The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(99)

Something smaller. An oldstyle Raven from back in the 1980s. A .380 automatic.

Lopez was staring out over the water, as if in a reverie.

I glanced back at Maia, who shook her head slightly—I don't know.

Then Vic mumbled something. "Here. Right here, I think."

"Lopez?" I called.

He looked over, said nothing.

There was more scuba equipment at his feet—another air tank, fastened to a BC. On a nearby table was a mask. Next to that, a computer disk.

I shone my pencil flashlight in Lopez's face.

His pupils stayed fully dilated. His expression didn't change— as if there were no circulation in his face.

"Is this—" he droned. "Is this . . . okay?"

"We should leave," Pena murmured. "Now."

Then the deck boards creaked behind us. I spun.

A second figure had separated from the darkness right next to Maia. The only thing that wasn't pure black was the gun. It was pressed against Maia's temple.

"Yes," said the voice I didn't recognize at all. "That's fine, Vic. Put your mask on."

Metal thudded against wood—Maia's gun dropping.

"That's good, dear heart," the voice crooned, the face still in the shadows. "Now your friend's—gun and the flashlight in the water, please."

Maia said, "Don't, Tres."

"Ah," the voice said. "But Tres can't shoot, can he? He doesn't trust his aim. He doesn't trust guns. And certainly, he knows I'll kill you if he doesn't cooperate."

Next to me, Pena stayed still.

I tossed my gun and flashlight over the railing, heard two tiny plooshes in the water.

The figure stepped forward, pushing Maia ahead.

A black baseball cap. A wet suit. A face painted black, eyes intense as a raptor's. The gun slid down, pressed tightly into Maia's jugular vein.

"My hero." Dwight Hayes gave me a pleasant smile. "Thanks for coming, Tres."

CHAPTER 41

"You son of a bitch," Pena said.

"You don't know how appropriate your comment is, Matthew." Dwight's wrist rested on Maia's shoulder. The neoprene of the wet suit was soaking the top of her shirt. He moved his free hand around her waist, spreading his fingers caressingly across her abdomen.

"You smell good," Dwight told her. "I've never been close enough—except for your apartment, looking through your things. I'm glad you decided to pursue us, Maia."

She swallowed. Her throat muscles pushed against Dwight's gun and made it look like she was nodding.

I watched her fingers, waited for our old sign—a threefinger countdown, which would mean she was about to risk a move.

"All right, Victor," Dwight said.

Lopez had raised his gun. He was pointing it at Dwight Hayes, but his arm was bent, the gun turned sideways, as if some invisible armwrestling opponent was forcing his hand back at the wrong angle.

"You won't need that," Dwight assured Lopez. His voice was calm, deep. "Don't you remember?"

"You're drugged, Lopez," I said. "Fight it. Shoot the bastard."

Lopez's arm trembled. His chest had begun to cave in like an old man's under the weight and heat of the scuba gear.

"Don't remember," he mumbled.

"The little boy," Dwight told him. "The little Asian child. He was right under the deck, wasn't he?"

"The boy."

"Right about where you're sitting."

Pena said, "Jesus Christ, Dwight."

Pena started to move forward, but Dwight pressed the gun into Maia's throat, made her gag. "Tsk, tsk, old friend. First things first."

Lopez mumbled, "Right here."

"Good," Dwight said, nodding pleasantly. "What should you do?"

"Search."

"That's an excellent idea. You can leave the gun, I think. Your prints are on it now. That should be sufficient."

Lopez's hand lowered. The Raven clunked on the floor. "I can't— No."

"You need your mask on," Dwight suggested. "And you'll have to keep looking. Even if it gets cold, even if you can't get out, you can't leave a little boy alone down there.

Can't let that happen again."

Dwight's voice had taken on a cadence that wasn't quite human— more like a drum, hit by a small, angry windup machine. "You'll just need to keep searching, Vic. That little boy is down there somewhere. Drowning in the dark."

Lopez fumbled with his mask.

"No, Vic," I said.

But I was just part of the nightmare. His heart must have been slowing, his mind turning to thick sap, flowing over Dwight's words, hardening wherever they stuck.

He bit the regulator's mouthpiece, groping for a pressure gauge.

"Oh, there isn't one, Victor," Dwight reassured him. "Time is the diver's enemy. This dive, you won't have any limits. No charts. Just your task. Now over you go—it'll feel so good to get into the cold water, won't it?"

Lopez had trouble getting his leg over the railing. He slid off awkwardly, his tank hitting the rail as he fell, and then he was gone.