Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(55)

“Ha, ha. You have no idea how many double-As a Game Boy can go through in twenty-four hours. Come in.”

A meteor had impacted on the smooth surface of Planet Maia. In the middle of the living room’s milk- white carpet, Jem sat cross-legged, playing his Game Boy. He was surrounded by a debris ring of Nintendo cartridges and comic books and LEGO robots.

“Hey, champ,” I said.

He didn’t respond.

I exchanged looks with Maia. She pursed her lips.

“I brought lunch.” I sat next to Jem and unloaded my goodies with a series of ta-da flourishes. Checkered cloth. French bread, cheese, wine for the adults. A juice box, pizza Lunchables, and a cup of Dippin’ Dots futuristic ice cream for Jem.

He glanced at each item I produced, then went back to his game.

“Zapping good monsters?” I asked.

He lifted one shoulder. “My Gyarados is level thirty-five.”

I would’ve understood the statement just as wel in Japanese, but I tried to exude enthusiasm.

Maia sat with us. We munched on bread and cheese. I opened the wine. Jem let his bowl of ice cream dots melt.

“This isn’t like you, Tres,” Maia said. “A picnic? Almost romantic.”

“Yuck,” Jem muttered.

“Real y,” Maia agreed.

I thought that might coax a smile from him, but his expression stayed serious, his attention funneled toward the Game Boy like he wanted to pour himself into the tiny screen.

“Wel . . .” Maia said. “I guess I’l put these ice cream pel et things in the freezer, Jem, if you don’t want them right now.”

“I don’t.”

Maia arched her eyebrow at me, giving me a silent command. She took the melting snack-of-the-future into the kitchen.

Jem kept playing his game.

I waited for the best moment to say something. The best moment proved elusive.

“Jem,” I said at last. “You remember the man we saw at the soccer field?”

He pushed a few more buttons.

“That man’s angry at your mother,” I said. “She didn’t do anything wrong, but he thinks she stole some of his money. Your mother is worried. When people are mad, they can do stupid things. Sometimes they might hurt people without thinking. She didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know,” Jem said. “She told me.”

“Your mother is with that man right now.”

Black bangs fel in his eyes. “She’s at his house?”

“I’m not sure, champ. He’s keeping her somewhere, like a hostage. He wants me to bring him money, to make up for what he lost. Once I do that, he’l let your mom go.”

“We don’t have any money.”

“I’m working on that.” My throat felt dry. “I’m going to see the man tonight. I’l make sure your mother is okay. I’l convince him she didn’t do anything bad. I just wanted you to know—your mother loves you. That’s why you’re staying with Maia. More than anything, your mother wants to know you’re safe.”

Jem pul ed his legs in tighter. He cradled the Game Boy.

“Light’s red,” he murmured. “I wish I had more batteries.”

I tried to finish my wine, but it tasted like vinegar. “I’l clean up this stuff,” I said. “Be right back, champ.”

I found Maia at her kitchen window, staring out at the wooded canyon of Barton Creek. On her breakfast table was a spread of paperwork—her court cases, I assumed. Then I looked closer and saw they were news printouts about Wil Stirman and the Floresvil e Five.

She turned toward me, held out her arms.

The wine tasted a whole lot better on her lips.

I said, “Missed you.”

“Stay the night.”

“I can’t.”

I told her why.

Maia’s face got that battle-hardened look that always made me glad I was not the object of her anger.

“Stirman asked for Jem?”

“Yeah.”

My tone of voice must’ve unsettled her. She said, “You’re not seriously considering—”

“No. Jem’s safer here.” I tried to sound definite about it, but something nagged at the back of my mind, something that had been there since lunchtime, when I’d visited with Ralph Arguel o and his baby daughter.

“I don’t think Stirman would real y try coming to Austin. If he did, he sure as hel wouldn’t bargain for you.”

Maia stared out the window. “Jem keeps talking about soccer. He wants life to be normal by the weekend. I can’t blame him.”

She didn’t mention our last night together in San Marcos, or my promise to give her an answer about moving to Austin by this weekend.

I wondered how it had been for Maia, putting Jem to bed last night, taking care of a child. I found it hard to imagine her tel ing bedtime stories.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just nerves.” She waved toward the news clippings on the table. “This morning, I almost shot my neighbor when he came to borrow coffee. This is the first time I’ve opened my blinds since yesterday. I keep thinking, if Stirman had any skil with a sniper rifle . . .”

She gazed at the ridge across the val ey.

The view was strikingly similar to the one from her old Potrero Hil apartment. The land fel away into a basin of green, hil s on the opposite rim dotted with newly built mansions and condominiums. At night, the aquifer recharge zone below would be completely dark, but rimmed with lights, the Heart of Texas Highway strung red and gold across the void. A San Franciscan could easily imagine she was looking across an expanse of water at the Bay Bridge and the East Bay beyond.