The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(40)

When I got closer I caught the smell.

I stepped up, moved around the thing, quickly scooped up Robert Johnson. "That's not for you," I chastened.

I went inside, did a quick scan of the room, went directly to the kitchen counter and retrieved Erainya's gun.

I remembered to look upstairs this time. There was no one in the house. I checked the back—the outhouse, the shed. Nobody there. I walked the circumference of the dome, looked at the driveway for new tire tracks, checked my truck. Nothing.

Nothing—except for what was on the porch. I went back and stared at the thing, tried to breathe through my mouth to keep the stench out of my nostrils. Robert Johnson kicked his hind claws into my stomach, trying to get down.

The catfish was nearly three feet long—as big as the hotdogfed monsters I'd seen at the bottom of Lake Travis. Its whiskers were limp gray whips. Judging by the smell, the fish had been allowed to rot overnight before being dumped here.

Its belly had only just been gutted, the rancid innards allowed to spill across Jimmy Doebler's porch. There were undigested pieces of hot dog in the milky fluid. Fish eyes usually strike me as expressionless, but this one's seemed terrified, amazed, like it still could not get over the fact that its demise had not come by fishhook.

The thing had been impaled—as if speared by a scuba diver.

Date: Mon 12 Jun 2000 02:36:40 0000 From: [email protected] To:

[email protected] Subject: the private eye Ah, the private eye.

I remember a late afternoon in January, not long after my incident in the snow.

I'd gone home. It would've looked bad if I hadn't. And of course, once home—I found myself alone.

I was in a foul mood. My night in the country had left a bad taste in my mouth—hollow victory. I hadn't seen their faces, hadn't been able to let them know I was there.

Many nights thereafter, I'd found myself in the bathroom, the Old Man's straight razor pressed against my wrist. Or I would be standing at the medicine cabinet, staring at bottles. Never any shortage of prescription drugs around the old homestead.

I felt cheated. The only thing left worth destroying, I didn't have the courage for.

So when I answered the doorbell that afternoon, I pitied whoever it was—a nuisance.

A policeman. A family friend.

Instead, I got a small balding man in a threadbare suit, his eyes blinking excessively.

He held a briefcase in one hand, a business card ready in the other. The line on the card, right under his name, read: Discreet Investigations.

He hadn't come looking for me, but when he learned who I was, he asked to come in.

What could I say? He intrigued me with his card and his demeanour. I wondered if he were good at his work, simply because he was so small. So unimposing.

The private eye complimented the house, which seemed strange to me. I'd lived there so long I'd never thought of it as nice.

He sat on the sofa. I sat in a chair across the coffee table. I remember the curtains were drawn, not that it mattered. No one ever looked in those windows.

The little man showed me photos of people I did not recognize, dropped names I did not know.

And then, when he saw that I wasn't responding, he told me a story that spelled out the connections. He told me who he was looking for, and why.

It was as if a magnifying glass had been held up to my eyes. The world expanded twenty times, got fuzzy around the edges, perfectly focused in the centre. I looked at the pictures again, realized what they had to do with me. I realized this small man had done something I could never have done on my own—he had crystallized my hatred into something coherent.

He must've read the change in my face. There was no way I could hide it. He said, very carefully, "You know the name, don't you?"

I admitted that is was familiar.

"There's money to be had," the private eye suggested.

It was the wrong thing to say, and I think he realized it.

He'd gotten too excited at the possibility of a lead.

The shabby private eye was an entrepreneur. He had gone beyond what he'd been paid to do. He'd found himself a tawdry secret, and he meant to exploit its market potential.

I told him I had some papers he might be interested in, asked if he would excuse me.

I could see his apprehension lift. He was thinking he'd finally caught a break. He would get home in time for dinner now. It was probably a long drive.

"Would you like a drink?" I offered."Hot chocolate?"

He declined.

That negated my easiest option, but no matter. I smiled, said I would be right back.

I went into the study. The Old Man's things were there, his World War II trophies. My eyes fixed on one possibility, and I took the thing down from its display rack. I grabbed a box of papers—I don't remember what they were. It didn't matter.

I went back into the living room.

The anger inside me felt like a steel rod, as stiff and old as the blade in my hand. It was a horrible choice, but I hadn't had any time to think. I had to improvise.

The private eye looked at the sword curiously.

"You'll see the connection," I promised."It's a family heirloom."

He put the box of papers on his knees, began flipping through them."I don't—"

"Toward the bottom," I apologized."! didn't sort them."