The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(99)

FIFTY-ONE

The following morning, Ines Brandon, Michael Brandon, and I stood at the entrance to the Bexar County Jail. Ines had stopped at the top of the steps, her fingers wrapped around the metal railing as if she hoped it would keep her stationary.

"I don't know if I can do this," she told me.

Days of worry had left her face drawn, her eyes underscored with shadows. It wasn't the legal problems. Those were working themselves out. Thanks to the lawyers Erainya had recruited by cashing in favors, and Ines' cooperation with investigators, Assistant District Attorney Canright had apparently decided that bringing charges against a widowed mother who'd assumed a false identity for her own protection and that of her small son was not high on his political agenda.

The main battle was yet to come, and it wasn't legal.

"You're not alone," I told Ines. "You've got two studly guys for backup, remember?"

She gave me a weak smile.

Her hair was unwashed, tied back in a stiff ponytail that looked like the tip of a calligraphy brush. She wore rumpled black pants and a loose black denim shirt, both streaked with white dust. No makeup, no perfume. Nothing to indicate she'd slept, eaten, or changed her appearance since I'd seen her the night before for a pep talk.

Little Michael, by contrast, had received his mother's full attention. Ines had dressed him in gray slacks, a newly ironed white button-down, a man's red-and-blue tie, probably his father's, that hung well past his belt. She'd made sure Michael's shoes were tied and his face scrubbed. Only his hair had resisted her ministrations. Michael's cowlicks had sprung back with an unruliness that reminded me of his uncle Del's.

The three of us stood on the jailhouse steps long enough for a silent prayer. Finally Ines put her hand on Michael's head, then took a deep breath. "Let's go."

We walked into Visitors Receiving, through security to the room with the divided Plexiglas wall and the green chairs and tables.

The room was fuller than it had been on my previous visit. There was a large pasty blond woman talking to a skinny African American man on the other side. A young Anglo woman with two babies — one under arm and one in a chest-pack — was chastising her incarcerated boyfriend about somebody named Casey. The boyfriend's dazed expression mirrored the babies' perfectly. Ines and Michael and I went to space "B" in the middle. There was one empty chair. None of us took it.

The longest five minutes in the universe followed.

Ines tried to smooth out Michael's hair with her fingers and didn't have much success. Her breath was shaky. Michael did small twists from his waist, swaying back and forth. He kept his eyes on the cement floor.

The large blond woman next to us vivisected her electric bill. The baby in the chest-pack on the other woman was making frustrated "ehh, ehh" sounds, kicking tiny feet at Mom's kidneys. The boyfriend seemed pretty upset about this person Casey.

Finally the prisoner's entrance buzzed open.

Zeta Sanchez emerged in his orange prison scrubs and plastic sandals. His gold eyes zeroed in on Ines and stayed there as he walked toward us. His face was impassive. The beard had been shaved away, and his bare chin looked strangely pale, vulnerable. He'd cut himself shaving. One cheek sported a bandage, and that small bit of first aid seemed ridiculous next to the other damage on his face — the stitched and swollen lip, the fading black eye. Zeta came up to the Plexiglas and sat on the table's edge. The guard at the door looked like he was thinking about walking over, telling Sanchez to use the chair, but he apparently decided against it.

Sanchez laced his fingers over his knee. "Sandra."

Silence.

Ines took in Sanchez with the same horrified fascination as a crime-scene novice taking in her first corpse. Her hands stayed on Michael's shoulders. Michael twisted his left thumb, seeing if it would come off.

When Sanchez failed to get a response, he looked at me. "Professor. What you told me on the phone true?"

"Talk to her, Zeta. Not me."

The golden eyes burned into mine, trying to find a challenge.

He looked back at Ines, turned his palms up in his lap, meditation style. "You got something to say to me?"

"You're shorter than I remember," she muttered.

Zeta's mouth spread into an uneasy smile.

"What you think I should do to you, Sandra? Huh? Tell me that."

His voice was thin, taut, dangerously dry. The fact that he kept smiling didn't help at all.

The strength in Ines' body seemed to be channeling down to her hands — into the fingertips that stayed on Michael's narrow shoulders. She said, "I'm tired of being scared of you."

Zeta laughed. "Don't get tired yet."

"That person you married seven years ago, Anthony — that was a different woman."

"Looked like you, Sandra."

She raised one hand and made a fist. "How long would it have lasted, Anthony? How long would you have put up with getting nothing from me? How long before you hurt me? If we'd had a child, Dios me libre, how long before you hurt him, too?"

Zeta ran a knuckle along his jawline. He seemed vaguely surprised to find his beard gone.

Next to us, the two babies started crying softly.

"I never lied to you, Zeta," Ines said. "I never forced you to kill anyone. But you can't take responsibility for any of it, can you? Couldn't be your fault."