The Devil Went Down to Austin (37 page)
"Um," I said. "Not that I have any aversion to bilking you of your stock portfolio, but what the hell are you talking about?"
Pena glared at me. His upper lip was starting to puff up and the blood looked like lipstick. "The email, Navarre."
I shook my head. "Sorry, amigo."
Pena started to respond, then stopped himself.
Maia picked up a silk sock, wiped her prints off the gun and the magazine, threw everything back into the suitcase. "Maybe you should start from the beginning, Matthew. What was this email?"
"Maybe I shouldn't start at all," he said. "The package you put together—extremely impressive. And don't tell me it wasn't one or both of you."
"I'm glad you liked it," I said. "Tell us again what we said."
Eye level to us, out the window, a helicopter ruttered by—a police spotlight unit, probably seeking a fledonfoot suspect. The spotlight made Matthew's white shirt glow.
"The Heismans," Pena said. "The fact I was adopted, the paperwork on my birth parents is a total blank."
When he saw we were not surprised, he seemed to interpret it as guilt.
"Goddamn you," he said. "You went to a lot of work. The Doebler child—the one born in '67. The fact that the father died when I was in college, the mother five years ago at a time I happened to be in Austin. Then Jimmy Doebler, and Ruby. The toxicology, the ballistics."
He looked at Maia. "Worst of all, Adrienne. How could you imply that? You know I didn't kill her."
Looking at him now, I could understand why so many people had been destroyed by him. If you weren't careful, you could read anything in his demeanour—concern, caring, mournfulness, vulnerability. You might even think he could be trusted.
"Adrienne was drugged," Maia told him. "Just like the others. Dwight changed his statement, took away your alibi. The only common denominator in all the murders is you."
He shook his head. "The traces on the betatesting. How did you do that?"
I tried to choose my words carefully. "You admit you sabotaged the program?"
Pena laughed. "Well, I don't have much choice. It's all right there—every single time, every session logged. How the hell did you get into my system? Even the emails—those goddamn, hateful emails. Somehow you managed to pin them to my machine. You know I didn't send anything like that."
Maia walked to the window, looked out at the Austin skyline. "You're saying you never sent me any emails, Matthew?"
"I called you a few times. I'll admit I was a little . . . aggressive. But I never sent you anything like—those. I never crashed your system. The rest of the shit you accused me of—breaking into your apartment, all of that—I never did that. It's just like I told you last year—the crap they claimed I did to that guy in Menlo Park. I didn't do it."
It bothered me that I almost believed him. It bothered me more that the package he'd described—the case against Matthew Pena— was exactly what Maia and I had come here to pressure him with, except someone had beat us to it, someone a lot better prepared.
"Matthew," I said, "I'll suspend disbelief for a moment if you'll do the same. Let's say you really did get an email like this—let's say you're not luring us into something, and you have been framed up about as well as anybody can be framed. I didn't send you any email. Neither did Maia."
The colour drained from his face. "Who the hell else would demand I help clear your brother?"
"What did they want, exactly?"
"He—"
"You're sure it's a he?" I asked.
Pena looked impatient. "He, she, it—take your pick. He threatened to hand me to the police on a skewer. The level of documentation he'd provide would clear Garrett, make me look like a multiple killer."
"With what you described," Maia agreed, "he's probably right."
"He wanted twenty million in stock, fifty thousand cash. The stock he wanted transferred to an anonymous account. In exchange, he wouldn't use me. He'd make somebody else the scapegoat."
"Who?" I asked.
"I don't know. I didn't care. I was supposed to meet you— him—tonight. At the restaurant marina, Ruby's place."
"And you trusted him?"
Pena smiled thinly. "No, Navarre. You'll notice the gun. I intended to kill you."
For once, I believed him. Little statements like that really build trust.
I looked at Maia. She read my thoughts, nodded acquiescence.
"Matthew," I said, "for fifty thousand dollars, you've just bought yourself some company."
Date:Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:40:26 0400 From:
[email protected]
To:
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Subject: digest for 15 Jun 2000
There is one message in this issue.
Topics:
I. reunion
{#} Replies to this digest are directed to
[email protected]
Date:Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:52:26 0100 From: little brother
My last story—the way he found me. And I must be brief, because he requires attention.
He came in the backyard, through the old fence, which I found more than a little ironic.
Nevertheless, I was grateful he'd parked in the alley. That would make it so much easier, later.
He stood under the tree, stared up at the house through the branches.
And from my window, I could see the truth finally dawning on him. He walked to the back door.
I waited. I never had any doubts that he would come, and when he did, he would come alone. He had no one left to trust.
I heard his voice inside. Then his feet on the steps.
I stood to one side, in the dark little alcove that had never made any architectural sense to me, but I smiled—remembering that this was where I'd hidden so many times as a child, ready to jump out and seize my playmate.
He got to the top and froze, staring at the room ahead of him. He held a gun, but that didn't matter. I knew he would hesitate here. There was no avoiding that moment of horrified revelation.
I stepped out of the alcove, my blackjack already in motion. He didn't even have time to register the threat before the heavy end of the sap caught his skull, crumpled him to the floor.
"Tag," I said.
And I took the syringe from my pocket.
It's just a matter of waiting, now. Hoping the air lasts. Hoping his heart lasts. Hoping you join the reunion in time.
But as I told you, I'm not worried. Drowning is a patient art.
Maia, Pena, and I sat in the cab of my truck.
There were no signs of life at the marina—just moonlight on the lake, the flicker of moths across the parking lot lights. The warehouse was closed, the two HarleyDavidson hogs still parked under the stairwell. The marina gate was locked, only a few boats left in the slips. Mexican doves roosted on the tines of the forklift.
I looked at Maia. "I could go first, scout it out."
Maia leaned forward so she could stare at me around Matthew.
"I didn't think so." I looked at Pena. "You ready, Matthew?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."
"Do I get my gun back?"
Maia said, "Ha."
Pena moistened his fat lip. "Then I'm ready."
I pulled out Erainya's Taurus 9 mm. from under the seat, loaded a clip.
Maia raised an eyebrow.
"Don't get excited," I said. "You're the one who can shoot worth a damn. Let's go."
Gravel crunched underfoot as we walked toward the water. I watched the restaurant for signs of movement.
Two different planks led from shore. Beer bottles floated in the scummy water between.
Maia drew her Sig Sauer and gestured that she would take the left plank. Matthew and I took the right.
I stepped across the gangplank, pushed on the heavy wooden door. The sign NO ONE
UNDER 18 ADMITTED crinkled under my palm.
A dove flitted out of the exposed rafters and I nearly shot at it.
Matthew and I made our way through a barroom that smelled like lemon ammonia and dried whiskey. I brought out my pencil flashlight and shone it into dark corners—a plastic spoon, a napkin, a forgotten handbag. It was so quiet we could hear the lake gurgle and plunk against the aluminium pontoon floats beneath the floor.
I thought, just for a moment, that I heard a man's voice—a murmured question.
I stopped Pena. We listened.
Nothing.
We rendezvoused with Maia in the main dining room—a forest of upsidedown chairs stacked on tables. The deck doors were open, letting in the smell of the water and the entire panorama of the lake.
Mansfield Dam rose up immediately on the left—an enormous slab of charcoal.
Pena started to whisper, "This was a waste—"
And then someone else spoke, directly in front of us. There was a human form out on the deck.
Pena and I moved toward it, Maia a few steps behind, bringing up the rear.
The man glistened—the glint of wet suit material. Victor Lopez was sitting on the railing of the deck.
"Vic?" I called.
We were at the open doorway now, Lopez only ten feet away.
As my eyes adjusted, I noticed his gear—the air tank, the regulator, the mask around his neck. He wore two weight belts that were solid with squares of lead, another two belts crossing his chest like bandoliers. No BC to counteract the lead. No fins.
If Lopez went over the side like that, he would sink fast and have a hell of a time coming back up. He was also holding a gun at his thigh—not a service pistol.
Something smaller. An oldstyle Raven from back in the 1980s. A .380 automatic.
Lopez was staring out over the water, as if in a reverie.
I glanced back at Maia, who shook her head slightly—I don't know.
Then Vic mumbled something. "Here. Right here, I think."
"Lopez?" I called.
He looked over, said nothing.
There was more scuba equipment at his feet—another air tank, fastened to a BC. On a nearby table was a mask. Next to that, a computer disk.
I shone my pencil flashlight in Lopez's face.
His pupils stayed fully dilated. His expression didn't change— as if there were no circulation in his face.
"Is this—" he droned. "Is this . . . okay?"
"We should leave," Pena murmured. "Now."
Then the deck boards creaked behind us. I spun.
A second figure had separated from the darkness right next to Maia. The only thing that wasn't pure black was the gun. It was pressed against Maia's temple.
"Yes," said the voice I didn't recognize at all. "That's fine, Vic. Put your mask on."
Metal thudded against wood—Maia's gun dropping.
"That's good, dear heart," the voice crooned, the face still in the shadows. "Now your friend's—gun and the flashlight in the water, please."
Maia said, "Don't, Tres."
"Ah," the voice said. "But Tres can't shoot, can he? He doesn't trust his aim. He doesn't trust guns. And certainly, he knows I'll kill you if he doesn't cooperate."
Next to me, Pena stayed still.
I tossed my gun and flashlight over the railing, heard two tiny plooshes in the water.
The figure stepped forward, pushing Maia ahead.
A black baseball cap. A wet suit. A face painted black, eyes intense as a raptor's. The gun slid down, pressed tightly into Maia's jugular vein.
"My hero." Dwight Hayes gave me a pleasant smile. "Thanks for coming, Tres."
"You son of a bitch," Pena said.
"You don't know how appropriate your comment is, Matthew." Dwight's wrist rested on Maia's shoulder. The neoprene of the wet suit was soaking the top of her shirt. He moved his free hand around her waist, spreading his fingers caressingly across her abdomen.
"You smell good," Dwight told her. "I've never been close enough—except for your apartment, looking through your things. I'm glad you decided to pursue us, Maia."
She swallowed. Her throat muscles pushed against Dwight's gun and made it look like she was nodding.
I watched her fingers, waited for our old sign—a threefinger countdown, which would mean she was about to risk a move.
"All right, Victor," Dwight said.
Lopez had raised his gun. He was pointing it at Dwight Hayes, but his arm was bent, the gun turned sideways, as if some invisible armwrestling opponent was forcing his hand back at the wrong angle.
"You won't need that," Dwight assured Lopez. His voice was calm, deep. "Don't you remember?"
"You're drugged, Lopez," I said. "Fight it. Shoot the bastard."
Lopez's arm trembled. His chest had begun to cave in like an old man's under the weight and heat of the scuba gear.
"Don't remember," he mumbled.
"The little boy," Dwight told him. "The little Asian child. He was right under the deck, wasn't he?"
"The boy."
"Right about where you're sitting."
Pena said, "Jesus Christ, Dwight."
Pena started to move forward, but Dwight pressed the gun into Maia's throat, made her gag. "Tsk, tsk, old friend. First things first."
Lopez mumbled, "Right here."
"Good," Dwight said, nodding pleasantly. "What should you do?"
"Search."
"That's an excellent idea. You can leave the gun, I think. Your prints are on it now. That should be sufficient."
Lopez's hand lowered. The Raven clunked on the floor. "I can't— No."
"You need your mask on," Dwight suggested. "And you'll have to keep looking. Even if it gets cold, even if you can't get out, you can't leave a little boy alone down there.
Can't let that happen again."
Dwight's voice had taken on a cadence that wasn't quite human— more like a drum, hit by a small, angry windup machine. "You'll just need to keep searching, Vic. That little boy is down there somewhere. Drowning in the dark."
Lopez fumbled with his mask.
"No, Vic," I said.
But I was just part of the nightmare. His heart must have been slowing, his mind turning to thick sap, flowing over Dwight's words, hardening wherever they stuck.
He bit the regulator's mouthpiece, groping for a pressure gauge.
"Oh, there isn't one, Victor," Dwight reassured him. "Time is the diver's enemy. This dive, you won't have any limits. No charts. Just your task. Now over you go—it'll feel so good to get into the cold water, won't it?"
