by Rick Riordan
And he looks as if he wishes to say something more, but his voice dissipates as quickly as the steam from his mouth.
She remembers that brief moment of clarity in his eyes, twenty minutes before, when he aimed the gun, brought down the doe with a single wellplaced shot. She wishes there were another whitetail deer to kill.
Her buck is a much greater trophy, but she is willing to field dress his doe as well. She wants to be shoulder to shoulder with her father in the work, touch his hands, smell his breath, even if it reeks of whiskey.
Instead, he sets his gun against the tree. He kneels, grasps a handful of dry leaves and cedar nettles, lets them slip through his fingers. There, at the highest point of their property, at a place where the food can never touch, he seems to be praying, and she knows instinctively that whatever his prayer, it will not be answered. Fourteen years on the lake have taught her to expect that.
So she cleans her knife blade-the sharp steel, four inches, well weighted. She goes to the doe and turns it belly up, feels along the white fur until she finds the point for incision below the sternum.
She makes the cut as her father once showed her-inserting her fingers under the skin, making a V, cutting with the blade up, being careful not to puncture the intestines.
She can tell the doe was nursing, and she knows she must remove the mammary organs right away. Milk goes bad quickly. Nothing will spoil the taste of the meat worse than that.
She works with the knife, trying to be hopeful, trying to believe that she is drawing closer to her father, that he is not slipping away, becoming less and less present the more deer tissue she slices through.
She ignores the smell and the blood. She cuts away the mess- lets the offal spill out, prepares her father's doe lovingly.
And the less he pays attention, the more meticulous she is, the more she needs the knife and the wellmade incision, the liver without spots, the heart cut away and drained of blood.
Imagine her on that hill, and you will realize why she treats men as she does. Her affections were cut away long ago, examined for impurities and set on ice, claimed at the point of a hunting knife.
CHAPTER 13
"I can't talk to you," Dwight Hayes said.
He'd already helped himself to one lukewarm bottle of beer from the sixpack on the floor of my truck, and was starting on his second.
"Of course you can't," I said. "Which way on 135?"
"North."
We did a U on San Gabriel, went under the highway, took the entrance ramp. I said,
"What was your little disagreement with Pena?"
One street lamp went by. Two. We passed the UT campus on the left, the Longhorn stadium lit up for an event.
"Bastard hit me," he said. "He hit me."
"Relax. You're in better company now."
Dwight was silent for a few hundred street lamps. "Is it true what Miss Lee said about-you and her?"
"I don't know. What did Miss Lee say?"
"Never mind," he decided.
We kept driving. Dwight directed me east on Highway 290.
"How long have you worked for Pena?" I asked.
His eyes were heavylidded from all the beer, irritated, as if I'd just woken him up.
"Forever. I'm his technical adviser."
"I take it you're not talking about scuba gear."
"I sniff out the most promising software startups. I look for market potential, point him in the right direction."
"Like the startup in Menlo Park. Like Techsan."
He looked at me, miserable. If guilt had a smell, it was permeating the truck.
"You've seen what happens to the people Pena attacks," I guessed. "The people you sicced him on. Over and over."
"You want to kick me out?" he asked. "It's okay."
Unlit subdivisions went by, closedup malls, empty fields.
"Maia Lee is right," I suggested. "She's a good person. You should think about talking with her, Dwight."
It was too dark to see his face.
"I thought Techsan would be different," he said. "There was no reason… Ruby and Matthew got along so well at first."
"Got along how, exactly?"
"Ruby was the one Matthew approached, back in March. She took him diving out on the lake. They seemed to like each other, came to some kind of agreement in principle.
I thought-the program was solid. The algorithms were excellent. I thought Matthew would make them a fair offer, make an easy buy."
"But your employer doesn't enjoy easy buys."
Another mile of darkness. Dwight pointed ahead to a blinking yellow light, told me to take that exit.
"You were with Pena the night Adrienne Selak drowned," I said. "I suppose you can't talk about that either."
"She was nice. She was good for Matthew. I don't think- He wouldn't have killed her.
No way."
"You don't think. I thought you saw Adrienne Selak fall. You made a statement on Pena's behalf."
"I meant- He never would have hurt her."
"You sure that's what you meant?"
Dwight let my question die in the air.
We ended up in an aging subdivision of northeast Austin, just south of 290. The houses were 1970s prefab, the lawns all gone to crabgrass. It was the kind of neighbourhood that looked best at night, which is exactly the time the local police would tell you not to go there.
Dwight drank his lukewarm beer, told me where to turn.
"The police talk to you about Jimmy Doebler?" I asked.
"A detective came to Pena's suite at the Driskill. That Lopez guy. Matthew was working late the night of Jimmy's murder- video conference."
"And you?"
"I was home. Too many goddamn witnesses."
Before I could ask what he meant, he directed me into the driveway of a greentrimmed twostory. Television light glowed behind curtained windows. A strip of duct tape ran up one cracked pane like a lightning bolt. The yard was dirt with a few sad clumps of dandelions and one sickly pecan tree filled with webworms, a tippedover tricycle on the sidewalk. A bangedup gray Honda sat next to the curb.
I'm not sure what I'd been expecting as a dropoff point, but this wasn't it.
"You've got a family?" I asked.
Dwight scowled. "You don't need to come in."
Then he opened the truck door and fell into the driveway.
I got out my side and came around to help.
Dwight was cursing the pavement.
"Should've warned you about that first step," I apologized.
"I'm fine," he snapped.
He pushed my hand away, stumbled to his feet. I followed him to the front door.
I heard children before we even got to the porch. A girl and a boy were yelling. Feet stomped. Porcelain crashed and a woman's limp voice escalated over the noise: "No, no, no."
Dwight turned toward me. "I'm okay now."
Then the door opened and a grinning Latino boy about eight said, "Mr. Hayes, tell her to stop hitting me!"
A younger AfricanAmerican girl pounced on the boy in a flurry of small fists. Both children yelled, did a oneeighty, and raced up the green shagcarpeted stairwell that faced the front door. Their thumping feet on the poorly constructed steps sounded like mallets on a cardboard box.
Dwight took a deep breath. Then he plunged into the house like he was entering the first circle of hell. He followed the children up the stairs.
"Dwight?" a woman's voice called after him. "Are you hurt, son?"
Dwight got to the top and turned the corner. He yelled, "Get the hell out!"
The Latino boy and his nemesis, the little girl, came rushing down the stairs, grinning, and disappeared into a room on the right.
The woman's voice said, "Chris, Amanda, no, no, no."
Despite everything I'd ever been warned about highrisk entries, I stepped inside.
The place smelled of longago meals-fried chicken, oranges, grilled cheese sandwiches. A wall unit AC was humming and whining somewhere in ba
ck, but it made no difference. The house was hotter than the summer night outside.
To the left was a den, illuminated only by a television. Half a dozen schoolaged children reclined on sofas, eating Cheetos and watching The Magic School Bus.
To the right, where Chris and Amanda had run, a woman dominated a blue couch in the living room. A portrait of Jesus hung on the wall above her. At her feet, two toddlers sat Vlegged on the carpet amidst a Gettysburg of Legos and blocks. The last child-not counting however many might be packed into the closets-was an Anglo boy of about ten. He stood next to the woman, fanning her face with a piece of cardboard.
The woman smiled pleasantly at me. "I'm Mrs. Hayes. Are you Dwight's friend?"
She looked in her late fifties, paleskinned, not merely fat but big in every respect, from wrists to ankles to fingers. She wore a pink tentdress and gaudy makeup that struggled to create contours on her otherwise shapeless face. Her hair was the colour of diet cola, and looked like it had been cut and combed by a barber who usually did men.
I introduced myself, told her I'd given Dwight a ride after he'd had a minor accident at Scholz Garten.
Her pleasant smile didn't change. "Is my boy all right?"
"Yes, ma'am. Just a little scraped up. Dwight'll be fine."
She nodded contentedly.
I couldn't help thinking about a white lab mouse I'd once seen at A amp;M-a psychology maze graduate who'd figured out how to push the reward button. The mouse was allowed to sit there all day long, punching, gorging, punching, gorging, until it became an enormous, fuzzy mound of rodent complacency, its pink eyes glazed and disconnected with the world beyond that quarterinchdiameter red circle which gave him bliss.
Mrs. Hayes looked like a woman who had found the reward button.
Chris and Amanda did another lap through the living room.
Mrs. Hayes called after them halfheartedly, "Chris!"
The boy leapt over a toddler thumping blocks on the floor, knocked down a vase, kept running with the girl close behind. Mrs. Hayes blinked, mildly annoyed, like the food button was stuck.
"Chris!" she called again.
The next lap through the living room, Chris stopped. The girl ran into him. She pummeled his back while he waited for instructions.
"Chris," Mrs. Hayes said pleasantly, "what video will keep the children quiet for a while?"
"Star Wars!" he shouted.
"Austin Powers!" protested the girl, whapping him.
The two of them started arguing. Mrs. Hayes looked ever so slightly pained. "I don't approve of those choices, but I must have it quiet for a while. I'm getting my headache again."
Chris widened his eyes, as if Mrs. Hayes' headache was a thing to be avoided.
"We'll figure it out, Mrs. H.," he promised.
Chris and Amanda herded the two littler children out of the room, leaving us only the boy with the cardboard fan. Soon the sounds of screaming and chasing were replaced by roaring ships and blasting lasers.
I sat in the chair by the window. Mrs. Hayes smiled at me from her couch, the boy with the cardboard making her hair flicker with every sweep. My scalp started to itch from the heat. I wondered how much the kid charged.
"Well," Mrs. Hayes said, starting over. "You work for Matthew's company?"
She said Matthew with lazy familiarity-two warm, fluffy syllables.
"No, ma'am," I said. "You know Mr. Pena?"
"Oh, goodness, yes. Matthew's been wonderful to my Dwight. They went to college together, you know. Would you like some iced tea?"
"Don't go to any trouble, ma'am."
"No, it's no trouble." She waved toward the kitchen. "I believe I'd like some, too."
We sat there beaming at each other for a few seconds before I realized I'd received my marching orders.
The kitchen was all Formica and particleboard, the woodgrain veneer peeling away from the cabinets in large strips. The sink was piled with dishes. A Cheerios box was overturned on the counter.
It took me a minute to find two clean glasses, then to find a pitcher in the refrigerator that held anything resembling iced tea. I opened the freezer for ice. On the bottom, swirling in mist, were little strips of notebook paper, each one with a name in cursive: Marcy, Deborah, Chris, Amanda, John, Clement. There were others in the back, stuck there so long they were grafted to the frost. I scraped away one. It said "Dwight."
The kids in the den kept eating Cheetos, happily watching space ships detonate on TV. I filled two glasses and brought my spoils back into the living room.
I gave one glass to Mrs. Hayes, then sat across from her on a wicker rocker.
The kid with the fan said, "Are you cool enough yet, Mrs. H.?"
"You keep going, Clem."
The boy switched the cardboard to his other hand.
Mrs. Hayes smiled at me. "Clem stole money from my wallet last week. Now he's paying me back."
"Really."
"They all try it when they first come here. 'Do not despise a thief, if he steal to satisfy his soul when he is hungry.' "
Clem kept fanning her, his face weary and bitter.
"Proverbs," I said.
Mrs. Hayes beamed approval. "Yes, dear. Very good."
"Clem's name is in the freezer."
"Oh, they're all in the freezer. All the ones I pray for. Children are forced to grow up too fast, nowadays. Don't you think?"
I sipped some tea. It had absorbed a residual taste of something else from the refrigerator-ham or bologna, something decidedly non kosher. I sat my glass on the end table. "These are… neighbourhood children you take care of?"
"Mostly," Mrs. Hayes said. "Their parents work late and can't afford child care. This is my ministry to them. The house was so lonely after Dwight graduated. That's what started me taking in children. It was good of Matthew to arrange for Dwight to stay here."
"Matthew did that?"
More smiling. The reward button was working fine, now.
"He called me even before he'd arranged it with Dwight. Said it seemed a shame, getting an expensive hotel room or an apartment, when Dwight could spend a few months here with me. Especially after all those years in California. Naturally, I agreed."
"Naturally. And when Dwight didn't want to impose?"
"Oh, Matthew insisted. Such a polite young man."
Above Mrs. Hayes' head, the framed portrait of Jesus had his hands clasped, his eyes heavenward. If I stayed with Mrs. Hayes all day, I imagined I'd look like that, too.
I thought about Dwight upstairs, probably in his boyhood room, Matthew Pena having a good laugh about it every night when he went to sleep in his luxury hotel. I wondered if Dwight had his head buried under a pillow right now.
"It isn't Dwight's fault," Mrs. Hayes mused. "I don't expect him to do as well as Matthew has done, but I do tell him to pay attention, learn from Matthew. Matthew is so good at what he does."
"Yes, ma'am," I agreed. "Very good."
There was a crash in the den. A boy said something too soft to interpret? a girl giggled.
Mrs. Hayes took a deep breath. "No, no, no!"
When the giggling didn't stop, Mrs. Hayes seemed to sniff the air for a scent, then called, "Marcy and John. I know that was you. You come in here this minute."
Another crash.
Mrs. Hayes sighed. Clem the fan boy started to smile, but quickly stifled it when he caught me looking at him. I gave him a wink.
"I should go," I said. "Thanks for your hospitality, ma'am."
"I'll keep you in my prayers, Tres." And then she gave me her empty bolognaflavoured tea glass to take to the kitchen on my way out.
As I left, Mrs. Hayes was still calling from her couch for the children to behave. Clem was fanning her hair into a cowlick with his piece of cardboard.
I stepped out into the cooler summer night and said a silent prayer to Our Saviour of the Sofa Painting that my name would not be going into Mrs. Hayes' freezer.
CHAPTER 14
"Now tell me this
wasn't worth it."
Ruby McBride set Garrett's folded wheelchair on the deck and waved her hand toward the horizon.
Garrett unclamped his arms from around my neck, transferring himself to the bench that ran around the railing. I tried not to wheeze too hard. Nothing like carrying your brother up three flights of stairs to burst your illusions of being in good shape.
Ruby's houseinprogress was a square tower, built on the slope of a hill overlooking Point Lone Star-a roughly triangular piece of land that jutted into Lake Travis.
The business part of her property was at the shoreline, about a hundred yards downhill-a wellilluminated marina, a small floating restaurant, a drivedown boat launch. She even had a warehouse for drystacking and a giant forklift with padded teeth for retrieving the boats. A glowing pier stuck into the water and Yed about ten yards out, making two rows of wet slips for yachts. There were maybe a dozen boats docked-from twentyfooters all the way up to sixtyfooters.
The lake was scored with moonlight. Lights from other palatial homes sprinkled the hills on the far shore. The Milky Way shimmered above us.
All in all, not a bad view.
"The plumbing works," Ruby announced. She waved toward a sliding glass door that led into an unfinished kitchen/breakfast area. The room was starkly lit, glowing in the night like an empty fish tank. "So if you need the john, gentlemen, please don't whiz off my balcony."
Garrett popped his wheelchair open, shoved the Velcro cushion in, then eased himself onto it. He'd taken off his tie. The untucked flaps of his dress shirt hung from the edge of the seat like elf shoes.
Ruby produced two Shiner longnecks from an ice chest and passed them to us. The light from the empty kitchen silhouetted her hair like redhot filaments.
"Hell of a step up from a houseboat." She leaned against the railing, rested her fingertips lightly on Garrett's shoulder. "Next winter I'll be able to shoot deer from here.
I swear to God, they walk right up my driveway."
"Sportsmanlike," Garrett mumbled.
She drank from her Sprite can. "It's either shoot them or wait for them to run in front of my Miata, dear heart. The gun is more humane."
We watched a meteor streak across the western sky, fade and die.