T. Parker - Iron River

“Appears?”

“Dad’s history is vague and subject to Dad. He was adopted, an only child. His father and mother died before I was born. As for his birth mother, Dad never knew her. He never cared to know her. He loved the parents who raised him and that was enough.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“None.”

Hood looked up and saw the vultures gliding in synchronized orbits, orderly as the works of a wristwatch. When he looked back to Owens Finnegan, she was watching him with nickel eyes.

“Why don’t you just go see him?”

“I might. You ask lots of questions.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“I’ll bet you always did, even as a boy.”

“Yes. Asking questions was a way to avoid answering them.”

“A personality flaw?”

Hood nodded. “Luckily, in my line of work, it can be a plus. Are you going back to college in the fall?”

“Oh, that’s another one of Dad’s beliefs that is independent of the facts. I’ve never set foot on a college campus except for the theaters. I’m an actor. Sometimes I do various work to support myself.”

“What kind of work?”

“Cocktails. Pet sitting. Personal shopper.”

“Not much acting work here in El Centro.”

“I always wanted to live in a desert. I can still make auditions in L.A. I like driving.”

Hood stood and she walked him back inside. In the kitchen, Hood noted the emptiness of the place, not a dish or a dish towel or a bowl of fruit or a toaster or a coffeemaker.

“Look at this,” she said. She led him down a hallway to the door at the end. She swung it open and Hood looked in. The shades were drawn, but a lamp with a pale orange shade cast a warm glow over the room. The dresser and mirror looked expensive. So did the area rug. The sleigh bed was blond maple and high, with a rich leather-and-fabric spread and matching pillows piled against the sloping headboard. The air coming at him smelled sweet.

“I have a few nice things,” she said.

“Very nice.”

“There is always more than meets the eye, Deputy Hood.”

“You are right, Miss Finnegan.”

She walked him out to his car. The neighborhood looked like it was built in the late fifties, small identical houses with attached garages. There were For Sale signs, and the home across the street had boarded windows. Hood noted the black late-model Mercedes convertible in her garage.

“May I see your cell phone?” she asked.

He worked the little holster off his belt and handed the phone to her. She opened it and began pressing buttons expertly, and Hood watched her fingers and the scars. A moment later, she snapped the phone shut and gave it back to him. “I want you to call me.”

“Why?”

She stepped to him and took his face in both her cool hands and turned it so Hood was looking away from her. Then she turned his face the other way. He felt like an animal being examined. She came closer and turned him back to her, and Hood stood before her metallic eyes.

“You will have a reason.”

Dr. Petty intercepted Hood at the nurses’ station and veered him away from the ICU.

“He’s taken some kind of turn. He’s having seizures and talking nonsense-murders and criminals and God knows what. He says he saw Bobby Kennedy die at the Ambassador. He talked about Manson and the beautiful smoggy sunsets at Spahn Ranch. We gave him sedatives and a dose of steroids and ran an MRI. The swelling is pronounced.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s finally stable, so don’t wear him out. Come.”

Hood and Beth Petty stepped inside the privacy curtain drawn around Finnegan’s bed. The monitor readout showed a pulse of seventy and normal blood pressure.

“Charlie. Hello, doctor. I’m so glad you came to visit.” Finnegan’s voice was a drawl and slightly lower than usual. Hood figured the sedative.

“They finally hung him in San Jose,” said Finnegan.

Hood looked at Petty and she glanced at him but said nothing.

“Who?” asked Hood.

“Tiburcio Vasquez. He was a bandit and a good guy. Ladies’ man, gambler, hell of a shot. I stood in the crowd, way in the back, and I could see the gallows in the shafts of sunlight filled with the dust the horses kicked up. A free drink for every white adult male at Henderson ’s Saloon, Henderson himself an ass, but a free drink is a free drink. You should have seen the women. They were dressed up, hundreds of them, the ladies loved Tiburcio. He had his way with them, that’s for sure. Dr. Petty, you look very much like one of those women and I think you brought this whole memory on. Beauty is changeless. Only the bodies that house it change. Tiburcio’s buddy Abdon Leiva was the betrayer. He ratted out Tiburcio after catching him with his wife. I told Tibby it would happen, but he didn’t listen. They almost never do. There were a bunch of kids inside General Livery and you could see their faces lined up along a crack in the door, getting a look at the hanging. And Sheriff Brewster, he asks Tibby if he’s got any last words and Tibby says, ‘Oh yes, yes yes.’ See, he’s got a little statement all ready to go. I encouraged him to do this, but the composition was all his own. He said, ‘A spirit of hatred and revenge took possession of me. I had numerous fights in defense of what I believed to be my rights and those of my country-men. I believed we were unjustly deprived of the social rights that belonged to us.’ And Brewster says, ‘Anything else, Tiburcio?’ And Tibby says, ‘ Pronto! ’ and the hangman springs the trap. It’s hard to write a story with a better ending than that.”

“That is a good story,” said Hood.

“He’s been talking on like that all morning,” said the doctor. “Frank James and Sirhan and Manson and even O.J.”

“Vasquez and Manson had revolutionary potential. Vast egos and the indispensable ability to believe their own lies. Foundation of the statesman and the dictator. Actually believed they were righting wrongs by robbing and murdering people. Otherwise, there would have been no reason to monkey around with them, now would there?”

“Explain,” said Hood.

“When you choose a friend or an enemy, don’t you look for the strong?” drawled Finnegan. “For people with ambition? People with appetites and talents and profound, profound energy?”

“Sure.”

“Dr. Beth hit me hard with steroids and Seconal.”

Hood glanced at the monitor. Finnegan’s pulse was up to ninety, but his blood pressure hadn’t changed. “I saw Owens this morning. She said she’d come see you. She didn’t say when.”

“Bravo, Charlie. Thank you so much. Quite a woman, isn’t she?”

“She’s lovely, but she didn’t smile, not one time.”

“She’s never been happy.”

“I saw the scars on her wrist.”

Beth Petty looked at him, and Hood held her look for a moment.

“They found her just in time,” said Finnegan. “No note. It was a serious attempt, not a cry for help.”

“Why?”

“She genuinely believed she had no reason to live. She loved nothing and was interested in nothing.”

“Didn’t she love you?”

No one spoke for a long moment. Hood could see the shine of Finnegan’s eyes deep within the bandages. “I wasn’t a good father. I was gone a lot. Bathroom products. Family affairs in Napa County. My father and mother… well, that’s a long story. Owens felt abandoned. She was thirteen, terribly overweight, bad acne. She was almost totally inscrutable to me, a man lost to commerce and pleasure and to his own demons. After that dark day when she tried to end it all, I tried my hardest to be there for her. Gradually, she found herself. As if she were born again into the world. It was a long and sometimes painful awakening. So, all the more difficult for me when her vanishing acts began. Which is why it was so important to me that I know she’s all right. Thank you, deputy. Now please describe her home to me.”