Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(32)

“Which means you did.”

Lindy’s gaze wobbled, as if he were looking back through decades. “I once asked his advice on a personal matter. He counseled me as best he could. That was many years ago. I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

“What was the personal matter?”

“I don’t see that it is relevant.”

“Your family?”

The muscles in his jaw tightened. “My wife.”

I waited, but Lindy was not about to draw water from that well.

“You knew Longoria would be here this weekend,” I said. “He had reason to think Calavera would be on the island.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Chris Stowall’s business card and a candy skull were in Longoria’s suitcase. There was a note written on the back: June 5.”

“That seems slim evidence.”

“I also found an email stuck in Chris Stowall’s diary. Part of a correspondence between Calavera and a U.S. Marshal named Berry, Longoria’s boss.”

I couldn’t tell if that surprised Lindy or not, but he seemed to be composing his thoughts before he spoke again. “What was the nature of this correspondence?”

“I think Calavera was negotiating surrender. He wanted to offer testimony against his employers, probably in exchange for a new identity and federal protection.”

“And why would he make such a deal?”

“The Brazos hit at New Year’s might’ve shaken him up, made him remorseful.”

Lindy shook his head. “Mr. Navarre, an assassin like Calavera has no remorse. More likely his cartel employers were unhappy with his failure to kill Peter. Calavera was bargaining information to save his own worthless—”

“Peter,” I noticed. “First name.”

Lindy stared at me. Slowly he nodded with grudging appreciation. “You missed your calling, sir. You should have been a trial lawyer.”

“I married one,” I said. “That’s good enough.”

“If you think Calavera could be shaken up, if you think he had any conscience at all, you clearly haven’t read enough.” He picked up a yellowing newspaper from the table and handed it to me. It was a copy of the Kingsville Record, Lindy’s hometown newspaper, dated almost three years ago.

Before I could ask Lindy what this happened to be doing here, there was a tentative knock on the door: the maid, Imelda, stepped into the library, looking frazzled. “Excuse me, Señor Navarre. It’s your wife. I think you should come.”

Maia was lying on her side, a pillow between her legs, two under her head, one hugged against her chest. She looked uncomfortable and a little pale.

“Too much excitement,” she said. “That’s all.”

“She is having mild contractions,” Imelda said. “Pre-labor.”

I tried to keep my panic from showing. “Are you sure, Imelda?”

“I’ve had children, señor,” she said, like it was a subject she preferred not to talk about. “The señora needs to rest and be very still.”

“Or?”

“She might deliver.”

Be calm, I told myself. Keep it upbeat.

“You can’t deliver on Rebel Island,” I told Maia. “I want our child to have U.S. citizenship.”

Imelda looked confused. “But, señor, this is—”

“He’s teasing, Imelda,” Maia said. “Tres, the baby is fine. I’ll be fine.”

“We’re all fine,” I agreed. “Sure.”

Maia sighed. “Imelda, could you find some more pillows for my husband? I think he’s going into labor.”

Imelda looked more confused. “But—”

“She’s teasing,” I said.

“Ay, too much teasing,” Imelda scolded. “You should rest, señora. Perhaps some red-raspberry-leaf tea?”

“That sounds wonderful. Can you do that?”

“We have some in the kitchen, señora. And a portable heater for the water.” She fussed with Maia’s pillows a little more, then trudged off to get the tea.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I told Maia.

I followed Imelda and stopped her in the hallway.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice down, “if it came down to…you know—”

“Delivering the child, señor?”

“Yeah. Could you help?”

She tugged nervously on her wedding ring, which I didn’t figure was a good sign. “I would try, señor. But this is the señora’s first child. She is older. There could be complications.”

“How many children do you have?”

“I…two.”

“Grown?”

“…No.”

“Oh.”

Imelda twisted the cords of her apron. She had brown hair streaked with gold and white, like marbled fudge. If her husband’s face was fashioned for smiling, Imelda’s was made for stoic suffering. She had the pinched expression and weathered skin of someone who might have spent her life toiling in the fields, squinting against a hot sun.

“I will help if I can,” she told me. “I have done it before back in…back in Mexico. I think I could. I remember.”