The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(13)

I could call UT, cancel the damn extension course. My department head at UTSA had pushed me to take the job, to get some more upperdivision teaching experience under my belt, but he could live with the disappointment.

I let the engine idle. Next to me, Robert Johnson meowed complaints in his carrying cage. My Ford shuddered as a semi rig barrelled past.

I opened my backpack and pulled out the page and a half of notes I'd gleaned from my search on the agency computer. I read through them again, hoping I might be able to interpret them differently.

Unfortunately, Matthew Pena wasn't the thing that bothered me most. The real worry was down there at the bottom of my notes—the name of the law firm that had represented Pena in the Menlo Park shotgun suicide, and then successfully shielded him from charges in the Adrienne Selak drowning.

Pena had good taste. His legal firm was Terrence & Goldman of San Francisco.

Unless things had changed at Terrence & Goldman, they had only one criminal lawyer, a junior partner whose sole job was to defend their less socially upright corporate clients from their own vices, shield them against criminal inconveniences so they could continue to make millions. That lawyer was, unfortunately, the person I would have to call if I wanted more information on Matthew Pena.

I looked down the highway. Another big rig plowed past and all the metal on my pickup truck rattled.

Robert Johnson said, "Roww?"

There would be nights, later, when I'd lie awake wondering how my life would've been different had I turned around that morning on 135—later, after I'd seen things that made my previous repertoire of nightmares look like the Charlie Brown Halloween Special.

But I couldn't turn around, and I suspected that Garrett, damn him, had known I wouldn't all along.

I put the Ford into drive and started rolling north, heading into Austin.

Date: Sun I I Jun 2000 16:59:07 0000 From: TG Law@TG Law, n et To:

[email protected] Subject: magic thinking That was a good Christmas. Nineteen eightyseven.

You remember? It was the last time it snowed in Austin.

Pickup trucks were sliding down that big hill at Lamar and 24th—nobody had a clue how to drive on ice. Old women were breaking their hips, slipping on sidewalks.

Classes at UT closed down. All because of half an inch of snow.

Autumn had been rough for me, but I'd ended it feeling euphoric. I'd gotten through a bleak period, vented my anger on a few experiments—no one important, no one who would be missed.

Now I was feeling like the snow, like I could do the smallest thing, make the least effort, and I could shut down the whole town.

I decided to give myself an early Christmas present.

I remember it was a hard ride into the Hill Country. The roads were pitch black, glazed with ice that gleamed in the headlights of the little car I'd stolen. The barbed wire sparkled like Christmas garland. There was nothing except dark and mist and the scraggly outlines of bare trees.

I finally found the house where they were attending their party. Excuse me—gala. It was always a gala, with them. Huge ranch villa, the lawn crusted white, the driveway outlined with glowing luminarias. Real holly in the windows. A dozen topoftheline pickup trucks and BMWs in front. Their car was there, too—the old green Mercedes.

I watched from the road until I saw them through the window. The woman with a gray helmet of hair, a sequined black gown. The man in a rumpled brown suit, always the humble escort.

I smiled, watching them. I drove from the party all the way to the old couple's house, five miles away, then back again. here was only one route, and I knew the point where they would turn off, come around the hill, speed up in anticipation of home. It was a road nobody much used.

I parked my car on the shoulder, hugging the side of the hill.

I got out and waited, knowing I would see their headlights on the tree branches before I saw the car round the bend. It was perfect.

I wasn't wearing gloves. Or a hat. The wind ripped through my coat, stung my eyes and skin like jalapeno juice. I looked up at the snow, swirling like gnats out of complete darkness, and I thought about being underwater—cold and black, visibility nil, the sparkle of small bubble trails, everything colourless. I thought about how I had started to master that fear. How good it felt. How much I wanted to be underwater right then, scared as hell but loving the taste. The thought warmed me.

When the trees illuminated, I slid the rough paper cylinder out of my coat pocket. The thrill was not knowing whether the plan would work, whether I would have to use the little gun I had in my other pocket.

Headlights appeared and I knew it was the right car. It could be no other—not at this time of night, on this little country road.

The rest happened fast.

I snapped the end of the flare and stepped into the glare of their headlights, waving the orange fire frantically, making a huge arc to my left—toward the dropoff.

And they were going too fast. In driving class, they always tell you—don't look at the lights in the opposite lane, because you will drift toward them. You instinctively want to look at the light, and you will drift toward what you see. That's what happened with the wave of the flare, in those three seconds.

That old fart could have run me down. He could have swerved the other way, into my car, into the side of the hill, and caused me to use a much more difficult plan, but instead he turned the car toward the wave of the flare and swerved into nothing—a short BUMPBUMP of wheels leaving the road, the cracking of brittle tree branches and crunch of metal, rolling, insanely large sounds of a dumpyard compactor, and then quiet.