The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(72)

Lopez watched my face carefully—his nets trawling for any reaction.

"Okay," I relented. "What small problem?"

"We found Ms. McBride's boat moored on the lake this morning," he said. "There was nobody on it. I thought you folks would want to know. The Search and Recovery divers are going in the water just about now."

From: "McBride Marina" < [email protected]> To: GN [email protected]

Subject: Defeat Hollow

Date: Wed I4jun 2000 17:14:26 0700

Originator: [email protected]

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Moonlight is beautiful around a boat, the way it points to you over the water, no matter which direction you approach from, like a compass needle.

My wet suit was uncomfortable, but that was nothing new. Defeat Hollow is a narrow inlet, its banks mostly wilderness. It would be a short trip, and no one would be watching.

I made silent progress—a dozen paddle strokes, drops of cool on my knees as I changed sides, back and forth. I wondered out of habit how deep the hollow was—forty feet, maybe?

Her Sea Ray blazed with light. She was standing on the forward deck, waiting with a wineglass in her hand.

It seemed impossible she wouldn't notice me, but she wasn't looking upcove. She was expecting me to come from the main channel—the same boat as last time, the shining slick, red and white Conbrio. A friendly, welllit approach.

Mahler was playing—the Fourth Symphony, one of the CDs I'd given her. I knew she hated the music, but she would be interested in setting my mood, making me at ease.

The fact that it was the music of an abused son, a man who died of a diseased heart—these things were lost on her. She could not have chosen better, really. The music always makes me burn with pity, gives me the desire to wipe someone off the face of the earth.

The raft bumped into the aft of the boat with a satisfied hiss, right next to the ladder. No problem to tie on, even wearing neoprene gloves.

Three steps and I was aboard, bringing my pack. I left the air tank on the raft. And the gun. No need for them yet.

The hatch leading below deck was open, a square of buttery light.

She stood in the prow, hugging her arms. A sleeveless dress, her hair loose.

What was in her glass—red wine? I'd hoped it would be white. More convincing to make the switch to champagne.

I watched her over the top of the pilot's deck, and at any time she could've turned, seen me. But she didn't. The Mahler symphony kept playing.

I stripped my wet suit to the waist, left the diver's knife strapped to my thigh.

From my pack, I took the bottle of Moet, still cold from its insulation. I slipped the capped syringe into my shirt pocket. So much

easier to put into the drink, but in case matters got less elegant, the syringe was there.

I went below deck.

The music was louder in the galley—set to a volume to be heard above deck. I found two glasses, prepared one for her.

I was already feeling nostalgic. Of all of them—even Adrienne— this one had been the most interesting. She seemed put together from shards of ice. You always had to avoid the points, the sharp edges. And she was sure of herself. I'll give her that.

The terms she'd offered on the phone—it was touching, how much she was willing to pay. Millions in stock, everything I'd offered her—as if that money would have ever been hers. She wanted to use it as a bargaining chip, give it all up, promise to keep a secret for me—the secret that mattered the least. All she wanted in exchange was a different victim to throw to the idiot wolves.

How could I refuse? She was so sure I could not. After all, she'd done everything I'd asked.

Everything.

She couldn't know how I'd practiced, how I'd stood over her friend in the dark, studying that wasted, grizzled face, thinking what an unlikely choice. What a perfect choice.

She couldn't have seen me with my makeshift tools the night before—field stripping a weapon for practice, comparing the firing surfaces. Just a few nicks. So easy. She couldn't have known all the other pieces I'd laid out for the puzzle, not knowing whether they'd been found or not. I'd once heard George Lucas say in an interview that he wasn't afraid to spend four months on a scene that might be on screen for five sec

onds, or might not make the final cut at all. That's what made a man a genius.

I let her be optimistic on the phone. I soothed her. It had been easy to win back her faith, even easier than after the shooting. This time she was rational. She was desperate. The two things together made me certain she would operate under the delusion that I play by rules.

I poured champagne.

When I went above, she had just made the discovery. She was staring at my wet prints on the deck, my bag.

I called to her and her eyes widened. It took her a moment to decipher my shape, silhouetted in the light from below. She seemed surprised to find me smiling. To find me so close.

I couldn't help the warmth in my voice, the friendliness, the tone of absolute confidence that everything would now be all right.

"This is a celebration," I told her."I have a plan to solve your problem."

CHAPTER 30

"If she's down there," the lieutenant said, "we'll find her."

I gave him credit for trying to drink coffee while standing on Mansfield Dam. The morning wind was strong enough to knock the breath out of us and make the lieutenant's hair do a Medusa number. But with every bout, he corrected his balance like an old ship's captain and kept drinking.