The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(98)

"And you trusted him?"

Pena smiled thinly. "No, Navarre. You'll notice the gun. I intended to kill you."

For once, I believed him. Little statements like that really build trust.

I looked at Maia. She read my thoughts, nodded acquiescence.

"Matthew," I said, "for fifty thousand dollars, you've just bought yourself some company."

Date:Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:40:26 0400 From: [email protected] To:

[email protected] Subject: digest for 15 Jun 2000

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Topics:

I. reunion

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Date:Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:52:26 0100 From: little brother <[email protected]> Subject: reunion

My last story—the way he found me. And I must be brief, because he requires attention.

He came in the backyard, through the old fence, which I found more than a little ironic.

Nevertheless, I was grateful he'd parked in the alley. That would make it so much easier, later.

He stood under the tree, stared up at the house through the branches.

And from my window, I could see the truth finally dawning on him. He walked to the back door.

I waited. I never had any doubts that he would come, and when he did, he would come alone. He had no one left to trust.

I heard his voice inside. Then his feet on the steps.

I stood to one side, in the dark little alcove that had never made any architectural sense to me, but I smiled—remembering that this was where I'd hidden so many times as a child, ready to jump out and seize my playmate.

He got to the top and froze, staring at the room ahead of him. He held a gun, but that didn't matter. I knew he would hesitate here. There was no avoiding that moment of horrified revelation.

I stepped out of the alcove, my blackjack already in motion. He didn't even have time to register the threat before the heavy end of the sap caught his skull, crumpled him to the floor.

"Tag," I said.

And I took the syringe from my pocket.

It's just a matter of waiting, now. Hoping the air lasts. Hoping his heart lasts. Hoping you join the reunion in time.

But as I told you, I'm not worried. Drowning is a patient art.

CHAPTER 40

Maia, Pena, and I sat in the cab of my truck.

There were no signs of life at the marina—just moonlight on the lake, the flicker of moths across the parking lot lights. The warehouse was closed, the two HarleyDavidson hogs still parked under the stairwell. The marina gate was locked, only a few boats left in the slips. Mexican doves roosted on the tines of the forklift.

I looked at Maia. "I could go first, scout it out."

Maia leaned forward so she could stare at me around Matthew.

"I didn't think so." I looked at Pena. "You ready, Matthew?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

"Do I get my gun back?"

Maia said, "Ha."

Pena moistened his fat lip. "Then I'm ready."

I pulled out Erainya's Taurus 9 mm. from under the seat, loaded a clip.

Maia raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get excited," I said. "You're the one who can shoot worth a damn. Let's go."

Gravel crunched underfoot as we walked toward the water. I watched the restaurant for signs of movement.

Two different planks led from shore. Beer bottles floated in the scummy water between.

Maia drew her Sig Sauer and gestured that she would take the left plank. Matthew and I took the right.

I stepped across the gangplank, pushed on the heavy wooden door. The sign NO ONE

UNDER 18 ADMITTED crinkled under my palm.

A dove flitted out of the exposed rafters and I nearly shot at it.

Matthew and I made our way through a barroom that smelled like lemon ammonia and dried whiskey. I brought out my pencil flashlight and shone it into dark corners—a plastic spoon, a napkin, a forgotten handbag. It was so quiet we could hear the lake gurgle and plunk against the aluminium pontoon floats beneath the floor.

I thought, just for a moment, that I heard a man's voice—a murmured question.

I stopped Pena. We listened.

Nothing.

We rendezvoused with Maia in the main dining room—a forest of upsidedown chairs stacked on tables. The deck doors were open, letting in the smell of the water and the entire panorama of the lake.

Mansfield Dam rose up immediately on the left—an enormous slab of charcoal.

Pena started to whisper, "This was a waste—"

And then someone else spoke, directly in front of us. There was a human form out on the deck.

Pena and I moved toward it, Maia a few steps behind, bringing up the rear.

The man glistened—the glint of wet suit material. Victor Lopez was sitting on the railing of the deck.

"Vic?" I called.

We were at the open doorway now, Lopez only ten feet away.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed his gear—the air tank, the regulator, the mask around his neck. He wore two weight belts that were solid with squares of lead, another two belts crossing his chest like bandoliers. No BC to counteract the lead. No fins.

If Lopez went over the side like that, he would sink fast and have a hell of a time coming back up. He was also holding a gun at his thigh—not a service pistol.