At the motel he asked for a room upstairs in back, paid cash for one night. He walked across the mostly empty parking lot toward his room. Just a couple of weeks from now the snowbirds will be packing in here, Ozburn thought. He fondly remembered his mother and father, who had mounted many a family vacation in their Winnebago-four kids, six bikes, a dune buggy and always a dog or two. From Dallas, it was a long drive anywhere.
In the motel room he checked his cell messages and downloaded the e-mails to his laptop.
He read them, then wrote Seliah: From Sean Gravas [[email protected]] Sent: Friday, October 14, 2011 10:02 p.m. To: Ozburn, Seliah Subject: If Dear Sel, If I could touch you I would. If I could see you I would. If I could tell you where I am and what I'm doing-I WOULD. Be STRONG for me and we will be together soon. Six years ago when I promised better or worse, it was a statement of fact, too. There is no power on EARTH or HEAVEN or HELL that can keep me from you when OUR TIME comes. Have faith in me as I have faith in you. Sean
PS. Daisy says hello.
PSS. Hi, Charlie-I assume you have Sel's password now?
Ozburn paused, then sent the message. He knew the reference to Charlie was a breach of his cover story-if his North Baja Cartel 'partners' were to get his laptop and read his outgoing mail, they might well wonder who the hell this Charlie was. Over my dead body, he thought. And screw Herredia. Screw his North Baja Cartel. Yes, I will screw them royally.
He stripped down and turned on the shower. The sight of the water coming from the head brought a painful ache to his throat. Weird. He wondered if it was a delayed reaction to Mateo's veiled threats and the gunman's move to shoot Daisy. But neither of those things had bothered him at the time, and what a nice growl or two I gave them, he thought. He had been fighting the urge to growl for more than a week now, and tonight he'd just let it come.
He stepped under the stream of falling water but he couldn't get the temperature right-first too hot, then too cold-then he realized it wasn't the temperature that was annoying him. It was the water itself. It was formless and threatening and suffocating. Eager to fill and penetrate. He shut the water off and lathered and shampooed, then turned it back on only long enough to rinse off. He shuddered as he dried, watching the liquid circle and slurp down the drain, his throat muscles on the verge of cramping. Last night the headache just about killed me, he thought. Now this. And Seliah going through the same shit I was, a couple of weeks back. What's happening?
He got his vitamins and supplements out of the duffel and laid them out on the bathroom counter-packets of multiples, extra B complex, glucosamine and chondroitin, protein capsules, omega oils-all the things he'd sworn by since his diving days in college. He'd never really been sick a day in his life and he was pretty sure this was why. Now it seemed logical that these natural things would reduce the aching in his body and maybe even calm the frightening tangents of his mind. He counted out his usual dosage and choked them down with some tap water.
He lay down on the bed and thought of Seliah, and after an hour the neck pain went away. He dozed. He awoke ferociously thirsty and he was able to drink. It was the most satisfying and delicious drink he had ever had.
He tried to sleep but he couldn't. He breathed deeply and dangled a hand off the bedside to stroke Daisy's smooth black head.
10
Hood rose early to call the rest of the Desert Flyers about Sean Ozburn and his missing Piper Cub. He'd struck out last night; then it had gotten late. Now he drank coffee while he woke up, and the morning news out of L.A. droned on from the kitchen TV. Standing out on his patio, he saw the sun climbing slowly over the distant mountains. Hood was a sunrise man and this part of the morning always made him thankful.
'Next, Bradley Jones, a young Los Angeles deputy on his very first patrol rescues a kidnapped boy and leaves three men dead in a Maywood shoot-out…'
Hood's coffee cup stopped midway to his mouth. He went back inside and set down the cup and turned up the volume. The anchor-woman continued talking as Bradley Jones appeared on-screen, bloodied and dazed, walking out onto the porch of a house holding a boy.
'Last night around ten fifteen two LASD patrol units responded to a silent alarm in unincorporated Maywood. Deputies Bradley Jones and Caroline Vega entered a residence and discovered a small boy, bound and gagged. A violent shoot-out followed. Three men were killed and Deputy Jones was seriously wounded. It was Jones's first patrol as a deputy. Now, you can see in this video that he is bleeding profusely. That's a potato peeler protruding from his chest. The deputy was attacked during the incident. An Amber Alert had been issued yesterday afternoon for the boy, and the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department says he was kidnapped by narcotics traffickers who asked an undisclosed ransom. There is speculation that this little boy may have tripped that alarm himself. Here's what the deputies had to say to FOX's Theresa Brewer.'
Hood watched as Bradley talked to the reporter, handed the boy over to another LASD deputy, then sat down on the front porch and passed out. Then a fast-forward to Deputy Vega speaking to the reporter as she escorted the boy toward a cruiser. The news anchor went on to say that the dead men were yet to be identified and that Deputy Jones was in stable condition at County/USC Medical Center. The incident was being investigated by an LASD team.
Hood smiled and took up his coffee again. He laughed quietly. He shook his head. He had known Bradley since the boy was sixteen. Back then he was a brash, strong kid who looked like he needed a little guidance in life. Hood had encouraged him toward law enforcement. But Hood had also won the affections of Bradley's mother, Suzanne, and Bradley had never forgiven him for that. Or for arresting her. Or for being there when she died.
Suzanne's death had changed them both, but Bradley the most: He had sworn revenge on her young killer and taken it, Hood knew-though the murder remained unsolved. Bradley hadn't even been eighteen at the time.
And he had still gone into law enforcement, as Hood had encouraged him.
Now, on his first patrol, three men dead and a boy saved and Bradley a bloodied hero.
A hero to some and a scourge to others, thought Hood. So much like his famous ancestor, the outlaw Joaquin Murrieta. So much like his mother. Hood had loved her in spite of all that. And in spite of all this he bore a grudging admiration for the audacity, smarts and luck of her son.
He called a captain friend at LASD who said that Bradley had been released from County/USC.
Next he called more of the Desert Flyers and finally came up with George. George owned a 'clean little landing strip' near Calexico, and Sean had asked him a couple of weeks ago if he could use it. George said yes because he liked Sean, and he liked the idea that the ATF might get some use out of his humble runway. Hood got three names and numbers from George, all DF members who owned private airstrips. All three told Hood they'd given Sean clearance-two, maybe three weeks ago. Hood had chosen the landing strip closest to Buenavista and hoped for luck. Hood made the Calexico airstrip just before ten. No Betty. No planes at all. But he found fresh aircraft tire tracks and the kibble slopped around the imprint of a bowl left in the runway sand and the boot and dog prints leading down the dirt road toward town.
Now he followed the boot prints toward Calexico. Daisy's dainty prints were in the lead. The morning grew hot and by the time Hood came to the last of the tracks, he was standing on Cole Meadows Road looking south to the city.
The first motel he came to was the Mesa, where the manager recognized Hood's photograph of Sean Ozburn without hesitation.
'You missed him by two hours,' said the manager. She was young and red-haired and reading a paperback vampire novel. When she had thoroughly examined Hood's U.S. Marshal's badge-a deputy was knighted a Federal Marshal when attached to a federal task force-she dug out a registration card. Hood recognized Ozburn's writing: Sean Newman, with an Oceanside address and a 760 prefix. She offered to let Hood have the card and even see the room if he wanted. The maids had not been in yet.
Hood stood in the upstairs room and saw the unmade bed and the small white towel bunched on the bathroom counter and the clear plastic cup by the faucet and the blow-dryer hanging from the wall. The ice
