Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(108)

"I felt that," he said. “I knew there was nothing I could do, but I did something anyway."

"You almost died because of it. "

“I know. " He sounded content. "That’s not my question. I just wanted to know: Would you be able to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Realize when you’ve hit a brick wall."

"I think so."

“Would you be able to let go of it, like you said, and walk away?"

“Probably not."

He laughed with his eyes closed. "I think I’d rather get shot."

When he was asleep, he looked content, but his mouth kept moving, changing expressions, knitting and unknitting the frown that used to be the main feature of his face.

66

If funerals came in sizes, retired Chief Deputy Carl Kelley’s was extra small. It was me, Lillian, the priest, Larry Drapiewski, and Carl. No son from Austin. No other friends except those Carl was about to be buried next to. The only thing Carl left behind him was the brooch he’d given me just before he died, three nights ago in the Nix, with directions to give it to his son. I planned on keeping that promise. If I ever found the bastard, I planned on giving him a lot more than just the brooch.

After Drapiewski’s red jeep drove off, taking the priest back to his church, there was nothing stirring in the cemetery except the cicadas. They droned so persistently I started to doubt my own sanity at those moments when they suddenly stopped.

Lillian and I sat in a little gazebo outside the Sunset Mausoleum. It was a hundred degrees in the shade, a hundred and ten inside my black suit.

It was my turn to say: “Thank you for coming with me."

Lillian had her hands folded in her lap and her legs extended, crossed at the ankles. She looked distracted, like she was trying to read a tombstone several acres away.

“Really," I told her. “If you hadn’t been here we wouldn’t’ve had a quorum. Carl wouldn’t have been legally able to die."

Lillian looked at me, still following her own line of thought. "I wonder if it’s true, that we all turn into our parents as we get older."

“Thanks," I said. "That cheers me right up."

"I’m serious, Tres. It bothers me. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been able to apologize to you yet."

“What do you mean?"

She ran her thumb inside the arm opening of her black sheath dress. Even with her base tan, it  looked like Lillian’s shoulders were reddening from being outside so long.

“I mean the way my father scares me . . . the amount of violence he’s capable of. Sometimes what really scares me is I see that in myself."

“You’re not going to kill anyone, Lillian."

“No. No, that’s not what I mean."

When she exhaled she shuddered. I hadn’t realized how close she was to crying. She managed to contain it, just barely.

"I need to tell you," she said, with difficulty. “I need to tell you that part of me was glad you were hurting all those years. By the time I realized who my father had killed, how it related to your father’s murder—by that time you had left me, Tres. And in a way, it made me feel better, knowing that I was hurting you by not telling. I know that’s horrible—it scares me, that I could feel that way."

That was my cue to tell her it was okay. Foolishly, I found myself staring at Lillian’s legs instead, studying the way the black leather straps of her pumps cut just slightly into her calves.

Lillian sighed again; this one was a little less shaky. "I wasn’t just inviting you back here to use you, Tres. As hard as it may be to believe, I really do love you. But there’s that other side of me, the side that scares me, I that reminds me of my father. I keep asking myself if I was dragging you into this to deliberately hurt you some more."

My heart was trying to compress itself into something the size of a marble. The blood didn’t seem to be flowing right into my fingers. Here it was a hundred degrees, and my fingers felt cold.

“I’m telling you this because I’m trying to work through it," Lillian said. “I still love you. I’m trying to discard the other things and concentrate on that, but I need to know from you if it’s still worth me trying."

Contrasted with her black dress, her green eyes with their multicolored flecks looked especially brilliant. They were watering just a little, but there was a desperate fierceness to them. I saw what she needed me to say.

“Maia Lee was right. I just wasn’t listening."

Lillian’s expression rearranged itself when I said Maia’s name—the emotional equivalent of a strategic withdrawal. “She was right about what?"

"About you, and why you needed me back."

Lillian looked even more uncertain. “Does that mean—"

I shook my head. “No. I’m not going back to her. San Antonio is home."

"Then what?"

I rubbed my hands, trying to get some feeling into them. "I think there’s something else you’re afraid of. Something even more scary than turning out like your father."

Her face was already closing up, preparing for the blow. "What would that be?"

“Turning out like your mother—an old woman with a shoe box full of photos of a former lover who you can’t get rid of. I think you’re terrified of becoming that person."