The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(83)

"Then we'll have to run. Michael and I."

"That won't help."

"I've done it before."

"You have a five-year-old now. Nobody's making you a new identity this time."

"Give me a one-night head start."

She tried to get up, but I caught her wrist.

Our eyes locked.

"What is it to you, Tres?" she demanded.

"People leave things behind by accident," I said. "But not you. Not that journal. Not the photograph George must've found."

She tugged against my grip.

"You left a trail," I said, "because you wanted to. You run again, you'll just leave another trail."

"Absurd."

"You said it yourself, Ines. You don't get away without a fight. You haven't had yours yet. Turn around and face what you left behind, take the consequences. Or you can run away again, talk tough about how you're somebody new, somebody who doesn't need help. If you're somebody new, then maldicion. You and Sandra Mara would've gotten along just fine."

Her eyes flashed murderously. "I won't risk my child. You can't promise Michael will be safe."

"Look at your son. Tell me he's safe right now, in that cave he's been making."

"God damn you," she whispered.

"Nobody can guarantee Michael will be safe, Ines. You might as well realize it here, where you've got some friends."

"I — I can't, Tres. I wish—"

The sound of little sneakers hushed her. The boys crashed into us, showing off their spoils. Their arms glittered with holographic stickers.

I let go of Ines' wrist and forced a smile. I complimented Jem on his Felix the Cat. The waitress brought our check and left us with a few more admonishing comments about what nice boys we had.

Michael climbed onto his mother's lap. He was a little large for the task, but he just about managed a fetal position. He tucked his head against Ines' chest and began picking at a silvery low-rider decal on his wrist.

"I want to go home," he mumbled.

Ines stroked his hair. Sweat had plastered it into curls over his ears.

"We will," she promised. "It'll be like a sleep-over. In the new apartment. And  tomorrow—"

Michael turned his face into her bright shirt, rubbed his nose back and forth, then looked up at her again. "No. Home."

"Sweetheart—"

"You took it down, I bet," he muttered. "You said you wouldn't."

Ines' hand closed over Michael's on her chest. Her mouth began to tremble.

"Michael," I said. "We're inviting you and your mom over to Jem's house,  kiddo. You can have your sleep-over there. What do you think?"

Curled against his mother, Michael just looked at me, his eyes as pale blue as his murdered father's.

Jem, however, perked up instantly. He started filling Michael in on all the games they could play once they got into his room.

"Sweetheart—" Ines interrupted hoarsely.

But Michael didn't want to hear her. He was too busy listening to Jem's descriptions of Sega-Wonderland. The little frown didn't leave his face, but he kept his eyes on Jem.

I glanced at Ines. "If you can't beat them..."

She closed her eyes for one second, two. When she looked at me again, I couldn't shake the impression that her irises were dark, fractured prisms.

"Perhaps just for tonight," she said.

Jem and I rode together in the Barracuda, leading the way back toward Erainya's. Every few seconds, I checked the rearview mirror. Each time I was surprised to find Ines' headlights still behind us.

As we drove, Jem told me how super-funny Michael was. Jem wanted to make a sheet cave like his.

"I don't know if that's the best idea, Bubba."

Jem disagreed. He told me how cool Michael's setup had been inside.

He said Michael had been trying to make the cave bigger and bigger, so that someday he would never have to come back out again. Someday, Michael would close up the entrance and just disappear. It hadn't worked out that way, but Jem still figured it was a great plan.

"I don't know, Bubba," I told him. "I think maybe Michael's mom was right to take down the sheets."

Jem was unconvinced. He said that, according to Michael, that wasn't even his real mom. His real mom had disappeared down the sheet cave years and years and years ago. That's where Michael had been going — following his mom into the dark.

FORTY-THREE

Plans were discussed. Erainya cursed and slapped the air a lot. Jem and Michael were sent off to play video games. Ines was force-fed a platter of Greek food to make up for the dinner she hadn't eaten, then browbeaten into taking the main bedroom.

While Ines was changing clothes and the children were playing in Jem's room, Erainya broke out a Heineken and the keys to her gun cabinet.

"You," Erainya said to me. "You go home."

I insisted on checking the boys one more time.

Through his bedroom doorway, I watched Jem sitting at his PlayStation, engrossed in a 3-D jungle with flying, basketball-dribbling dinosaurs. Michael wasn't participating. He sat cross-legged a few feet behind Jem, a stack of Jem's old Nickelodeon magazines and toy-store circulars by his side. Michael was cutting out the pictures with safety scissors.