The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(69)

Maia followed him with her eyes. Her face was pale, tightly controlled.

I asked the question I'd been trying to avoid for two days. "Did you tell him about Hawaii?"

Maia's eyes reproached me. "No."

"Then how?"

"How does a shark smell blood, Tres? I don't know."

Hawaii, four years ago, had been Maia's and my last vacation together as a couple.

We'd spent a week on the west side of Oahu— drinking, walking on the beach, making love. And then I'd gotten the bright idea it would be fun to dive the Mahi shipwreck off Waianae.

I remember Maia forcing herself through the scuba class, coming up shaky after every practice dive, even the pool sessions, but successfully conning me into believing she was fine. She made it through the skills tests, even convinced our instructor, who was no slacker for safety, that she could handle open sea. We didn't know the kind of terror she'd been suppressing until she hit de^> water— sixtyfive feet under—and panicked.

We fought to get her to breathe and not shoot to the surface. Through the mask, her eyes had been the size of silver dollars. As we made our emergency ascent, she'd purged the contents of her stomach through the air manifold, then clawed my regulator out of my mouth and breathed on it, forcing me to grope for my backup.

For another diver, the failure might not have been so personal, but Maia Lee never retreats, never surrenders. She was raised on stories of her greatgrandfather who survived the Long March, her grandfather who survived reeducation during the Cultural Revolution. For Maia, admitting defeat to a phobia is unthinkable.

We'd flown back to San Francisco twentyfour hours later, Maia curled into her plane seat, intensely quiet, as if she were trying to compress the Mahi dive into her safebox for darkest memories. For months afterward, whenever she looked at me, I saw a tinge of resentment—shame that I'd witnessed her moment of vulnerability.

The fact Matthew Pena had so quickly read that fear, had played up the part of his own life that would maximize her discomfort, filled me with dread. What worried me more was Maia—the fierce pride that had made her push through scuba lessons, deny the warning signs, get sixtyfive feet under before realizing she couldn't handle it. I was worried what would happen if she handled Matthew Pena the same way she handled scuba.

The second song ended. The crowd yelled.

Jimmy Buffett told Austin hello. He wished us all a very merry pina colada, then began something I knew—"Coconut Telegraph."

There'd been a time in Maia's Potrero Hill apartment, cooking green pepper and ham omelettes, coffee percolating, Maia barefoot, in linen white shorts and one of my Tshirts. This song had come on and she'd forced me to dance through the breakfast nook, ended up spraying me with the champagne she was using for mimosas.

The memory passed between us. Her expression softened.

"You want a drink?" I asked her.

"You don't know how much."

We joined the beer line, made uncomfortable small talk while we waited, listened to the Buffett set in progress. The band played "Little Miss Magic" while we tried very hard not to look at each other, not to give each other any cue that we remembered what this song had once been our sound track for.

We got our beers. By the time we made it back to our borrowed quilt, the song had ended and a new peal of excitement had broken out down by the stage. A couple was making their way toward the front in a spotlight. They wore full wedding regalia—the bride in a white silk dress that must've been a thousand degrees inside.

Off mike, the whole audience heard Jimmy Buffett saying, "When—just now?"

Then to the audience, his face grinning on the big screen, "Got a special dedication to the newlyweds, folks."

A big cheer, which got even more riotous as the audience realized the song he'd just begun was "Why Don't We Get Drunk (and Screw)." The bride disappeared below the audience. Maybe she fainted. Somebody knocked the groom's gray top hat off.

I had no special memories associated with this song, which was either reassuring or disappointing, depending on your perspective.

Maia caught me staring at her, tried to look annoyed. "Yes?"

"Nothing. I just—" Stop. Regroup. "What happens next for you— after you clear Garrett of all charges, get Pena sent to the asylum?"

She didn't look happy with the change of subjects. "My choices may be limited."

"Terrence call you again?"

"We've agreed to part company. My junior partnership is over. How amicable the split is, how it affects my chances at a job in another firm—Terrence claims that's up to me."

The "Get Drunk" song wound down. The cheering kept going. Jimmy Buffett yelled, "

Well what did you think I was going to play?"

More cheering.

Maia looked at me like she was choosing her words carefully. "Tres, I may want to look outside the Bay Area."

My heart slowed. "Such as?"

She circled her arms around her knees. "I want to defend people who deserve defending for a while. Coming out here—I may have been trying to tell myself something. I can see why so many Bay Area people have moved to Austin."

I stayed quiet.

"Nothing is certain, Tres. And you are not to get any ideas about my motives."