“Not funny, Brad,” said Erin.
“Erin, this is the last time he’ll hear about any of this.” Bradley looked back at Hood, then with a flourish pulled the last blanket from the workbench. The glass jar was just as Hood remembered it, the head pale and hairless and stripped of hope.
“Jesus Christ,” said Reyes, crossing himself.
“Ouch!” said Owens.
“My God,” said Beth.
“Don’t let Thomas see it!” said Erin.
Hood sheltered the baby deep in his arms, hiding him from the world and the world from him. He watched Erin take a step toward the jar. She reached out her hand but stopped it short of the glass. “You came from him?”
“But tonight and here, all of this ends. It should. Mom couldn’t decide if knowing was a curse or a blessing. It is not a blessing. And I won’t let Thomas carry it.”
Hood watched as Erin turned away from the jar and toward Bradley. She looked up at him for a long beat, then touched his face. Hood thought her hand looked like a blind woman’s, touching an unknown face for the first time. Then she came past the others and took Thomas from him and climbed back out of the bunker. Owens followed.
Bradley spread his arms. “Hey, everybody! Show’s over. Help me load all this stuff into the tractor outside. Everything on the workbench, everything in the safes, all of it. Right down to the blankets.”
• • •
Within five minutes the tractor’s front loader was heaped with the known physical history of Joaquin Murrieta, and the proceeds from Bradley Jones’s life of crime. Hood carried the big jar, as no one else seemed inclined. Reyes, his arms cradling bricks of cash, gave him wide berth. Hood came back and got the blankets, too. Bradley started up the clacking diesel and the dogs ran around the machine barking. In the faint moonlight Hood could see Joaquin’s head bobbing with the rhythm of the engine. Bradley slowly drove the tractor across the barnyard toward the house. Hood saw Erin and Owens standing in the porch light.
At the water’s edge Bradley stopped and reversed so the front loader bearing his past faced his home and his wife and son. He backed into the water. Then he waved at Erin and shut down the tractor and jumped off. Hood saw the gas can in his hand. Bradley sloshed ashore, set it on the ground and pulled out the nozzle, then lifted and upended the can over the front loader. Hood watched him drench it all, shaking out the last of the fuel before tossing the empty can up onto the barnyard grass where it landed with a hollow thump. Bradley waved back at Erin again, then turned to the tractor. Hood saw him bring his left hand from the duster pocket, and the motion of his shoulders, and a moment later the big bucket burst into flames. Bradley called the dogs as he backpedaled away and slipped and fell, then he was up again. The fire, momentarily confined and angry, roared and whirled upward, and Hood could see the writhe and curl of the blankets, and the journals sparking and smoking, and the quick surrender of the plastic wrap. It took some time for the densely packed cash to catch, but finally it did, with a sudden concussive whump! Bradley and his dogs had scrambled almost to the big oak tree when Joaquin’s jar exploded and the sky was filled with burning fragments of him and fiery glass and bits of paper, all reflected in the water. Hood saw the lariat, aflame and uncoiling through the darkness on its way back to earth.
48
The next morning at LASD headquarters in Monterey Park, Hood was questioned by Chief Miranda Dez and Jim Warren. They were very interested in his transportation of alleged drug money to a known drug kingpin in Mexico. Confronted with the video and photographic evidence, Hood confessed to being the bag man in a kidnapping ransom payment. “It was a private thing, not a department action,” he said.
“Everything a deputy does is a department action,” said Warren. “Were Bradley Jones, Caroline Vega, and Jack Cleary involved, too?”
“They were part of it.”
“Why don’t they appear in any of this material?” asked Dez.
“Bradley edited them out so they could perjure themselves and avoid blame.”
“Who was kidnapped?”
“Erin.”
“His wife? Why didn’t he tell us?” asked Warren.
“You know why he didn’t. You just can’t prove it.”
“Charlie,” said Warren. “More coffee? Something to eat? You’re going to be here a long time.”
At the end of the long time, Hood was suspended with pay for one week and ordered back to L.A. for desk duty, pending a full investigation by CID. Hood stood and dropped his gun and badge to Warren’s desk. Second time in four days, he thought. “This job isn’t worth the heartache or the paycheck. I’m out. I’ll be at home if you want to arrest me for something.”
Afterward he drove to Bakersfield and met his siblings and mother at Applebee’s for dinner. They stayed up late, reminiscing. His brothers and sisters struck him as predictably advanced versions of what they had always been, and he was certain that he appeared that way, too. He slept in his boyhood bed. Lying in the dark in the small, familiar room, he was effortlessly transported back through the years and he dreamed the dreams of his childhood. The next day they spread his father’s ashes up on the Kern River, where he had loved to fish.
• • •
Back in Buenavista, Hood learned from Owens that Mike Finnegan had at least five residences in Southern California, her favorite being a remote cottage near Piru that backed up to Piru Creek and the Hopper Mountain National Wildlife Refuge. Ventura County, thought Hood-he and his father had fished Piru Creek when Hood was just a boy. According to Owens, Mike had purchased the cottage in 1887 when Piru was being developed as “a second Garden of Eden” by a wealthy publisher of Sunday-school tracts. Mike had told her that the nutcase publisher had planted the surrounding valley only with fruits identified in the Bible-dates, figs, grapes, olives, and pomegranates. Mike could see the original vineyard from his back patio. Owens said that Mike, even to this day, was still proud of his subterfuge in purchasing a home in the middle of enemy territory.
There in the cottage, she said, Mike now spent long stretches of downtime-reading, writing, researching on the Internet, daydreaming, hiking the rugged hills, and swimming most mornings in cold, fast Piru Creek. He used a mask and snorkel and diving weights to get down and observe the fish and aquatic insects, often photographing them with a waterproof point-and-shoot camera. Owens told them that Piru was the only one of Mike’s homes she knew of where he allowed himself to sleep-sometimes for up to two hours at a time. He slowed down and relaxed when he was there.
She said Mike believed that some places had certain powers and that these powers were determined by history. He had told Owens that the indigenous people of Piru-the Tataviam-had been free and spiritually advanced until their conversion to Christianity through the San Fernando Mission. He called that a tragedy. So, in Piru, Mike liked to let his mind ride back in time to before the King had ruined the Tataviam. He would sit out on the back patio of the cottage for hours on end, staring out at the fertile valley and the biblical flora and the more distant peaks of the mountains, a legal pad in his lap and his pencil held between his fingers like a cigarette. His eyelids would gradually close but never all the way. After hours of utter stillness, Mike would often suddenly sit up straight and start writing, filling page after page with his tight, clear print while he muttered and chuckled and hummed. Owens admitted to have peeked at the writings later in secret but Mike had never once written in a language she recognized.