“How’s Chester?”

She studied Hood. “The caves rim the Pacific coast from Chile to Alaska. Not far offshore. Some believe they’re inhabited. I say believe what you want because the Mayan calendar only goes up to the year 2012. Just do the math on that one. Chet? Oh, he’s back, of course. I don’t see much of him for how much of him there is to see.”

Hood nodded. “What did Ron tell you about the big project starting up?”

“He didn’t say much. He called it a secret job and he’d be able to give me details someday but not yet. I can tell when Ron is excited about something. He glows. He always did, even as a little boy. The first Slinky he ever got in his Christmas stocking? You could have lit all of Seattle with the light on Ronnie’s face. He’s got two speeds-zero and full blast. And when something excites him, look out.”

“I wonder,” said Hood.

“Wonder what?”

“If he might be making guns again.”

“That’s prohibited by the terms of the judgment.”

“Yes, I guess it would be.”

“But who’s to say he’s not making guns in one of those caves?”

“I doubt that, Maureen.”

“Well, making guns is the only thing he knows how to do, so…”

Hood nodded.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked.

“One of the newspapers had it. From years ago.”

She studied Hood again. He sensed in her a patience that might be endless. “What did you say you did for us?”

“Down in manufacturing mostly. Built a whole lot of Hawk twenty-twos and a fair amount of the nines.”

“Oh, that twenty-two Long was a sweet pistol.”

“Still is.”

“I carried one until they took it away. Never used it except once at a restaurant. I was seated outside and I put it on my place mat to hold it down in the wind. They frowned on that!”

“I’ll bet.”

“But really, we’re responsible for our actions. Finally, finally, we are.” Her gaze held Hood for a long beat, then she looked outside. “The kittens are in the fountain again.”

“Nice.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“I worked nights and swing, so I didn’t see much of the higher-ups.”

“You wouldn’t be a lawyer, would you, sniffing around for some money that isn’t there?”

“No. I’m just a gunmaker looking for a job.”

“Good luck, Mr. Fischer. The Ring of Fire is dead and gone now. Too bad. There were six different companies at one time, and Paces ran four of them. There was Tony, my first husband, and then Chet, and all their brothers and sisters. Seven impressive Paces. Chet was huge and Barb was tiny, so figure that one out. They all got married and had kids and made guns by the skil-dillion. Pretty much all the upper management were Paces by blood or marriage. Good jobs and good pay and good products. The liberals killed us. They think guns run out on the streets and shoot people. They think guns rape women and sell drugs. They think guns walk into classrooms and kill students. They don’t have the guts to look into their own souls and blame human behavior on the humans. They think… well, I don’t know what they think. But they kept looking for a way to shut us down. When that gun went off accidentally and little Miles died, it was the end of everything. He was a beautiful little boy. It gutted the Ring of Fire. Scattered the Paces. Look at me. A crazy lady in a nuthouse and I’m all of forty-eight years old. Can you believe that? Look at me, Sam. I feel like the ruins of civilization itself.”

Hood looked. “You’re still young and lovely.”

“Of course you say that. But I detect dishonesty in you. It’s time for you to go. I hope you find employment.”

Hood drove back to Pace Arms and resumed his stakeout. His conscience muttered to him about lying to a crazy woman, but he told himself it was for the greater good. He knew this was the first refuge of the scoundrel but tried to believe it anyway.

Again he waited for the call about Jimmy, but there was no call. Forty-eight hours now. His muttering conscience went silent and his heart filled with uneasy anger.

Then the phone finally rang, but it was Buenavista PD captain Gabe Reyes reporting that he’d found a cell phone and a charger under Mike Finnegan’s pillow an hour ago. None of the nurses had ever seen the phone or heard him talking on it, and when Reyes went to the messages and call logs and contacts, they contained not a single name, number, or message.

“He said he never used it,” said Reyes. “That it was just for emergencies. It’s one of those prepaid models. I think he was whispering or texting. That’s why they never heard him talk.”

“Whispering or texting who?”

“I doubt it was somebody wanting to buy a shower curtain. You don’t hide a phone and not use it. And I checked-if you lie in that bed where he does, and you can use your right hand, there’s an outlet within reaching distance. He could have been using and charging that thing late at night when the nurses were changing shift, not paying such close attention.”

Hood thought that all of Gabriel’s police work added up nicely, but he wasn’t sure to what. “Thanks, Gabe.”

“I want to get Father Quang to talk with Finnegan.”

“Explain.”

“He’s a priest out of El Centro. Vietnamese, you know, a lot of them are good Catholics. Quang has a deep sense of evil because he has seen things. He is bright. I think he might help us cut through some of Mike’s bullshit.”

“I’d like to be there for that.”

“Sure. One more thing, deputy. Beth said IHOP was terrific. She had a light in her eyes. Treat her well.”

“Yes, I will.”

Around nine o’clock, Hood got out of his truck and shut the door quietly and trotted across the street. He climbed the fence and strode across the entrance walkway and the little perimeter of flower bed. He followed the edge of the building until he found a dark and sheltered place, then he squatted amidst the shade-tolerant begonias and rhododendron and African violets and looked through the smoked glass. An early article about Pace Arms said that manufacturing was done on the first floor, and this appeared to be true. In the faint light within, Hood saw the twelve men working diligently at their benches, all fingers and elbows, all working on what appeared to be small-caliber semiautomatic pistols.

Back in business, he thought.

He was almost all the way home to Buenavista when Ozburn called: Raydel Luna was here in California and Jimmy was alive somewhere down in Mexico, and there was a plan.

29

They set off in their own vehicles, Hood in his black Tahoe and Ozburn in his Land Cruiser still caked with dry pale mud and Bly in her black Suburban, a dark posse charging down the highway through the deeper dark of night.

Hood brought up the rear, keeping his eyes on the divider and on the back of Janet’s ride, but along the peripheries of his sight the spindly ocotillos rushed by and the paloverdes marched full and rounded, through the headlight beams and to the north the quarter moon sketched the outlines of the distant mountains against the sky.

Luna was waiting at a bar called the Corral on Highway 98 just outside of Quartz. The Corral came into view ahead on Hood’s left. There were cars out front. He watched Ozburn drive by without slowing, then Bly and Hood did the same. The restaurant sign was dim and read only CORRA. A mile past, Ozburn signaled and flogged it, then skidded into a smoking U-turn across the highway and came back at Hood with a merry flashing of brights. Hood smiled, and when it was his turn he did the same. They parked noses-out in the lot, Bly and Hood near each end and Ozburn in the middle. Hood could hear music playing inside, a loud corrido.

Hood pushed through the door first. The music jumped in volume and he saw the pool players and the drinkers and the smoke drifting into the rafters. Faces turned his way, washed in the red light of candles in red glass domes on the tables and along the bar. Luna sat in the depths of the room with two other men.