Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(59)

She smiled, a little sadly. “Maybe I’m what was lost.”

He realized his question had been stupid. She’d left her homeland, her aging father, her childhood. Al for the sake of a better life in the north. And now Wil was taking her away from that.

She unclasped the necklace, pressed it into his hand. “Stay with me here, mi amor. Cancel the flight.”

She kissed him again.

He felt the blood stop pounding in his temples, start col ecting lower in his body, stirring a different kind of pressure.

They hadn’t made love since the baby arrived. It was probably stil too soon.

She had not delivered in the hospital, of course. Stirman wanted no paper trails, no legal questions.

Soledad was his creation. Their marriage had been secret for the same reason. He would not share her, or her child, with anyone.

But the delivery had been difficult. The old curandera midwife had commented on the amount of blood.

For the first time, Wil had seen fear and pain in Soledad’s eyes, and he resented the child for that.

She slipped her hand underneath his belt, bit his ear.

Then the baby started crying, setting Wil ’s nerves on edge.

He didn’t want to take the child with them. He wished she had agreed to his idea of giving the baby away.

He felt no guilt about this, only the need to not offend Soledad.

“Go on,” he said, seeing her attention divided. “Tend to him.”

Her lips brushed his forehead. “Let your enemies break against you, mi amor. They cannot hurt you.”

“Don’t forget to make an extra bottle.”

She looked in his eyes for what would be the last time—the same undaunted look she always gave him, mutely reminding him that she had faced every horror a woman could face, some of those because of Wil , yet she was not afraid. She had stayed with him this far. She didn’t want to leave, but she would go into exile with him, or walk into gunfire. She would do whatever was needed to protect him, because as much as he claimed to own her, she had purchased him.

She rose to tend the child.

Wil stared down at the silver necklace in his hand. In a flash of resentment, he dropped the medal ion into the space beneath the floorboard where he normal y hid his cash.

Let Saint Anthony stay in San Antonio. Soledad would have no more need of him. Wil would protect her.

He would make sure she never suffered loss again.

He closed up the secret place in the floor, and made his phone cal to Gerry Far. A moment later, the apartment door exploded.

A police siren brought Wil back to the present.

The patrol car was several blocks up Roosevelt, red lights flashing, the cop tapping his bul horn as he pul ed through traffic.

Wil was prepared to turn on a side street, to run if he had to, but a block away from him the police car veered into a residential neighborhood.

Probably nothing to do with him.

He turned on the radio. Immediately, the newscaster said, “—al eged leader of the Floresvil e Five.”

Wil turned it off. He didn’t want to know. His nerves were frayed enough. It was seven in the evening, sun going down. He needed to find a store to rob.

Final y a corner sign caught his interest—ZUNIGA’S PRODUCE. The name sounded familiar, though Wil was sure he’d never seen the place before.

Its wal s were an odd color of stucco, like Chinese skin, so veined with cracks they seemed ready to fal apart. The doors were propped open with Black Diamond watermelons. Heaped outside were wooden crates of other produce—tomatoes, avocados, chili peppers, plantains.

No cars were parked out front. No customers at al , that Wil could see. The store wouldn’t have much cash in the til , but it wouldn’t have surveil ance cameras, either. Maybe the workers would be il egals. The owner would have no great desire to cal the police.

Zuniga.

The name tugged at Wil ’s memory, but he put it down to nerves.

He imagined Reverend Riggs’ laser-blue eyes staring into him, trying to burn a hole in the small part of Wil ’s conscience that stil believed in God.

He parked the car. He’d hesitated long enough.

Inside were two aisles—one for groceries, the other for produce. There was no one behind the counter— just a curtain to a back office, a cigarette rack, a black-and-white television with a Spanish telenovela flickering on the screen.

In the produce section, an aging Latino in a tank top and sweat pants and rubber galoshes was spraying down the fruit. The line of mirrors over the vegetable bins al reflected his bel y.

A cleaver, a heap of rubber bands, and a large mound of green onions sat next to him. The grocer’s eyes were watering like crazy. Like he’d just taken a break from chopping and tying the cebollas into bundles. Or maybe he’d been fol owing the telenovela.

He looked over tearful y as Wil picked up a shopping basket.

“Nice seein’ the sun out there,” Wil told him.

The man shrugged. He went back to spraying his apples.

Wil picked up three dusty soup cans, a loaf of Wonder Bread, Fig Newtons, chocolate bars—whatever didn’t look too stale. He was conscious of the gun under his Hawaiian shirt, the grip digging into his abdomen.

He moved to the produce aisle, where things were much better tended. He picked up an orange, some apples, a pint of strawberries. The smel of the strawberries reminded him of the prison yard—hot summer afternoons, a thousand acres ripening in the fields al around Floresvil e.