chooch had explained to Alexa that a black-skinned Eme, a prieto named Midnight, had been left behind in L. A. to guard Delfina. Chooch had come to Delfina's hospital room and had managed to get him to confide that Amac was going to the White Cow Dairy in Scottsdale. Chooch had flown there on Delta and hooked up with the Emes.

When they arrived at the E. R., Tony, hovering near death, was sent to surgery.

Time would tell.

The Panamanian general never showed up. But Dennis Valentine was now in custody, demanding his lawyers.

Farrell Champion had been found in the trunk of one of Amac's low-riders, bound and gagged. Once they got the tape off his mouth, he made a phone call, and wide-shouldered Carl from WITSEC showed up an hour later. He still claimed to know nothing about anything, but whisked Farrell off anyway, placing the producer in protective custody. Carl had a federal warrant, so there was nothing Shane or Alexa could do to stop it. Farrell was back among the missing. Who knew where he would turn up next? Maybe as an anchor on CNN, or wired to one in Long Beach Harbor. Either way, Farrell was going to be a no-show at Nora's wedding.

Tony was moved out of surgery into ICU at six that evening, in critical condition. His wife, Mary, had arrived from L. A., so Shane, Alexa, and Chooch ducked out of the hospital through a side door to avoid the growing collection of local and national media.

They drove to the Deer Valley Airport. The federal asset-seizure jets had all left. They climbed aboard the King Air and flew back to L. A. Chooch was sitting in the front of the airplane, in the right-hand seat next to the pilot, his lip swollen where Shane had hit him. After the wheels were up, Shane went forward and kneeled in the aisle.

"You okay?" he asked, wishing his son would discuss what had happened in the desert, talk about Amac's death. Chooch's brooding silence seemed ominous.

His son didn't look at him but said, "I'm fine."

"If you hadn't shown up out there, gotten me and Mom out of that thick…" Shane offered.

"I'm fine, Dad," he said again, turning to look at the instruments, then out the side window of the small two-engine prop plane. Anywhere but at Shane.

When they got back to the canal house in Venice, Chooch went straight to his room. Shane was standing in the hallway, looking at his son's closed door, trying to decide what to do. Alexa took his arm and led him to the backyard.

Their metal chairs were waiting. A heavy fog had descended. In L. A., fog was always called a "marine layer," but it was really just fog as heavy and gray as Shane's spirit.

They sat looking at gray water reflecting a gray sky. The buildings in the distance went up three stories and disappeared in the mist. It was that dense.

"It's not you, Shane," she said softly. "It's Amac. Chooch can't deal with the death. He's angry. He needs to put that anger somewhere. You're handy. He'll get over it."

"Yeah," he said, softly. "I know how close they were." Shane could feel the fog's moisture, which had settled on the chair, seeping up through his pants, dampening his underwear. "You ever heard of the Tarahumara Indians, in Chihuahua?" Shane asked.

"No. Why?"

"I had a strange dream at the hospital. Amac was telling me he was one of those Indians, so I wondered if you'd ever heard of them."

She shook her head. "They're probably just a figment of your dream."

Shane lunged out of his chair and lumbered into the house. In his den, he pulled the Encyclopaedia Britannica off the shelf and looked them up. In a moment, he could smell Alexa behind him, fragrant as lilacs, could feel her looking at the book over his shoulder.

"Here they are," Shane said. "Page five seventeen. 'One of the few Aztec tribes of Mexico who never surrendered to the Spanish.' Just like Amac said."

"Maybe you studied them in school a long time ago," she said. "You didn't just vibe it out of thin air."

"Right…" He turned and walked back out to the lawn to again sit on the old metal chair looking out at the canals.

Their Venice house had started to feel like home again. Shane was determined not to return to the asset-seizure house on North Chalon Road except to pick up his things and get Franco. Something told him there was hidden danger for him there. Hubris and ambition lived in that house. It had started to creep inside and poison him. More and more, he worried about his soul. Some would probably call that growth, but Shane suspected that the barrier that held back his psychic demons was crumbling.

Like Carol White, he also had some dangerous flaws. Carol's flaw had been her foolish dream. Her drug was heroin. His flaw was foolish pride. His drug was self-deception. Alexa returned with a beer for him. He pulled the tab, contemplating his family's future.

"What is it? You have something else you need to tell me," she said softly. When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "C'mon, Shane, in your dream, Amac didn't just tell you about courageous Aztec Indians."

"You're right." His resolution silently forming, he turned to face her. "Alexa, I want to make a place here for Delfina when she gets out of the hospital."

"You're kidding…"

"No, I mean it. She has nobody left here in California. With Amac gone, she's all alone-"

"You're right. It's okay, honey."