T. Parker: The Jaguar

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.

Two weeks later Bradley labored under a fretful November sky, installing underground electrical line for motion sensors on the perimeter fence of his Valley Center property. Last week a crew had added shiny new razor wire to the existing eight feet of chain link. Even on this cloudy day the blades caught the sun in muted flashes that spiraled back and forth along the length of coils according to a watcher’s position. Bradley looked at the improving fence. There was nearly a mile of it and it was not cheap but certainly worth the money.

He had rented hand-trenchers for the digging. The soil was mostly decomposed granite but there was plenty of just plain granite and the work was slow and punishing. Old friends Stone, the car thief, and Clayton, the counterfeiter, were helping. At Bradley’s suggestion Stone was now moonlighting as a GMC salesman up in Escondido. Clayton had a consignment space in the tony SoLo building of Solana Beach where his lovely watercolors were sold.

Bradley had the boom box going and a cooler with ice and beer in it. The dogs were out, some of them crowding the men for a good view of the project, others in the shade of the cottonwoods. The two Jack Russells were digging enormous caverns in search of gophers and ground squirrels. The trencher was gas-powered and loud and Bradley wasn’t aware of the quad runner buzzing toward the nearby gate until it was practically there.

He hit the kill button and swung the machine pistol around his back. In his peripheral vision he could see Stone reaching for his shotgun and Clayton, never armed, standing with his hands on his hips, smiling at the whining intruder.

Mike skidded to a stop with a flourish, throwing up dust. He wore red-and-white leathers and a matching helmet and goggles and to Bradley he looked, as always, ridiculous.

“Men! How goes the security upgrade?”

“It takes a cold twelver to join the club,” said Bradley.

“Fresh out. But you don’t mind if I hang around for a just a bit, do you?”

“As long as you don’t warble for hours on end.”

“Fine then,” said Finnegan, pulling off the helmet and setting the goggles up on his forehead.

Bradley saw Stone glance at him as he set the barrel of his scattergun against a nearby sagebrush. Stone thought Mike was a weasel, though Clayton adored him. Bradley pulled the trencher back to life and strong-armed it along the inside of the fence. The powerful machine chewed its way along. His sunglasses were frosted with dust but he was still able to see one of the terriers streaking off from his hole with a gopher locked in its mouth, the other terrier in pursuit.

Mike stood in front of him, backing up a few steps when the trencher got closer. After a while Bradley shut off the engine and dropped the handles and shucked his gloves to the ground. From the cooler he got a beer for himself and tossed one to Mike. They walked along the chain link toward the escarpment to the east, the big husky Call trailing behind them with five other dogs.

“Let’s see that happy new smile,” said Mike.

Bradley grimaced down at the little man. Only the perfection of the new implants betrayed them. His facial bruises were faint shadows now and the gun-butt cuts up on his forehead were still red but smaller. His palm had finally healed. In an attempt to improve his overall appearance Bradley had gotten a short, smart haircut, something between Wall Street and Camp Pendleton, and was giving himself a close shave each morning.

“What gives, Mike?”

“How is she?”

“Showing more and sleeping less. The ultrasound and tests were all good. The baby’s healthy and strong.”

“She showed awe-inspiring resolve against Armenta, according to Owens. Has Erin told you what happened to Saturnino?”

“Of course she has.”

“Astonishing bravery. I’m happy to have done my small part in getting her back.”

“We’re happy too.”

“Funny that I didn’t get one sincere word of thanks from you.” Finnegan stopped walking and looked up at Bradley hopefully, waiting. The dogs sat or stood around them.

“Your birds and your research made it all possible, Mike. You and I both know that. I asked you to be my friend and let you stab the hell out of my hand, which took two weeks to heal. So, well, thanks again if thanks are really what you’re after.”

“Accepted!” Mike raised the beer bottle and drank.

Bradley drank too. “Where is Owens?”

“Laguna Beach. Some well deserved R amp;R.” Mike smiled, looking along the newly installed razor wire.

“I’m surprised you’d pimp her out to Armenta.”

“I did no such thing. She helped Erin at no little risk to herself. She was free to decline the job. And free to leave his Castle at any time. Any time. She liked him and he was quite good to her. There are costs, Bradley. We all make commitments and sometimes sacrifices in order to achieve success, and reap rewards.”

“How long was Owens down there with Armenta?”

“Oh, I forget exactly. Months.”

“So it was just a coincidence that Benjamin grabbed Erin when he did?”

“What do you mean?”

Bradley looked down at Finnegan as he upped his bottle and drank. “Hood said you supplied Armenta with everything his men needed to take Erin that night-drawings of the property, measurements and locations, the hideout, even the alarm code for the house. He found sketchbooks in your apartment in Veracruz.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So Armenta could take Erin, and you and Owens could help me get her back. So you would gain my trust and we would become partners.”

Finnegan laughed quietly. “Partners,” he said. Bradley heard humor but an odd longing in the word too.

“That’s what he said.”

“But I already had your trust, or thought I did. Now, after all we’ve been through, you doubt my loyalty to you because of Charlie Hood ? Some basic facts, Bradley: how do you know what Hood saw in Veracruz? Because I know exactly what he saw and I will prove this to you. Answer me.”