01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin (34 page)

His mother blinked, thoughtful.
“She got it before she met you ... at least in part.”

“Yeah. So it’s not me.”

Shit. I know exactly who it
is.
He set his expression in stone. “It’s a guy named Phil,
most likely, who dumped her after high school.” He almost choked on
the words. “So don’t go all matchmaker on me, Mother. I’m not a
good candidate. And neither is she.” He pushed himself toward the
steps down to the garage. “I’m borrowing a car.”

“You can have mine.... I’ll get
the keys.”

“No need.” He turned around.
“I’ve hot-wired more cars than you know. Or maybe you know what I
am. Just start accepting it, will you?” He dove for the steps. “Be
better for all of us to stop pretending.”

“Tristram? Can I have a word?”
His father pushed out from the kitchen onto the deck, already
dressed for the day. Oh, no. Tris couldn’t face a confrontation
right now.

“No,” he barked and headed around the
house to the garages.

*****

Kemble hurried down the stairs.
He could hear his parents and his brother on the terrace. He’d seen
Maggie heading out from his bedroom window. She’d left? And Tris
let her go. By the time he got to the terrace Tris was nowhere in
sight. The sound of a motor revving up the drive was receding.

“There’s something wrong about
Tristram’s accident,” his father was saying. “The way Devin
described it....”

“What do you mean?” his mother
asked, staring down toward the garages.

“He hit a semi head-on. I just
assumed he was drunk.” He looked a wry apology at his wife. “But
assumptions have gotten me in trouble before.” She patted his hand.
“However, if he wasn’t drunk, then he didn’t see it....” his father
mused. “That ... that isn’t normal.” They stared at each other for
a moment. “You know why I’m worried.”

“She’s dead. She must be,” his
mother whispered.

“But maybe before she died she
succeeded in gathering others. And with what happened to
Victor....”

“Who’s dead?” Kemble asked. “I
mean besides Victor.” That was bad enough.

They both turned to stare at
him. His mother was frightened. His father’s brows were creased in
worry. “No one,” his father snapped.

Kemble stepped back. “Okay. No
one’s dead,” he said, raising his brows.

“Brian, you’d better go,” his
mother said. “He loves her. He was sick as a dog trying to let her
go. He may not have his power yet, but he will if he’ll just let
himself. And she was just as sick trying to leave.”

“Stubborn fools. They’re in
danger, both of them.” His father nodded briskly and took off for
the garage. Kemble turned to his mother.

“Don’t ask, Kemble. I need to make
arrangements for the children.” She pushed past him into the house,
calling, “Mr. Nakamura?”

*****

Maggie wiped her mouth as though
that could erase the taste of bile. Blinking back tears, she gunned
the truck up Pacific Coast Highway. She would
not
cry
because she’d never be part of a family like that, or because it
seemed nobody had ever loved her enough to care whether she was
around or not and probably never would.

And she wasn’t sick because she
was leaving Tris. She’d just had too much to drink last night.
Yeah. That was why she threw herself on Tris in the first place.
And he obviously hadn’t had any sex in a while, so that was why he
let her. And now she was one giant-sized morning-after mess of
vomit and regret. The feeling of connection that told her he’d been
out on the terrace was just her imagination, all wound up with a
splitting headache. And whatever had happened at the barn, well,
she’d just cope with it. Maybe it would go away if she wasn’t in
proximity to a family where the mother could heal people, and the
father was Mr. Know-it-all or something. Maybe having a “power”
couldn’t coexist with a ramshackle, mortgaged spread in Nevada and
an alcoholic father whom she couldn’t quite bring herself to
leave.

And if whatever was wrong with
her was still there when she got back to Austin, she’d learn how to
suppress it. Simple as that. She knew how to suppress things, all
right.

Her stomach didn’t calm at all
until she reached the freeway. It was Barstow before her head
stopped aching. That feeling of connection to Tris faded. All that
remained was a nothingness that seemed to dampen her senses.

She was going back to Elroy, who
didn’t give a shit about her, to her parade of horses passing
through her life and the spread the bank now owned, to get ready
for the Denver rodeo in two weeks. As if she cared about that
anymore. Her future had never seemed more unforgiving.

She felt like she was drifting
away.

Tris pulled into the shop
downtown in his mother’s Prius about five in the afternoon.
Nothingness lapped at his ankles and splashed up to his knees like
the ocean at night on a shallow beach. It had taken him that long
to make a plan. Some plan. Ride around the country until there was
nothing left of him, or end it quick off one of the piers. Hermosa
Pier maybe. Long and straight. Tie his hands to the handlebars so
there was no turning back.

Several of the guys were just
breaking off for the day. Their greetings died in their throats as
they saw his expression. Some hurried salutes and they vanished.
José was in the back office. He picked up the phone as he raised a
hand in salute to Tris.

Tris scanned the bays. They were
busy. An aqua Chevy—a ’60 by the looks of its eyebrow rear end—was
almost done. A little red T-bird was getting new chrome. Three
cycles in various states of reconstruction. A Ducati was propped in
the corner. Somebody paid about $75K for a Desmosedici racing cycle
and still wanted it customized. Their kind of client. José did
better with the business then he did.

“Hey, boss. Glad to see you
back. Girls, they been asking for your ‘personal’ supervision of
their projects.” José laughed, though his eyes were watchful. He
was graying at the temples, his pockmarked skin testifying to the
bad water in his Mexican village when he was a kid.

“I’m not back for long, friend.
I just need a bike.”

“I heard you crashed yours.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be delivered
here next week. Take care of it, will you?” Where had José heard
about the accident? “What’ve you got that doesn’t belong to
anybody?”

“Got a classic ’54 Harley I
found in a scrapyard in Bakersfield. We’re restoring it on spec. We
got it in working condition. Barely.”

“That’ll do.” What did it matter
anyway?

“Back here.” José led the way
into the yard at the back of the bays. Surrounded by barbed wire,
the bare asphalt was covered in engines, fenders, doors—all the
trappings of the business. The old Harley was standing under an
awning next to a couple of shinier bikes. Tris looked the cycle
over and kicked up its stand.

“Can you get the Prius back down
to my mother?”

“Sure, boss. Got a couple of
beauties over there you oughta see.” He pointed.

“Not now.” Tris saw José’s face
fall. God, he was an asshole. He took a breath. “You’ve done a
great job with the shop, José. It’s more yours than mine. I’ll
write a note to Kemble. He’ll see that it comes to you.”

“Why would it come to me,
amigo
? Let’s work it together.” José glanced to the
front.

“I’m done here, buddy. Get me a
piece of paper.”

“Don’t leave....” José warned.
As he trotted to the door into the shop itself, a Lexus pulled up
to the front bays. His father got out of the car. So that’s who
José had been calling.

José grinned in relief. “Mr.
Tremaine. What a surprise.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet,” Tris muttered.
His father couldn’t have been more than a few blocks away. Waiting
for the call? Why?

“I really do need to have a word
with you, son.” Brian Tremaine was, as usual, immaculate. His sport
coat over his polo shirt was cut perfectly. His khakis were
pressed, his leather boat shoes with the rubber soles showed the
right casual spirit.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You have lots of choices right
about now.”

“Sounds like a lecture coming
on.” Tris girded his loins. Why couldn’t he just walk away? Why did
he have to let it get to the point where he couldn’t bear the
conversation any longer before he cut it off? Maybe because he
wanted his father’s approval way more than he could admit to
himself. Like that was coming along anytime soon.

“
Au contraire
, I wanted
to tell you what a marvelous job you’ve done building your
business.”

Tris blinked. “José tells me you
employ fifteen men here,” his father continued, looking around.
“You pay well and give full benefits. Not to mention the apprentice
program.”

“Gee, you didn’t tell him about
the Little League team?” Tris growled to José.

José looked abashed. “He is your
padre
,
amigo
.... He should know how much you mean to
the community.” He shrugged.

Tris ought to cut him some
slack. Who could resist Brian Tremaine? But he couldn’t let that
last statement stand. “Don’t make me out as some kind of hero.”

“I had no idea the operation was
so large.” Tris’s father ignored the byplay, as José made a quick
exit. “José says you gross two million a year. Fifteen percent
profit.” He was wandering around the shop floor, looking at the
various projects. “You could have thought up a more original name
than First Street Body Shop.” He glanced to Tris and bit his lip.
“But that’s neither here nor there.” He cleared his throat. “The
real triumph is the way you reconfigured your engines to run
efficiently on recycled oil. Nothing short of brilliant. It could
make recycled oil commercially feasible. Important technology for
the planet. Tremaine Enterprises could help bring it to market.”
His father sounded tentative, waiting for Tris’s reaction.

“Like you want to know about my
business now?” His father’s hesitant tone didn’t deserve that
slap-down. But Tris was confused. What was the game?

His father bit his lip again,
then took a breath. “I’m sorry I’ve never been down here, son. I
was wrong to let your... independent streak push me into being
overbearing. Brina always said... but I didn’t listen.”

“Always a mistake.” Tris
wouldn’t smile. But it felt good to hear his father say that.

“Might I point out that you’ve
never cared about the family business either?” His father raised
his brows.

“You might.” Okay, so it came
out a little snarly.

“Look, I know how you feel about
me. I guess I didn’t know what to do with a son who wanted
different things than I wanted. I handled it badly. I realized that
when I saw you get out of that old pickup two days ago in the
driveway.” He cleared his throat. “I’m still not quite sure how
to... fix it between us. Maybe you can help me deal with Devin a
little better than I dealt with you.”

“Hey, you went and surfed. That
probably meant a lot to him.” Tris had to give him that.

“It probably annoyed the hell
out of him,” his father said, a rueful turn to his mouth. “Is it
too late for us?”

Tris looked into his father’s
eyes, and saw something he’d never allowed Tris to see before:
pain. And some vulnerability. Tris stuck his hands in his pockets,
not knowing what to say. The last thing he had expected from his
father was an apology.

“You... you don’t have to decide
now. But maybe you could consider a truce. I’ve been thinking and
there are things I need to know about your accident.”

“What?” Tris hesitated, then
nodded brusquely as he gestured to the office door. Nothingness
could wait ten minutes, even if all he got was a lecture on driving
drunk. His father had never asked him for anything. Demanded,
lectured, but never asked.

The shop was quiet. Most of the
guys had gone home for the day. Antonio and a guy who looked sorta
like him had stayed to work on what must be one of their own cars.
Must be a brother or something. Antonio lifted his chin in salute
as Tris ushered his father into the cluttered office. Tris sat
behind the desk covered with invoices and filled ashtrays. José
still smoked.

His father sat in one of the
small Naugahyde side chairs. “Have you gotten back any memory of
that night at all?”

Tris hadn’t thought about that
night in days. He flicked his mind back, unsure.

“You weren’t drunk, were you.”
It was more a statement than a question. His father was full of
surprises.

Tris shook his head.

“So I’ve been thinking, how did
you run into a semi head-on?” His father looked worried. “I’m not
blaming you,” he hastened to add. “I’m trying to figure it
out.”

Tris took a breath to calm
himself. Okay. His father wanted to know, he’d try to remember.
Tris blinked as the image of the moments before the crash flickered
in his brain. “I saw headlights just where they should have been on
the left side of the road,” he said, hesitating. “Low and close
together like a pickup or a car. That must have been Maggie.”

“And....” his father prompted,
leaning forward.

“Nothing else. No semi. Where
could it have come from that quickly?” Tris couldn’t help but let
his frustration show. “I don’t remember the actual crash....” And
then something else occurred to him. The sudden silence, except for
the approaching pickup. The stilling of the vibrations between his
legs. “But I remember the cycle’s engine just ... shutting
off.”

His father sat back. “That’s
probably the only reason you’re alive. I couldn’t figure out how
you survived a crash like that. The semi’s engine cut out too,
didn’t it?”

“All I heard was the pickup.”
The moment was suddenly absolutely clear in his mind. He blinked
back into the present. Thinking about the accident made him feel
shaky.