The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(51)

"Maia calmed me down before I could," I assured him. "This building have a security detail?"

He grinned. "No. Ain't it great?"

"Nevertheless," Maia said, "perhaps Garrett and I should go visit the police now, before they find a reason to visit me."

Her white scrunchie had slipped down on her ponytail, and the third button of her dress had come undone, but something told me this was not the time to point out these details.

Maia escorted Garrett through a cluster of the gaping screen heads, back toward Garrett's cubicle to collect his things.

I went out through the reception area.

Krystal Negley was reading her romance novel. She smiled in surprise. "Hey. Didn't get that equipment?"

"Matthew Pena kicked me out. If he asks, you did not let me have the access code."

Her face paled. "You some kind of spy?"

"A private eye," I said. "Sorry I wasn't straight with you."

"A private eye. No shit?"

"Sorry if I caused you trouble."

She managed a laugh. "With Mr. Pena for a boss? I'm his fourth personal assistant since he got to Austin. I was ready to quit anyhow. But I figure you owe me a favour now, right?"

"I figure I do."

She slid open her drawer, pulled out a small leather binder. "Mr. Pena's appointment book for the year. My predecessors kept printing out hardcover backups from his computer. You figure you could find some annoying ways to use the information?"

I smiled at her. "I think I could, Krystal. And you're something else."

"The wrong men keep telling me that," she sighed, and went back to reading her romance novel.

XMimeOLE: Produced By MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6700

Date: Mon 12 Jun 2000 14:36:400000

From: EL < [email protected]>

ReplyTo: [email protected]

To: <recipient list suppressed>

Subject: firearms

I found the house easily enough—a grimy little bungalow in the shadow of l35.The yard was dirt and crabgrass, the windows covered with silver insulation material. Just the sort of rat hole I'd imagined he would live in.

His back door latch was easy to jimmy.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of raw chicken left out too long. Television light glowed in the next room. I could hear something insipid playing—something with lots of canned laughter.

I remember being thankful for the checkered grip on the gun, because my palms were sweating. This time would be so different. I hadn't planned anything closeup before, nor with a gun. This time would count.

I crept forward, stood in the doorway.

He was slumped in a corduroy recliner, his eyes glued to the set. I was amazed at the way he had deteriorated, how little he looked like the photo in my pocket. His face was a war zone of melanomas and capillaries. His hair had thinned, grayed to the colour of pencil lead, but that stupid moustache was still as black and bushy as ever. His belly was a hard little thing, like he'd swallowed grapeshot.

I watched him a long time, waiting to be noticed. Ten feet away, and he didn't even see me. I got so nervous I started to smile.

He sensed something was wrong. He looked over, locked eyes with me, and it wasn't funny anymore.

"What the hell... ?" His voice dragged itself out of his throat. "Pinche kids."

He started to get up, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Come into my house ... ?" he grumbled.

I tried to say what I'd intended, but things weren't going as planned.

He was supposed to stay there, frozen by my gun, and give me time to talk. Instead, he was struggling to his feet, mumbling that he'd give me a thrashing, that I'd best run before he got his rifle.

He took a step toward me.

Someone had told me the pressure on the trigger would be the same as lifting a jug of milk with one finger. I'm telling you, it was easier than that.

My hand bucked from the recoil.

The arm of his corduroy chair ripped open, spitting out cotton filling. The Old Man's expression just turned angrier. He put a hand out to grab me. My second shot bit off part of his palm, left a bloody groove where his heart line ended.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

He started to scold me and the third shot caught him in the shoulder, tore it open like a paper package of meat.

The fourth found his chest, right below the sternum. He knelt painfully, as if entering a church pew. Then he fell forward, turned over, and looked straight up into my face.

The ringing in my ears faded. His eyes were going glassy. His throat made heavy wet noises, like gargling.

Four shots. Enough noise to wake every deaf retiree in the neighbourhood.

And I stood there, stupidly, letting him die on me. My knuckles turned white, the checkered grip of the gun grafting its pattern into my palm.

Finally I remembered what to do. I knew the last sound I needed the Old Man to hear.

I grabbed him by his hairy wrists and left blood streaks down the hall as I dragged him toward the bathroom.

The mess I left still amazes me.

But there again, it was Providence.

I learned how little the police really know, how easily they can be manipulated, how desperately they want to see the obvious.

Most importantly, I learned there is no grace to a gun, no intimacy. I panicked. Things got away from me. And I couldn't have a second chance.