The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(49)

I'd had trouble looking at Garrett the last few days, with the weight he'd lost, the unhealthy colour of his skin, the distant possibility that he recently killed someone . . .

Now he seemed even less like himself. With his black shirt, his beard trimmed, his dour expression, he reminded me of a renegade Greek Orthodox priest.

"When I was in physical therapy the first time," he said, "I had a nurse named Scholler.

Hardass German woman. Used to scream at me."

Garrett didn't often talk about his accident, or the days immediately following. Now he spoke like he was building a bridge of ice, freezing section by section, seeing if it would hold his weight.

"Scholler made me do situps," he said, "which was really hard for me. I mean it's still hard, because I've got no leverage. She would hold my h*ps and holler at me to work.

I hated her. I could barely get out of bed. Once I was on the floor—anything would stop me. An electrical cord lying across the carpet was like the f**king Great Wall of China.

And here was this German bitch, making me get over it, prodding me to get to the mat so she could force me to do my fifty situps."

"But looking back," Maia guessed, "you appreciate her."

"Hell no. I still hate her guts. The thing is—the struggle never changed from that first couple of weeks in PT. Getting out of bed never got any easier. There are days when that electrical cord seems like the biggest damn thing in the world, and the only thing keeping me going is that voice screaming in the back of my head."

He stared at the Chinese warrior in my hands, grabbed it back.

"You want to know how serious Ruby and I were? What you live for after PT—you try to find reasons to get up in the morning that are better than Nurse Scholler. There was a time—early on— when I thought Ruby would be my reason. I found pretty quick it wasn't going to be that way. Ruby couldn't even look at me after I lost my legs."

"And you blamed Jimmy."

Garrett didn't answer. He turned the bronze warrior around, examining its tarnished spots. "The last few years, little bro, my reason for getting up has been this place.

Ruby and Jimmy—they ruined that for me, too. Lopez wants to use that as a reason why I'd be resentful, there's nothing I can do about it. He's right."

I looked at the wooded hills outside, the expensive viewfor lease, feeling Garrett's sense of defeat fully for the first time.

Here we were in his office, in the company he'd laboured years to build, and we were the intruders. The only difference was, I could leave anytime and it would mean nothing. When Garrett left, it meant the end of everything—his life's work, his dreams, his two oldest friendships.

I didn't want to feel responsible for that defeat, and I resented Garrett because I did anyway. He was the one who'd quit his secure day job. He was the one who'd mortgaged our family land. Why was I feeling guilty?

The frosted door of the conference room opened.

Matthew Pena stepped out, followed by two briefcase warriors in dark blue suits.

Pena zeroed in on us immediately, but was too busy shaking hands with the blue suits, telling them goodbye. As soon as the visitors were safely out the door to the reception area, Pena made a beeline toward us, walking leisurely, his expression no more con

frontational than a tank about to roll over a bicycle.

"You don't work here," he told Maia and me. "You will leave."

His face was an even creepier albino hue in the fluorescent lights. The bruise on his jaw where Clyde had punched him looked like a smoke ring.

"They're helping me," Garrett growled. "Lay off."

Pena studied him. "I'm sure you can understand our security concerns, Mr.

Navarre—not letting unauthorized visitors in. You remember the idea of security, don't you?"

Garrett yanked his knife out of the wall. The headline fell to the floor.

I put my hand on his forearm. "Let's talk, Pena."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"Come on, Tres," Maia Lee said. "We can catch up with the gentlemen from the SEC, have our conversation with them."

Pena's eyes narrowed.

He looked at the point of Garrett's knife, then back at Maia.

"I can give you five minutes," he decided.

Pena started walking toward the conference room.

I turned to Garrett. "Keep it cool, okay?"

"Sure," Garrett grumbled. "One homicide at a time."

I left him holding the knife in one hand, the Chinese warrior in the other like a grenade, and I followed Maia through the frosted glass door.

CHAPTER 19

Pena's newly acquired conference room had one wall that was all window, a rectangular table with six chairs, and a bare bookshelf. On the conference table was a box marked Trash. Inside was a Jimmy Doebler pot, a picture of Ruby and Jimmy's wedding, and a dried bouquet of pink roses.

Pena was looking out the window—his back to us, his hands folded behind his waist.

"Five minutes," he reminded us.

I sat down next to Maia, took advantage of Pena's dramatic pose to stick my bottlecapsize digital recorder to the underside of the table. Maia raised her eyebrows at me.

Pena turned around.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was savouring the moment."