A man's face appeared on the screen. The image was a still photograph, in color. He looked to be in his early fifties, with short silver-gray hair combed back, a heavily lined and sun-darkened face, a wide jaw that spoke of resolve, and gray, level eyes much the color of John's own. He was wearing a white knit shirt, unbuttoned. The overall impression he made on John Menden-the self-professed analyst of faces-was of bearing, competence, experience and intelligence.
"Let's call him Puma, for right now," said Weinstein. "He's a family man. See? He's married, with a twenty-two-year-old son just graduating from Stanford, and an eighteen-year-old daughter at the University of California, in Irvine. There they are, up in Palo Alto for the commencement."
On screen, the photographic portrait gave way to what looked like home-video footage of Puma with his wife and children. They are outside. The son is dressed in gown and mortarboard for a graduation. The daughter wears a white dress. The wife is in pink, smiling widely, and Puma himself has his arms around all three of them, scrunching them in toward him, his tan, lined face smiling and quite obviously proud. He tips the mortarboard down onto his son's face, and his wife rearranges it, revealing the young man's grin.
"Call the son Patrick," said Weinstein. "The daughter Valerie, the mother Carolyn."
John watched. Some of it was videotape, some were stills.
The family on the steps of the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake City The family-years earlier-at the beach. Patrick fast-breaking down the Stanford court. Valerie graduating from what must have been high school. Carolyn giving baths to a litter of wriggling puppies in a back yard toddler's pool. Puma kneeling alone on a vast white boulder, the body of a ram before him and that ram's head and enormous horns resting on his lap. Patrick, Valerie and Puma walking a gully in what looked to John like the Sand Hills of Nebraska, shotguns in their arms and a pair of springers working out in front of them. The pheasants come up the camera jostles to frame them; the pops of guns send two o the cock pheasants plummeting to the ground. Then a sequence in which the daughter commands a springer during a field-trial retrieve-hand signals only-directing the eager dog into a river across it, then left into a dense stand of cattails from which the dog emerges with a pigeon. Then Valerie kneeling beside her dog and a trophy.
"Now," said Weinstein. "August, five years ago. The day it all changed."
The video now showed what could only be police footage The scene is outside a fast food restaurant and the atmosphere is one of disaster. There is a perimeter of tape set up, and beside it dozens of people, mostly youths, mostly Latino in appearance stare in glum acceptance toward the restaurant. When the scene shifts inside, two bodies are heaped beneath a table next to a window pocked with holes.
"August fourth," said Weinstein. "These are the facts. Patrick was shot dead. Twenty-two years old, just out of Stanfon with a degree in history, engaged to be married in the Salt Lake City Temple the following spring. His mother, Carolyn, was injured, shot in the head. The bullet went through her son first likely because he saw what was going down and tried to cover her. She lived, sort of. She's been paralyzed from the waist down for five years, bedridden and brain-damaged. She talks, though not well. Collateral damage was three wounded, one seriously Depending on your beliefs, one of two things happened. One version is that an innocent person was murdered in cold blood and another paralyzed for life by a racist punk, simply for being white, and for being where they shouldn't have been. A hate crime, with all the special penalties hate crimes carry. That's what the DA tried to go with, at first. The other version was that; decent young Latino boy had defended his aunt from a man who had raped and beaten her the week before and who he feared had come back to do it again. That's what he was doing when he took out Patrick through the window of the fast food place. Carolyn, in this scenario, was a tragic accident. That the boy's aunt had been beaten and likely raped was established-bruises, cuts, vaginal abrasions. But she didn't report it until after her son had shot Patrick. She was afraid of being deported. The public defender struggled to establish that Patrick had committed the rape, but couldn't get far-no fluids, no blood-nothing but Teresa Descanso's word and a dead accused. During the trial, in this land of orange blossoms, rolling surf and Mickey Mouse, you defined your soul by what version you believed. You wanted the shooter's blood, or you thought he was a hero. It was ugly and divisive and unnecessary. But then, a lot of life is, it seems."
"I read about it," said Menden.
Next were still shots of the funeral, several showing the demolished countenance of Puma, his hair unkempt and his eyes swollen. Valerie's face looked like that of someone who had seen something she would never be able to unsee again.
The video ended. Weinstein used the remote to hit rewind. Silence filled the little room.
Weinstein took a hearty sip of water. His big Adam's apple bobbed with the swallow. "The alleged shooter was a boy of fifteen-good student, no gang involvement-a minor Latino activist of sorts. He'd written some rather… what, Sharon, vehement articles?"
"Childish articles."
"No, they were better than childish, but they were naive and strident. Anyway, he'd done some articles about La Raza and Aztlan for a class at his high school. You know, the stuff about the Mexicans reclaiming California for their race. Naive stuff, like I said, but it came up in court. He admitted the shooting, on the strength of his aunt's identification of Patrick, governed by fear for her safety and life. The jury finally hung on murder two, so he went back to jail. For reasons championed by the media and press, and finally agreed to by the DA, he wasn't tried again for Patrick. He got four years for mayhem on Carolyn, walked after two, moved to Mexico, they say. A controversial decision, to say the least. Maybe it was supposed to keep the lid on the pressure cooker. Maybe it was supposed to be a concession to an emotionally charged county minority that truly believed the kid was defending his family. This was before your time at the paper. You were in Key West, fishing, I believe."
John felt, not for the first time that his skin had been peeled back by Joshua and his people, affording them a full view of everything inside.
"I read about the trial," he said. "It wasn't big in the papers back there."
"It was big here. On the heels of O.J. and Prop. 187. Goodness, what a summer that was."
Weinstein sighed deeply, removed his glasses and massaged the sides of his nose. "How'd you do down in Key West, fish-wise?"
"Does it matter?"
"It couldn't possibly matter less."
"Then get on with it."
"Yeah, that's the spirit."
The glasses back on now, Joshua contemplated John with his voracious eyes. "Cut now to Puma. You need to know something about him. He came from a wealthy family that had been in the county since the early eighteen hundreds. A very wealthy family-bought land grants on the cheap, made a go with cattle and crops, sent sons into the assembly and Congress and watched the land value go out of sight after World War II. Puma was working at the time, that dreary August when he lost his son and most of his wife. He quit his job. He sold his house in Tustin and moved onto family land-a couple of thousand acres down in the south part of the county. The land is hilly and dry, but it overlooks the coast. It backs up against Pendleton Marine Base. It's got a lake. It's got oak savanna, coastal scrub, two hundred acres of orange trees. There was only one road into it, and Puma kept it that way. He built an eight-foot fence around it and wired it full of voltage. There's a guard house where the road comes into his property. He could have afforded electricity, gas and water, but he installed generators, propane and wells instead. He rebuilt the old mission-era house, which ran him almost a half a million dollars. When it was ready, he moved in with his paralyzed wife and his daughter. He began a business that is now thriving. And since then, no one sees him. He's there, of course-I don't mean he's disappeared-but he rarely leaves the place. Oh yes, it has a name. Liberty Ridge."
Liberty, thought John. He liked the sound of the word, though it wasn't a word you heard much anymore. And he knew the land that Weinstein was talking about. It was gorgeous land, tough land, filled with wildlife, nourished by the lake, with a commanding view from its peak. As a kid, John had hiked it, camped it, scavenged it for fossils and rocks and reptiles a hundred times.
John looked around the room, at the bare walls, the blank television monitor, the pale green carpet. For a moment, Puma's paralyzed wife and Liberty Ridge were just blips on the screen of his awareness. But then they grew in size, and he remembered why his stomach had tightened and his heart was now beating so loudly inside his rib cage. Puma was behind Rebecca.
Rebecca.
"Now," said Weinstein, "we need to. look forward, to the van used in the… assassination. Rather, to the repair shop from which the van was lifted. Sharon? You're on."
With this, Sharon Dumars rose and began pacing. At first she went back and forth in front of the screen, then extended her run to include the entire perimeter of the room. She looked for all the world, thought John, like a female version of Joshua.
"The shop is owned by someone whose name you don't need to know," she began. John detected the relish of power in her voice, the pride of one who commands. "This man has a brother-in-law. Brother-in-law works for Puma. Coincidence? Maybe or maybe not. Let's say it is. Puma, we learn, is a competent amateur engraver. He actually earned money during college working for a trophy company, even though his family was rich. Coincidence that the bullet casings left behind for us were engraved? Let's say that's a coincidence, too. Then, there's this-Puma loves to hunt big game, and big game hunters use big rifles, sometimes a. 30/ 06 caliber because it's powerful and accurate. Puma-and the men he hunts with-have taken and made four hundred and eighty yard shots. We know this because he's listed in the Boone amp;c Crockett record books, and in the Safari Club International record books. Coincidence again? Yes, let's call it all coincidence, again. We can afford to be generous."
With this, Dumars stopped at the table and drained the rest of her water. John noted the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the way her hair stuck at the temples.
"Then," she continued, "there's the fact, too, that Susan
Baum broke the story about Teresa Descanso-the shooter' aunt-accusing Patrick of rape. It was explosive. The accuse* murderer dumped the public defender because he couldn't get results on Patrick, and let Glory Redmond take the case pro bono. You can imagine the circus she made of it. She didn't even try to link Patrick to Descanso with physical evidence, which was smart. What better could they do-Redmond argued-than ai eyewitness? All the while, Baum crusaded in print, with a series of articles in which Descanso, then another woman, accused Patrick not only of the rape, but of solicitations for prostitution public drunkenness and aggravated assault. Baum argued to he readers what Redmond was arguing to her jury, that a white male-establishment-Orange County DA was ignoring the fact while prosecuting a fifteen-year old scholar for defending hi family. Orange County is supposed to be the hotbed of conservatism, the Republican citadel, the land of the John Birch Society right? Redmond and Baum set out to challenge that assumption And the question of Patrick's supposed exploits in the barrio-dramatized by Baum's articles-probably helped deadlock the jury. The shooter's name, by the way, was Jimmy Ruiz."
"I remember now," said John. "Justice please. Justice please Free the hero, Jimmy Ruiz."
"You weren't so out of touch down in Key West, were you?' asked Dumars with a smile.
"Stick to the story, Sharon," snapped Weinstein.
Dumars's smile faded. She looked at Joshua briefly, thei back to John.
"All right. To add insult to injury, Baum wrote an unflat tering column about Puma two years after the trial was over. Shi implied that Puma had become a loose cannon, a profiteer, a racist, a nuisance. Why? Because when Puma moved out to Liberty Ridge, he had opened a private investigation and security firm that catered to the rich and, she tried to prove, refused business from minorities of any color. Baum chose off Puma in print, be cause Puma had donated generously, very generously, to certain organizations that Ms. Baum dislikes. Organizations such as the California Association of Peace Officers, the NRA, the Freedom Foundation, the John Birch Society, Ducks Unlimited and the California Republican Committee. Her slant was something like 'here's a man so embittered by the death of his son that he's become infected with hatred.' Ms. Baum seemed to have a point as Puma had given money only to the Mormon church before Patrick was murdered. Since then, not a penny. I feel that the article was overly aggressive and a violation of Puma's privacy, though-"
"-Sharon, don't-"
"-Josh, let me continue… I agree completely with Baum's conclusions. But what I feel doesn't matter. So, back to our line of logic, is it coincidence again, that Susan Baum was the intended target? Okay, we can call it coincidence again."
Sharon made another run on the water machine, filling up her third cup. Then she pulled out one of the chairs and sat. John watched her coat-close back over the gun.
"When Puma went into his new business after Patrick's death, someone had to file a fictitious business statement, like any lawful company. We took a look at it. The statement ran in a little weekly paper down in San Juan Capistrano, which isn't far from Liberty Ridge. Everything was fine, done by the book, no problem. Trouble is, the original name chosen for his new company, we assume by Puma, was The Freedom Ring. They filed it on statements two consecutive weeks, but on the third week, no DBA was filed at all. Instead, a new name for what we can only assume was the same company-with the fictitious name of Liberty Operations. Some simple research of the newspaper's classified files showed us that The Freedom Ring and Liberty Operations DBA costs were covered by checks from the same account. That account belongs to one of Puma's inner circle- his head of security, if you will. Coincidence? No. Hell no. When enough coincidence piles up, it isn't coincidence anymore. The Freedom Ring claimed responsibility for Rebecca. Puma believed the name The Freedom Ring never really existed on record anywhere, and he was right-except for in the dusty files of a little mom and pop paper down in San Juan."
"Have you questioned him?" John asked.
Weinstein stood now and glanced at Dumars. "Thank you, Sharon. No, we've chosen not to. All we would really do is tip him that we're on. He'd have an alibi, and there sure wouldn't be any evidence of a crime left in plain sight around at Liberty Ridge. We're better off letting him believe we're not even looking his way, until we've got enough to justify a search. Questioning him now would be like…'
"-Scaring up the bird while it's still out of range," said Dumars.
"Exactly," said Weinstein. He smiled again-that smile so unmirthful, so produced. "John, there's a final element you should know about. Come."
Dumars stayed behind as John followed Joshua out of the room and back down the hallway, then around a corner and into another office. The room was small, lined with bookshelves and bathed by the same chilling, fluorescent light as the conference room. On the wall behind the desk was the Bureau's seal. A chair sat squared to the desk, empty. Joshua shut the door.
"We used to give school children tours of the building," said Weinstein. "Back before we had to check them for weapons They always wanted to see a real agent. See a real agent's gun. Sit in a real agent's chair. So, have a seat right there, John."
"I'll stand."
Joshua studied him, then walked around the desk and tool the chair himself. "I've got a cubicle. If I advance to Senior Special Agent, I'll get an office like this. Maybe this exact one.. who knows?"
Weinstein was quiet for a long while and John could feel the agent's black, rapacious eyes on him. Always measuring, John thought, always taking, always judging.
"I came here ten years ago. It was a good assignment but I grew up in New York and I thought, California, God, land of fruits and nuts, the self-worshipping and the self-ignorant. Even worse, Orange County. I thought the place would bore me to death in a month. But it didn't bore me at all. It had everything from slick investment hustles up in Newport Center to serial killers running up double digit stats. Orange County had a nice, eclectic criminal menu, and superb weather."
Weinstein offered his dismal little smile again. John leaned against a wall and considered the FBI seal behind the agent. "For instance," Weinstein went on, "there was a publisher in Little Saigon who got set on fire for suggesting we open relations with Hanoi, same time as Fluor Corporation out in Irvine was jockeying to be the first American behemoth into Vietnam, when Clinton opened it up. Then, there was this bright barrio kid who went to Harvard on scholarship and robbed banks here during his semester breaks-said you can't take the barrio out of the boy. There were hookers marching the stretch down Harbor, bikers and gangs and cutthroats and junkies. Everything. Everything."
Weinstein chuckled. To John, the agent actually looked relaxed now, leaning back in the chair behind the desk. An odd tone of reverie had come into his voice.
"But what made Orange County most interesting was Vann Holt. This was his office. He was a legend here-he'd gotten almost every commendation, award, citation and pay raise the Bureau has to offer-and he was still fairly young. I was very young then-twenty-six-I never really spent much time around him. I can't even tell you if he knew I was here. But I admired him because this guy-I'm telling you, John, this guy was absolutely possessed with the idea of crushing bad guys. He breathed it. He took a bombing case all the way from Santa Ana to the Gaza strip and back-and he identified the three bombers who took out an Arab gentleman right here in Santa Ana. Vann gutted a white supremacist cell that had serious plans to murder Coretta King. He just mashed the local operations of the Aryan Brotherhood, Kahane, the White Alliance-anybody with a race or holy war to wage. He found something here at the Bureau that very few people ever find-autonomy. Somehow, he rose above the sheer bureaucracy we operate under. He didn't break the rules so much as just, well, levitate above them. His results justified it, and his sense of personal honor enabled it. He was a mystery to everyone-and that is one very difficult thing to maintain in a Federal world. Vann Holt did it by holding the Bureau up to his standards. Back in eighty-six, he got the highest award the Bureau can bestow-the Director's Distinguished Service medal. It didn't seem to mean much to him."
Weinstein went quiet and looked away, allowing himself a pause for introspection.
John wondered if Weinstein had learned his intensity and his humorlessness from Vann Holt. He looked at Weinstein's profile and noted the clench of jaw, the hungry eyes, and the morose lines around his mouth.
And suddenly, John understood.
It appeared to him all at once, seemingly from nothing, like an oncoming vehicle through rain. The names, the stories and the setting all coalesced, and he knew.
"Puma," he said.
Joshua didn't react. He just swallowed and continued t stare at the wall. Finally, he looked back at John.
"I thought you might appreciate Holt's situation. You both lost someone very close to you to violence. A murdered son, murdered lover. You holed up in the desert and tried to forget, he holed up in Liberty Ridge. You two have a lot in common. What you don't have in common is this: Puma did something He tried to kill an enemy. You've done nothing but withdraw."
"And what have you done?"
Joshua raised his hands expansively. "Why, this, John. This, My work. I've spent a thousand hours trying to solve Rebecca murder. It practically took a papal dispensation to get assigned to it. But I prevailed. After all, I was not married to the victim. After all, they saw I wouldn't stop, no matter what they did. So they gave me a charge number and cut me loose."
"Why am I here?"
Joshua ignored the question. He leaned forward in the chair now, rested his forearms on the desk before him, and again aimed his unforgiving gaze at John. "You've begun to understand the power of loss, haven't you?"
"I believe so."
"And the hatred that fills a heart when love is removed?"
"That, too."
"Loss and hatred don't just go away, you know. They fester and curdle and grow and they will eat you alive if you let them. The cure is the act. You must do something about them."
"I know that."
"But you don't know what to do, do you? You can't drink your life away in Anza fucking Valley, now can you? No. So now what?"
"I don't know, yet."
"But you feel… willing, don't you? Inspired? All suited up for the big game, if you could just find the court?"
"Yeah, Weinstein, that's how I feel."
"Funny feeling. I know. I spent a lot of time like that-it was called training."
"Why am I here?"
The pale agent smiled his death mask of a smile. "Vann Holt murdered the woman I loved and wanted to marry, and I want you to help me take him down. For me. For Rebecca. And for yourself."
"How?"
"You would have to learn how, John. You would have to learn to act and to think. You would have to learn to take steps. One step, then another. I can open the book for you. I can help. And finally, what you learn will be tested, and tested very hard. When it's over, no matter how it ends, you will never be the same again. That's the only promise that I can make.