Page 28 of The Family Cross

“That too,” he said agreeably. “But, you know, when I can find them, I microdose shrooms. Seems to help. Anyway, when it comes right down to it, the whole head-high-troll thing means little beyond ensuring I have a good place to sleep at night.”

I said, “Probably not a great idea to be dosing yourself, Hawk.”

He shrugged again. “Says you.”

Sampson said, “You’re not tripping now, are you, Mr. Rodriguez?”

“Gimme a break, man,” he said, frowning. “I just woke up.”

“What time did you wake up yesterday?”

He had to think about that. “Ten forty-five. Checkout was eleven.” He hadn’t been here, he explained. Once a week, if he had the cash, Rodriguez paid for a bed and a shower in a no-tell place called the Fall Flower Motel, a fleabag joint about two miles away across the Maryland line. When he’d heard the forecast for violent thunderstorms the other day, he’d decided to spend the night at the motel.

“Can anyone put you there?” I asked.

“Freaky-thin gal at the front desk and the maid, plus they got cameras facing the parking lot. I stayed in my room after I showered, did a microdose, smoked a little herb, drank a little Jimmy Beam, and watched LA play Dallas in hoops.”

“Who won?” Sampson was testing him.

“Lakers,” he said, sounding disgusted. “That guy Dončić is an animal. I can’t believe the Mavericks let him go.”

“We agree on one thing,” Sampson said. “When did you find out about the car burning with a body inside?”

Rodriguez thought about that. “I dunno—noon? By the time I got back, the whole place was taped off and you guys were putting little flags in the mud. Whole thing gave me the feeling, you know.”

“What feeling?”

“The kind you get sometimes when you’re totally connected to the mission, to the universe, and the spirit moves you, sees more than you, and you have a higher understanding. When you realize things seem good, but they aren’t good, they’re downright spooky.”

Sampson and I exchanged a glance, then shook our heads, wondering what kind of microdose hallucination Hawk had been having.

Rodriguez peered off as if in awe. “I saw that burned car down there and them taking the body out, and all I could think about was that guy shot and burned two weeks ago in back of a squat off New York Avenue.”

“I don’t know that case. Enlighten me,” John said.

“Didn’t see the body myself, but there’s like a street telegraph among us unhoused folks. Since I heard the story about the dude off New York Avenue from three different sources, I figured it was true.”

“A homeless guy was burned to death?” I asked.

“I heard he was shot first, then his body was lit on fire.”

“Not a priest?”

Hawk looked surprised. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“One witness said that the victim he saw in the car here was wearing a cleric’s collar.”

Sampson said, “Who was the first person to tell you about the victim from New York Avenue?”

Rodriguez thought about it. “Must have been Choir Boy. Yeah, that’s right. It was definitely Choir Boy. He said he saw the crispy critter there himself.”

27

JOHN SAMPSON AND I returned to St. Anthony’s Hospital around three thirty that afternoon. Bree looked up and smiled at us from her seat beside my grandmother’s bed.

“Good news,” she said. “Nana Mama had another CT scan about an hour ago. We aren’t out of the woods yet, but Dr. Ames says the swelling is definitely going down.”

I hugged her and gave Sampson a fist bump.