The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(90)

"Thank God for small favors."

"I figured it was better she didn't know."

"I've never been so scared, Erainya."

"I know, honey."

"I couldn't move. My arms—"

"I know. Here."

She came closer and helped me drink a little more water. Some of it dribbled out the side of my mouth and down my jaw, my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt.

I lay back and shut my eyes, opening them again only with great difficulty. Erainya was still there. She had her hand on my chest and her eyes were closed. I let myself drift into sleep.

FORTY-SEVEN

When I woke up again I was on the leather couch in front of the fireplace. The embers from the morning fire were just barely alive under the ash, and daylight was streaming through the windows.

The roaring of the water pipes in the old house told me that somebody was either taking a shower or locked in mortal combat with the toilet.

Harold Diliberto was still at his post by the fire, his coffee cup and half-empty bottle of bourbon on the mantel. In the crook of Harold's arm was his Remington 700 — the decrepit deer rifle with the bent magazine spring dangling uselessly in front of the trigger.

I looked down at my feet and discovered they were resting in Ana DeLeon's lap. She was leaning back against the couch, her eyes small and dark and her face soft in thought. She was wearing jeans and a baggy black turtleneck. One hand rested on my ankle as if she'd long ago forgotten it was there. The other held the letter she was reading. I thought I recognized the distinctive block print — small, square, precise lettering. Ralph.

I said, "Hello." Ever the inventive conversationalist.

Ana started, looked at me, folded the letter, and put it aside.

"God damn you," she said. "When you're better I'm going to strangle you."

"Not the most loving thing I've heard all week. But close." I looked at Harold.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"It's Tuesday afternoon," he muttered. "They brought you in late Sunday night."

"Jesus. You can go to the bathroom now, Harold. Thanks."

He glanced distrustfully at DeLeon.

"Thanks, Harold," I repeated. "Take a rest."

He drifted off to do whatever it is drunk recluses do.

Ana squeezed my ankle. "You look like shit."

"Hotel Chicharron — no mints on the pillows."

When I tried to sit up, my head popped painfully back into its original shape. Ana slid my feet off her lap and onto the floor.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing boxers with little polo players on them, a T-shirt with a large Wild Turkey logo, and black socks.

"Whose idea of revenge was this?"

Ana shrugged. "You were like that when I got here. I'm still trying to figure out where here is."

I rubbed my eyes. "Welcome to the Navarre family ranch. Things get rough, I sometimes lay low out here. It's a hard place to get to. Hard for outsiders to come into Sabinal and make any trouble."

"Mmm." Ana didn't say more, but I wondered if she'd met some of our rancher neighbors, any one of whom would've given her more than a little polite trouble if she'd asked for directions.

"UTSA knows you're on sick leave this week," she said. "It's okay with Professor Mitchell."

"Probably has his professors abducted by drug dealers all the time."

"Mitchell should be relieved it was only that. I doubt the University's insurance rating could stand another fatality."

"Damn, you're cheery."

I listened to Harold clink around in the kitchen. I could smell butter sizzling in a frying pan.

"Can you talk about what happened?" Ana asked.

I did my best.

When I was done, Ana said, "Will you press charges against Chich?" Ever the cop.

"If you think it will do any good. But there's something else, before I change my mind. It's about Ines Brandon."

Once I got the truth out, I didn't feel a damn bit better. Apparently neither did DeLeon. She sat silent, staring at the embers in the fireplace.

"I didn't want to tell you," I said.

She flashed me an irritated look. "You want thanks?"

"Michael Brandon's only five years old. I don't want him to be the one who's punished."

"Tres — I already knew."

I stared at her. Vague memories started to form of my conversation with Chich. "Del Brandon."

"Kelsey and I played some hardball with Brandon on Saturday — hauled in one of his employees, man named Ernie Ragan."

"Big guy," I remembered. "Blond cornrows."

DeLeon nodded. "Turns out Ernest is wanted in three states — grand theft auto, agg. assault, rape. If you were him, would you want to be extradited to Mississippi? You ever been to one of their penitentiaries?"

"He decided to deal — give you his boss."

"Ernie would've given us his sweet old mother, we asked him to. So we chatted awhile, then brought in Del. Ten hours of questions, no lawyers. We told Del we wanted to ask him some questions about the murder of Hector Mara, mentioned how very cooperative Ernie had been. His employee in custody, the murder charges — that scared him. Del told us about Sandra Mara — Ines Brandon. Told us the whole thing was about her."