The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(42)

Father Time asked, "Can we kill you if we don't like it?"

I told them both regretfully, no. Group health and liability coverage had been significantly better for Saxon skalds than it was for parttime professors.

We got back to Heorot.

Maia listened dutifully in the back row.

At last we got the monsters slain and Beowulf home to the Geats.

Some of the students even clapped.

We discussed historical context for a few minutes, then the imagery and literary devices they should pay attention to when they read the text on their own. I distributed handouts of questions they should be prepared to discuss tomorrow.

Maia accepted the assignment along with everybody else. At the top of her sheet, I'd written: Don't even think about it.

We adjourned. I stayed behind to answer questions and was relieved—albeit confused—to see that Maia didn't wait around to harass me. She slipped out the door with a smile and a discreet thumbsup.

After the last person was gone, I shut off the lights and stood in the doorway, looking at the dark tiers. I tried to reconcile the fact that I'd just put aside PI work for an hour and gotten paid to tell a story. Compared to what I was planning for the rest of the day, this was like being paid to show people the sunset.

I locked the classroom, walked through the campus' West Mall—down the flagstone paving, past twisted live oaks, bronze fountains, signup tables for student political organizations, kids pushing newspaper subscriptions.

I crossed Guadalupe. On the other end of the 24th Street parking lot, I saw Maia leaning against the side of my truck. The driver's side door was open and the stereo was on, KGSR turned up very loud. Toni Price was jamming about her old man.

Maia said, "Can I drive?"

"Funny thing—I always lock my car."

"Must've forgotten," she sympathized. "Keys?"

"No."

If she weren't a grown woman, I would've called her expression a pout. She got in and scooted to the passenger's side. I started the AC before shutting the door. The joys of owning a black truck—all the heat in Texas gets sucked right into your cab.

Maia rubbed the dashboard. "I didn't ask yesterday about the new wheels."

She politely didn't add: Because I was too pissed off at you.

"Jess Makar's," I told her.

"What'd you do? Kill him?"

Jess Makar had been my mother's livein boyfriend until a few months ago, when Jess dumped her.

I explained to Maia that I'd kept track of Jess through my PI contacts.

"The credit agencies," she guessed.

"Just out of concern, you understand."

"Oh. Sure."

I told her things hadn't gone financially well for Jess. My credit agency friends had helped a little bit with that. When it came time to repossess Jess' pride and joy, his black '97 Ford F150, I'd been more than happy to do the honours. Strangest thing, I'd also gotten the high bid for the truck at the creditors' auction.

"I never considered you much of a pickup truck guy," Maia said.

"But you got to admit—" I gestured over my shoulder. "The tai chi swords rock."

She looked back, nodded. "Yes. They fit perfectly in the gun rack."

We pulled out of the parking lot, heading west toward Lamar.

"You going to tell me why you're here?" I asked.

"I can't seek higher education?"

"You've reconsidered. You're desperate for my help."

It was the first laugh I'd heard from her in over two years.

We drove past the Lamar playground, the rusted old bridge over Shoal Creek. I had no idea where I was going.

"I spoke with Garrett," Maia said. "He told me about the Techsan sale. Said you were very encouraging."

We reached the red light at 12th Street. I looked over. "You want to whip me?"

Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses now, dark as solar panels. "Tempting, but no. It struck me as odd, though, how quickly Ruby and Matthew Pena were able to seal the deal."

"Almost like they had a hot line set up," I agreed.

A horn honked, letting me know I was sitting on a green light.

"By the way," I said. "Pena left me a housewarming present this morning."

I told Maia about the gutted catfish.

I might've been announcing another ninetyfivedegree day with mosquitoes and rain, for all the surprise Maia showed.

"Goddamn him," she muttered.

"Last night," I said, "you were going to tell me how Pena had gotten under your skin."

"You assume I was going to tell you."

We drove a few blocks in silence.

Maia crossed her legs—a task that would've been impossible in my old car, the VW

bug. She touched her sunglasses. "In February, after it was clear the SFPD wouldn't be pressing charges in the Selak case, Matthew invited me to dinner—a thankyou present, he said. I wasn't thrilled, but I saw no reason to be rude. I didn't realize that by accepting, I was opening a door. He began calling me. Sending emails—increasingly personal emails, as if he'd been doing research on my life. I mean, thorough research, Tres. Once . . ." She paused. "He came into my apartment."