T Parker - L. A. Outlaws

He thought of Suzanne down in Valley Center, perched in the tree house in the massive oak that grew in her barnyard. He had remembered the tree house and thought that if Lupercio materialized on her property, Suzanne would be as safe in that tree as an observer of Lupercio Maygar could get.

The idea got better when she showed Hood how Ernest and Bradley had rigged the hidden line that released a rope ladder so you could climb into the tree house, then hoist the ladder up and out of sight once you were in. Hood had sat on a derelict couch on the deck of the tree house and confirmed that you could see the back of the house, the barn, the pond, the outbuildings, the drive and part of the road that led past Betty Little Chief’s house. But there was small chance that anyone approaching could see you.

Hood had given her his twelve-gauge Remington automatic and a box of number sixes just in case, and that was how Hood now pictured her, sitting on the couch-how did they get that up there?-with the scattergun propped against it, listening to the coyotes yapping and the night birds singing and waiting for a glimpse of Lupercio. He liked her new do, but in his imagination her hair was still brown and wavy.

Now Hood scanned the cars parked in the motel courtyard, looking for movement. The perimeter was poorly lit, and the cinder-block wall with its bold swirls of graffiti fooled him into seeing motion. He half expected to see Lupercio emerge from one of the cryptograms.

If so, Hood would deal with him. And later, somehow, with Wyte.

If Lupercio went to Valley Center then Suzanne would see him and they would know that Marlon was their betrayer.

And if what Hood thought would happen happened-if Lupercio stayed out of sight tonight-then either Marlon or Wyte had sensed the trick and called him off.

There was also the possibility that they were in it together.

Hood drank more coffee, slapped his face and pulled a packet of donuts from the bag under the chair while he scanned the yellowed parking lot again.

At four-fourteen a dark old Lincoln Continental rolled into the courtyard, hugging the wall on the far side of the planter.

Hood backed his chair farther away from the window without taking his eyes off the car.

The Lincoln moved along the wall, turned and turned again, then came back toward Hood alongside the cars parked outside the rooms.

The windows were smoked and he couldn’t see the driver, or if there were passengers. It looked like the one from the sand hills outside Bakersfield. When the car had come full circle to the exit, it turned hard left into the entrance lane and began the circle again. Like someone looking for a good parking place, Hood thought, or someone looking for his room.

Or someone else’s.

A jet roared over, and Hood’s heart beat steady and fast as the Lincoln cruised the lot again. It slowed at Suzanne’s Sentra, almost stopped. He couldn’t see in. When it got to the exit, it stopped then bumped onto Aviation and went south toward the airport.

Hood hit the door running, made the Sentra in seconds. He started it up, slammed it into reverse, then punched it off the lot and onto Aviation southbound.

Ahead he could see four sets of taillights, red halos in the fog. He closed hard on them, flashing the brights and honking, hoping to cut Lupercio away from the pack.

The Lincoln jumped into the fast lane and accelerated. Hood floored the little four-cylinder and closed the distance as they approached Century. He thought he saw a backseat passenger in his high beams, a faint face looking at him.

Hood rode the Lincoln hard, flashed his lights again, backed off a little.

To his surprise the Continental signaled right and pulled over.

Hood followed it to the curb then gunned the Sentra again, shot past the Lincoln and skidded to a stop ahead of it. The Lincoln didn’t move. He hit reverse hard and backed almost into the Continental, then rolled out of the Sentra and came up with his Glock out and ready as he crouched and ran toward the car. He stayed outside of the headlight beams and yelled for the driver to step out. He kept the door of the Lincoln just above his front sights, and when it opened slightly, he dropped to his knees in a shooter’s stance and swung his left hand up to support the weapon.

“Get out and step away from the car!”

He watched the door open halfway, then swing all the way out.

A heavy, round-faced woman dislodged herself and took three hurried steps through the fog, away from the car toward Hood. She raised her hands. Hood saw the car keys dangling from the right.

“Don’ shoot! Don’ shoot! I have my daughters! We are not a gang! We are lost!”

She whirled and rattled off rapid Spanish toward the car and then Hood saw the back door open and a young woman get out, followed by another who looked exactly like her.

Away from the yellow lights of the Mariposa lot, Hood now saw that the Lincoln was not black but dark green.

The girls raised their hands and stood on either side of their mother. Hood brandished his shield and came toward them, pistol pointed up at the sky. He kept them in his vision, but what he focused on was the interior of the car.

“Los Angeles Sheriff’s,” he said. “ Don’t move. ”

The mother and the second girl out had both left the doors open, and Hood saw no one else in the car, but he knew Lupercio was small and nimble, so he trotted past the women and aimed his gun into the car as he walked completely around it to make sure it was empty.

Back at the driver’s-side door Hood leaned in and ran his left hand along the bottom of the dash until he found the trunk release.

He pulled it and heard the lock disengage and saw the trunk lid open an inch or two.

He walked closely alongside the car, and when he got to the trunk, Hood reached over with his left hand and lifted it up.

Then he stepped back and circled the rear of the car, aiming his gun in.

There were three large suitcases, a folding garment bag and three carry-ons.

He holstered his pistol.

“Please come over here,” he called to the women.

They hustled over, and suddenly Hood smelled their perfume and hair products and makeup. Their eyes were wide and their faces looked stunned but hopeful.

“What were you doing at the Mariposa?”

“We want to go to the Hacienda.”

“It’s south of the airport. El Segundo.”

“Please tell me how to go there. We are lost. We have very early flight to Caracas.”

“Caracas.”

“I am a United States citizen. My daughters are United States citizens. We will show you passports.”

“Thank you.”

Hood eyed the three big pieces of luggage in the Lincoln trunk.

Then looked down at the mother’s passport: Consuelo Encarnación, DOB 12/26/1970.

In his dawning humiliation Hood asked to see her driver’s license also.

The daughters obeyed, too, and Hood examined all three CDLs, every few seconds glancing over at the big suitcases in the trunk of the Continental.

“Thank you,” he said, returning Serena Encarnación’s current and valid driver’s license.

“Thank you,” he said, returning Lucia’s. “Wait here, please.”

He walked over to the Lincoln and pulled the carry-ons and the folding bag from the trunk and set them on the ground. He unzipped the big black suitcase that was on its back, saw clothes and no Lupercio, shook his head. He wrestled the other two over and checked them next. He heard one of the girls giggle. He felt like a fool.

Back with the women he apologized and said he was looking for Lupercio Maygar.

Hood saw recognition on the mother’s face.

“We saw the TV,” said Consuelo. “We don’ know him.”

The twin girls silently looked at the ground.