The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(62)

"At Permian Basin."

She nodded. "In April, I found out I was pregnant with Michael. That's why we got married."

"In Laredo?"

One sandaled foot kicked me not-so-gently on the thigh. "What did you do, P.I. — ferret out my marriage certificate?"

I reminded her about the wedding picture I'd seen in her living room. She pursed her lips — maybe a gesture of contrition. It didn't make my thigh feel any better.

"Our marriage was a secret, of course," she told me. "Jeremiah was still alive then — he would've disowned Aaron for marrying a Mexican. Never mind Jeremiah's paternalism for the South Side 'locals.' That didn't include his son marrying one."

"But Del knew you were married."

"He gave Aaron a terrible time about me, but he kept our secret."

"Del doesn't strike me as the type to keep secrets. Especially Aaron's."

She laughed dryly. "Maybe he just didn't have time to tell. Jeremiah was killed a few weeks later."

"And how did Aaron take that?"

"Aaron hardly talked about what he was feeling, Mr. Navarre. Not even to me. But the murder had one good effect — it resolved Aaron on going to UT Permian Basin, to get out of San Antonio. That's what we were doing in the spring of '93. We were getting ready to move. Getting ready to have our first child. I don't know about his brother, but I'm sure my husband never crossed paths with people like Hector Mara or Zeta Sanchez. An acquaintance like that would've shown on Aaron like a bruise, he was so sensitive. In a lot of ways, fragile."

I thought about the papers and lecture notes I'd seen in Aaron Brandon's files — all of them obsessed with the violence of medieval life. I thought of Aaron in the photos I'd seen — a large man, thick-boned, dark-haired, bred from blue-collar stock, a face as dour as his brother's. I tried to think of him as fragile. I said, "When did things become strained between you and Aaron?"

Ines squeezed her palm until it turned mottled. "Christmas — when he went for his final UTSA interview. Aaron insisted on moving back to San Antonio. I hated him for being so stubborn. I hated him for dragging us back to San Antonio. He wasn't ready for the UTSA job or for facing his brother again. But I'd followed him to West Texas. I'd stood by him for five years. I loved him. He was the father of my child and he would've been a good teacher one day. He was learning so much before we came back..."

The winch motor started up again.

I looked at Ines and believed what she said, that this woman had what it took to sustain her husband's career on life support those five years in the Permian Basin, until Aaron had insisted on moving back into his family's orbit, insisted on committing emotional suicide. I found myself growing angry at Aaron

Brandon for that.

And maybe deep down, I was jealous. Maybe part of me was wondering how far I would've gone after graduate school if I'd had someone in my life like Ines Brandon.

Ozzie shouted something. The tow-truck men gave the winch another go. They operated it in short bursts until finally, on try number four, the VW lurched forward. The wreckage of the beast emerged reluctantly out of the muck.

"You were back home in Del Rio the night Aaron was killed?"

Ines nodded. "Michael and I were staying with friends. Paloma called us immediately, but — I still don't remember how I made it back to town safely. I don't remember the drive at all."

"And you'd never heard of Zeta Sanchez before?"

"And never want to again."

"What about justice?"

She slammed her hand against the hood of the police car. The metallic pop was like a hunter's rifle, half a mile distant.

"Justice? Justice is something you get only after your life has gone to hell, Mr. Navarre. It doesn't make anything better. You can criticize me for packing up and running, if you want, but running is the first thing I think of when I wake up in the middle of the night — my son having night terrors down the hall, hiding under a bunch of blankets, crying, calling for his daddy. I just want to run, take Michael, and get the hell away from this place. I want the past to go out with the trash. Do you blame me?"

I watched as the tow truck dragged my upside-down VW onto dry land, the ragtop ripped loose and trailing behind like a mud-stained cape. I found myself thinking about Ana DeLeon in her blue business suit, standing at the window of an abandoned house, looking out over the untended fields of Bexar County.

"Time to pick up the children," Ines said.

For one brief, guilty instant, I let myself fantasize that the words the children had some relevance to my life. Then I turned and trudged back up the slope toward Ines Brandon's car.

THIRTY

The closer Jem and I got to the office, the less Jem spoke. His excitement about the visit to school, his stories about Michael Brandon and the other new friends he'd made started to drain away, replaced by the dread of what was waiting for us back at Erainya's. I had to force myself to turn into the parking lot.

It was Friday, but Kelly was in town anyway, sitting at my desk. She'd washed all the purple dye out of her black hair. Her clothes were black, too — slacks and a tank top and Doc Martens. Her face had the freshly scoured look of recent crying. She was on the phone with some client, telling him there would be a slight delay in our next report.