“You’re with the Prince.”

“Isn’t it interesting that you’re not quite sure?”

“Then what’s your goal?”

“Annihilation. The annihilation of the King’s law and all his followers.”

“You just made a hash of that nondisclosure agreement, Mike.”

“It was the wine.”

“No, it wasn’t. So why? If you’re who you say you are now, why tell me all this?”

Finnegan was quiet for a long moment. “First, because I know you won’t believe me. I’m completely safe with you. I’ve told the truth to law enforcement officers before, but you refuse to listen and hear. Which is half the reason we’re able to get anything at all accomplished-people in general just will not believe. Second, I tell you all this because you are just the kind of person I would love to form a relationship, then a partnership, with. It likely wouldn’t happen-you’re much too strong-willed and law-abiding for the likes of me. Unless, of course, there was something that you wanted very, very badly… something I could help you with.”

Hood thought for a moment. “What about the King’s helpers? Are they like you?”

“By and large. We follow the same rules. They outnumber us badly. They are not terrifically intelligent, more like frat boys in a way. We have opposing goals, of course. We don’t mix. To us, the King’s men and women smell bad. And we smell bad to them. It’s an evolutionary thing, rather doggish actually. I can ID one of Bigfoot’s helpers just by smell alone from ten, maybe fifteen feet away.”

“Bigfoot?”

“We make up other nicknames for the King because we don’t enjoy saying his true name, and to bring some sense of humor to things-Bigfoot is popular now. The Fist, Big Bore, the Fat Lady. These days, Bigfoot’s helpers are calling the Prince the Queen, or the Shitbird, or Slimebucket, things like that. Some of those names they got from you in law enforcement. We all love TV and crime novels. You’ll hear some pretty colorful language fly when we get to drinking.”

“Like a bar full of you?”

“Exactly. We socialize some, trade information, mostly just get sloshed and complain about the hours and the bosses. I have my sympathies for the workingman and -woman, I can tell you.”

“I’d like to sit in on one of those,” said Hood.

“Those are private, Charlie,” Mike said quietly.

“What did you do while the Zetas stormed in here?”

“What do you mean, do? I can’t move.”

“Did you know when it would happen?”

“Only that it had to. The nature of things. When I heard the first shots, I summoned the nurse with the CALL button and tried to dial the phone for security, but with one hand it took a while. Five dead. It sounded like many more. I’ll give you some advice if you want it. Don’t count on Luna for help again. Don’t count on him at all.”

Hood got the tiger feeling again. “How do you know about Luna?”

“Oh, that’s funny, Charlie. My beat doesn’t stop at the border!”

Hood took Finnegan’s cup and poured the last of his wine into it. “Has Owens heard all this?”

“Bits. Hints. I don’t want to burden her. She believes fully in my alleged madness. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“I don’t believe she’s your daughter.”

“She is not. But she believes she is my daughter, Charlie. And my heart sinks every time I see those scars.”

“Then what is she to you?”

“Do the scars draw you to her or push you away from her?”

“Is she a partner?”

“She’s too damaged.”

“I went to your place on Aviation. You’re not running a bath products business out of there. If you are, it’s small and disorganized and occasional.”

“It’s all of that. It’s one of many stories, Charlie, all partially true. The story of the carignane is not totally false.”

Hood nodded. He watched Finnegan. The little man slurped the last of the wine like a child finishing a milk shake. Then he sighed.

“What’s that steel mesh vest in your closet for?”

Finnegan stared at Hood. “It’s to be a gift. It’s bullet- and knife-proof. It belonged to an acquaintance, handcrafted by a Frenchman in Bakersfield. This was some time ago. I know someone who should have it now.”

“What about the clips in your notebooks-the white-collar criminals, the precocious children, the inventions? All in California, weren’t they?”

Finnegan exhaled loud and long. “You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.”

“Did Bradley tell you he has the head of Joaquin?”

“Oh, yes. As I said, I could hardly shut the boy up. He thought he was dazzling me.”

A tiger on the march, thought Hood. His scalp crawled. “Tell me about Ron Pace.”

“I’ve met him. The last of the Ring of Fire, Ron, a gunmaker extraordinaire. Just a kid. I don’t think I have to explain his potential to a Blowdown agent.”

“Do you have a partnership with him?”

“No. He was immature, suspicious, reactionary. When Pace Arms ceased manufacture, I moved him down on the roster. Injured reserve, so to speak. Do you really believe these things I’m telling you?”

“Why would you help me get Jimmy back?”

Finnegan stared at him for another long moment. “Mere killers must not always prevail. Our goal is that chaos and strife and enmity prevail. Some good competition. Personally I’d like to see you go forth and kick some ass, Charlie. I understand your problem. You are suffering under the rules of play. I know how badly you’d love to run down there and behead a few of those bad men. And rescue poor Jimmy. I’m on your side.”

“Then help me do it, Mike.”

Finnegan’s eyes twinkled back beyond the wraps. “I think I’m beginning to convince you. We have partnerships with law enforcement all over the planet, you know.”

“I’m too old and stubborn. Old dog, new tricks, all that. What if I got mad and pitched you out a window or something?”

“I’d come crawling back up.” Mike cackled softly. “Charlie, good partnerships between two beings, whoever or whatever they might be, can be built upon only one thing-truth. We are all of us saddled by this, men and women, the blessed and the damned. Thus do I stand in truth before you. Lay before you, actually.”

Hood picked up the empty wine bottle and set it in the small wastebasket beside Finnegan’s bed. “Where’s Jimmy?”

“I’d tell you if I knew.”

“What good is drinking with the devil if I can’t get some good intel?”

“Not the devil. A devil. A mere journeyman. But let me see what I can do.”

From home, Hood called Soriana and told him there was a patient at Imperial Mercy who knew more than he should about too many classified things. He asked Soriana to file a federal request-for-information between ATFE and the FBI, DEA, CIA, military intelligence agencies, the postal service-any federal bodies that may have employed the man. Soriana said that, given the current situation, the request would be low priority and weeks in the filling. He’d try. Hood made a note to petition Sacramento and all Southern California county governments tomorrow morning early.

He went outside and cracked a beer and sat in the dark heat and watched another Guard convoy rolling in from the west. He thought that Mike Finnegan was probably insane and possibly dangerous. Information could be a weapon. Hood did not believe that armies of devils had worked for centuries on earth to win the hearts and minds of frail and temporary humanity. Stories are lies that lead us to the truth.

The navy helos prowled above, their searchlights straining to reveal an event that had happened and was now both over and ongoing.