The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(93)

Ozzie turned the vertical knob on the telescopic sight. "You ask Sandra Mara about that possibility?"

"Who says I could find her?"

Ozzie laughed, turned to Diliberto. "Dang, Harold. This five-by-thirty sighted for you? How you manage to hit anything?"

"Maybe you were right," I said.

Ozzie smiled at me. "Right about what?"

"Maybe the thing to do is just wait and ask George."

Ozzie turned the horizontal knob. "How's he doing?"

"Erainya says he's still sedated. But he's beat the infection. He's going to make it. Maybe another three or four days and he'll be able to talk."

Ozzie grinned. "That's excellent."

"Where are you and Audrey going? Cancun?"

Ozzie nodded, released the rifle bolt. The spent casing ejected, spiraling past Harold's ear. Harold Diliberto had finished his flask and was now looking for something else to do. He zeroed in on Ozzie's .357, picked it up, and began slowly, drunkenly, field-stripping it.

Ozzie just looked over and laughed good-naturedly. Diliberto liked taking things apart. Sometimes he even got them back together.

"I told Harold I'd leave that old .357 at the ranch for him," Ozzie said. "God knows he needs something better than this rifle. And yeah, kid. Cancun. If I was you, I'd tell Sandra Mara to clear out. They haul her in, they won't go easy on her."

"You're probably right."

"You know I am."

"Chich Gutierrez is still looking for those lost two kilos of heroin," I said.

"Sandra will be the one Chich holds accountable."

Ozzie winced with effort as he reloaded the rifle. "I ever tell you your dad was the first man I saw hunt with a handgun? That same .357 Harold's destroying right there."

Harold looked up like he'd just vaguely recognized his name. He had unloaded the .357's magazine and was now removing the chamber cover.

"Jack and I were out there" — Ozzie nodded toward the creek — "looking at all the gravel in the riverbed. Your dad always talked about selling it for people's gardens, you remember? And this huge buck just appeared. I couldn't believe it. Your dad borrowed my side arm and shot it on the spot. Damnedest thing. We ate venison for months."

He brought up his forearm for a brace, rested the Remington on it, and aimed. Harold looked up sleepily from the half-disassembled handgun. He was rubbing a finger over the irregular scoring on the muzzle. "You been modifyin' for a silencer, Ozzie?"

Ozzie fired. Metal pinged. He smiled and lowered the rifle. "Naw. Bought me a new sight, tried to fit it on the barrel, turned out to be a bad match. You going to have anything left of that gun when you're through?"

Harold blushed. He started collecting the pieces of the .357 for reassembly. I was hit with another wave of nausea.

"Whoa, son." Ozzie quickly put the Remington on the table and caught my arm, guided me over to a flat piece of limestone to sit. "You want us to walk you back to the house?"

"I'll be okay in a second."

"Maybe we should take you back to town sooner than later."

"No. It's all right."

Ozzie studied my eyes, seemed to be satisfied I wasn't in immediate danger. "Couple more shots, then. Never like to leave before I'm fifty-fifty on the hits."

He stepped back to the table, began reloading.

"I guess you didn't recognize her," I said.

Ozzie glanced over, frowning, then turned his attention back to the gun. "Recognize who?"

"Ines Brandon. Sandra Mara. When she was at the river with me, when they pulled out the VW."

Ozzie finished loading the second chamber. "No. No, I didn't. I saw Sandra maybe once or twice back in the old days. She looked a lot different then — longer hair. Dyed black, I think."

"Four men were all shot by one gunman — Aaron Brandon, then Hector Mara and George Berton, then Del Brandon. None of them fought back, except maybe Hector. None of them expected this guy to be their assassin."

"Argues that it could've been a woman."

"Except I know where Ines was the night Del was killed."

Ozzie prepped the gun for firing, but lowered it and sighed. "Chich Gutierrez, then. I told you, kid. You can't figure gang-bangers like that."

"Attila the rat."

His eyes glistened like ice over his smile. "Absolutely. Let them beat it out of Chicharron, once they haul him in. Or give them Sandra Mara if you really want. One of them will have the answers."

The nausea was starting to fade. I managed to get back on my feet. "A girl at the Poco Mas told me about a guy Hector Mara was arguing with a few weeks ago — big Anglo guy, dark hair, she thought his name was something like Branson."

"Del Brandon."

"That's what I thought too. Now I'm not sure."

Harold Diliberto had just about reassembled the .357, but the magazine wasn't going in right. It was jamming on something. Harold was listening to us with half his attention, trying to get the gun working with the rest, and his IQ divided by two projects yielded some pretty small numbers.

"Chich had an insider with the police department," I said. "I wondered if it was Kelsey."