“That’s a good cause.”
“People like Warren need a cause. They need an enemy with a face. They need a story and a part in it for themselves. Me? Five more years and I’m gone. Montana. Idaho. Typical cop cliche, but that’s fine with me. That’s if I can talk my wife into it, and survive five more years. Blood pressure too high. Cholesterol too high. Putting on pounds. Tired a lot because I can’t sleep at night. They say it’s pressure, but I don’t know. What’s pressure? Everyone’s got pressure. Being a cop was never more than a job for me. But somehow, that wasn’t enough to get me through the years without wearing down. I’m not like Warren. Or you.”
Hood and Marlon had had the first part of this conversation a year ago, just before Marlon got Hood onto the Bulldogs. Marlon had been in Vietnam and Hood had been in Iraq, so they had things in common. Marlon was a patrol sergeant and Hood did investigations with NCIS. Marlon knew what it was to be ambushed in a jungle, and Hood knew what it was to be ambushed in a desert town. But Hood also knew how it was to be hated by your own side. He felt betrayed and alone. He understood Jim Warren’s need to find men he could believe in. Hood had it, too.
“You think Bradley Jones blew Kick away?” Marlon asked.
Hood nodded. “Her birthday was yesterday. I hope I’m wrong.”
“Me, too,” said Marlon. “I liked Bradley. He’d make a deputy someday.”
“I told him that.”
“And what’s he think?”
“He likes the idea but won’t admit it.”
“He still running his own little hoodlum crew?”
“I think so.”
“Does he still hate you?”
“Mostly.”
“He might get over that.”
“He sets a course and follows it, just like his mother.”
“Stupid. I don’t mean she was stupid. You know what I mean.”
24
Hood called Erin and told her about Kick.
“Bradley was here all night,” she said. “He’s still here-out in the barn. He’s pulling the engine on the truck.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I can’t tell you exactly where this place is.”
“I know where it is.”
“But-”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see you in less than an hour.”
Hood had gotten Bradley’s address from police at Cal State Los Angeles, where Bradley had registered but never attended class. Hood confirmed it by tracking one of Bradley’s gang-the forger-through Probation to the same address. Hood wasn’t surprised to find that he was living in Antelope Valley. Bradley lived on an unimproved, unmaintained county road, in a house he didn’t own, far from L.A.
A few minutes later Hood steered the Camaro down Soledad Canyon Road toward Acton, a town of just a few hundred people spread over a few miles, tidy homes, large parcels, horses, hills and blue sky.
His first turn off of Soledad Canyon was a dirt road, wide and freshly bladed and running north. The second dirt road was narrower and turned to washboard that attacked the stiff suspension of Hood’s IROC and threatened to demolish the interior. The third dirt road was narrower still but the washboard ended. He stopped at the chain-link gate, pulled the chain and padlocks off the pipe rail, swung it open, ignored the “No Trespassing” sign and drove through. When he got out to close the gate a soft cloud of dust surrounded him.
Further down, the road improved. There was a pasture and a few head of cattle, and the sage and foxtail brome was dense and healthy from the rain. He passed a small stream and an outcropping of rocks. It looked to Hood like a good place for grinding acorns and chipping arrowheads and keeping watch. At first he thought he saw a ground squirrel sitting atop the highest point, then he realized that it was a surveillance camera.
Hood drove around a long bend, down an incline, then out into a broad meadow. There were buildings on the far upper slope of the meadow. The meadow was fenced and he could see horses, some grazing, some watching his car. He came to an electric chain-link gate, and a small speaker stand and keypad.
He pressed the CALL button and waited. A pack of Doberman pinschers and a small Jack Russell terrier barked and growled from the other side of the gate. He pressed CALL again. Bradley’s voice was half static.
“Beat it, Hood.”
“Nice dogs.”
“Have a nice day.”
“Kick’s dead. I can make this official business or not.”
“What’s the ‘not’ get me?”
“It allows you to open the gate and talk to me here where you live.”
“Otherwise you drag me to the station and hook up the cattle prods? Or do you waterboard now?”
“If you’d like. I want to say hi to Erin and I’ll say yes to a cup of coffee.”
Hood could hear Bradley talking to someone. He didn’t sound happy. Finally the gate opened and the Dobermans charged out and came to Hood’s side of the car, snapping, sharp-eared, sleek and muscled. The terrier finally couldn’t restrain himself any longer and he sank his teeth into the leg of the Doberman in front of him. The Dobie wheeled shrieking and the Jack Russell bolted away. But they didn’t touch the Camaro. They stayed almost exactly one yard away. When Hood tapped the gas and passed them they spread out on either side of the road and sprinted ahead of him all the way to the house, the terrier lagging far behind.
Hood parked in the circular asphalt driveway in front of the house. It was a sprawling one-story with faded yellow paint and a roof of buckling wood shingles eager to burn. Bright beach towels hung in the windows instead of curtains. There was a deck out front with an awning over it and an older man stood leaning on the railing, looking down at Hood. He was dressed in jeans and flip-flops and a USC sweatshirt. He wore sunglasses. The dogs had lined up along the deck to look down on Hood, too.
He cut the engine and lowered a window.
“You’re Hood.”
“I know that. Who are you?”
“Bradley told me all about you. This is private property you’re on.”
“Somebody let me in.”
“I own this land and this house. It’s paid for. I’ll die here and that’s fine with me. You have to die somewhere, so it may as well be with your dogs.”
“It may be sooner than you think with that roof.”
“I got the brush cleared back. Two hundred feet is what they recommend but I did three hundred. I do extra on things I care about.”
“You sure talk a lot for a guy with no name.”
“Preston.”
“Well, Preston, where is he?”
“Come on up. This way.”
“You have those dogs under control?”
“You’d know if I didn’t.”
The deck needed refinishing and creaked underfoot. Two of the dogs smelled Hood’s pants and boots and the others panted and watched him. Preston shouldered through the door and Hood followed him in. The living room was beaten leather couches, old concert posters tacked to the walls, and two acoustic guitars gleaming in their stands. In the corner was a baby grand piano, polished and stately.
“Erin’s a musician,” said Preston. Hood looked at him and saw the odd angle of his head as he spoke. “Come on.”
Preston led him through the living room and down a short hallway. He turned right into a kitchen. It was dark and small and to Hood it looked scantily equipped. Beyond the kitchen was a dining room and at the table sat a chunky fiftyish woman in a blue bathrobe. The Sunday L.A. Times was piled on the floor beside her and a stack of advertisements and coupons waited on the table in front of her.
“That’s Wanda,” said Preston, looking at the woman with that odd angle of head. “I’ll bet she’s keeping up with world events.”
“You’re Hood,” she said.
“I can’t fool anyone,” he said, realizing that Preston was blind.