The Devil went down to Austin tn-4

by Rick Riordan

  Businesses were planned, incorporation papers signed. And nosy spectators watched the divers at the public access beach down the shoreline, wondering what the fuss was about, complaining how it affected their speed boating.

  Rationally, you understand how it happened. You understand that this is just one more bad memory to associate with a place- another policeman's marker.

  The worst part is, you can't help thinking that the old Chinese grandmother was right-some spirit, some dark thing in the water, took a liking to that boy. And it bothers you that you were the one who knew where to look.

  CHAPTER 37

  "I don't know any Clyde," the boat jockey insisted.

  He couldn't have been over nineteen, but he appeared to be the man in charge. He was frantically filling out paperwork while two even younger jockeys worked the docks-using the forklift to lower a Fountain 32 Lightning into the water.

  Several affluentlooking couples stood behind us, waiting their turn.

  "Clyde Simms," Lopez said. "You know-big ugly white guy. Runs the place."

  The boat jockey shook his head. There were two twentydollar bills folded in his fingers, a tip from the previous customer.

  "Yes, sir," he said. "If the manager's name is Clyde, I'll take your word for it. I don't know him. He isn't around."

  "That the office?" I asked.

  I pointed to a set of stairs on the side of the warehouse, leading up to a secondstory door. Parked below the stairs were two Harley Davidson VTwin hogs-both FLSTF models, black and chrome. Leather cones jutted up behind each seat-perfect for holding either longstem bouquets or shotguns. I was betting that the owners, wherever they were, were not florists at heart.

  The boat jockey said, "I'm sorry, you can't-"

  Another customer shouldered his way to the counter and put his elbow between the boat jockey and me. He brandished a claim ticket.

  "My boat," he said. "It's three o'clock and my boat isn't in the water."

  "No, by all means," I said. "You go right ahead."

  The newcomer gave Lopez and me the briefest sideways glance, just long enough to determine we weren't members of his country club, then turned his attention back to the boat jockey. "Well?"

  The jockey looked up and just about had a paperworkshuffling coronary. "Mr.

  McMurray."

  "That's right," Mr. McMurray said, with more than a little satisfaction. "Now where's my boat?"

  The jockey launched into some explanation about how the bottom paint wasn't dry yet and Mr. McMurray started smiling, no doubt anticipating a really good asschewing on the hired help.

  Lopez said, "We'll just help ourselves, thanks."

  We made a beeline for the outer stairs of the warehouse. When we got to the top, I glanced back. The boat jockey was watching us nervously, trying to get our attention, but he didn't dare yell or leave the nottobepissedoff Mr. McMurray.

  Lopez opened the door and we went inside.

  The room was a fifteenfoot square-one interior door, one chair, one metal patio table. There was a pile of boatcleaning supplies in the corner. The old grizzled biker who'd been talking to Garrett at the Jimmy Buffett concert was sitting at the table play ing solitaire, which struck me as weirder than anything else I'd seen that day.

  Lopez got a twinkle in his eye. "Well look who's here. If it ain't Armand."

  Armand studied us from head to toe, then slowly got up. His beard reminded me of Garrett's, except it was longer, braided with lug nuts.

  He nodded toward Lopez. "Who the fuck you?"

  His Cajun accent was as grimy as the Cafe du Monde's dumpster.

  "How quickly they forget," Lopez lamented. "You don't remember Del Valley, Armand?

  Our little talk about that double knifing? Man, I'm hurt."

  Armand's eyes narrowed. "Ain't no cop, you."

  I couldn't tell whether Armand was being obtuse or stubborn or what, but he was pressing Lopez to pull a badge Lopez didn't have. He'd intentionally not brought it-wanted no accusations later that he'd been here under colour of law.

  "Listen," Lopez said. "No need to get any more gray hairs. My friend here just wants to see his brother."

  Armand studied me again, did not seem overcome with compassion. "S'pose to know your brother?"

  "Garrett," I said. "Just tell him I'm here."

  The lug nuts gleamed when he shook his head. "I see anybody named Garrett, I tell him."

  Lopez sighed. He pulled over a folding chair, propped his foot on it. "I could call your name in, Armand. I'm sure I could find some warrants. But that's not the way we're trying to play it. Why don't you just take us downstairs, we'll talk to Clyde, see if he doesn't see things our way. Otherwise, I guarantee you, you're going to have half the Sheriff's Department around this place faster than you can kickstart a hog."

  Armand scratched his beard.

  "D'accord," he decided, pointing his thumb toward the interior door. "But you still an asshole, Lopez, hear?"

  Lopez grinned at me. "See? I knew he remembered me."

  Armand led us downstairs into the warehouse. Boats were stacked in threestoryhigh tiers, with an open space in the middle the size of a basketball court.

  The forklift was in the warehouse now, its engine rumbling like the world's largest lawn mower. It had a twentyfoot Stingray balanced on its prongs, probably Mr. McMurray's plaything, and the jockey was desperately trying to get it out the door, but there were two uniformed deputies blocking his path.

  Armand froze when he saw the cops. He glared at Lopez, who spread his hands, tried to look mystified.

  "They ain't with us, man," Lopez vowed. "Je ne sais rien."

  Armand let out a string of Cajun curses, but apparently didn't see much choice except to keep going down the stairs.

  The kid on the forklift was shouting at the deputies over the noise of the motor, asking them to please move. The uniforms ignored him.

  I recognized one of them now-Engels, the one who worked parttime security for W.B. Doebler. That did not reassure me. The other guy I didn't recognize, but both had obviously ordered their facial expressions from the same online catalogue.

  We got to the bottom of the steps.

  "You can't be in here!" the kid on the forklift was saying, exasperated.

  "Deputy Geiger," Lopez said, trying for a grin. "Deputy Engels. What brings you two here?"

  Deputy Engels took his eyes off me long enough to say, "Detective. I heard you were on leave."

  "I am," Lopez assured him pleasantly. "That's why I'm at a marina. Y'all want to split the cost of a day cruise?"

  Geiger and Engels did not look tempted.

  "I'm telling you-" the kid on the forklift started to shout.

  Geiger said, "Cut your engine."

  The kid opened his mouth to protest, but Geiger's expression shut him up.

  He cut the engine.

  "Now get off," Geiger said. "And get out."

  The kid did both.

  Outside, the other boat jockeys converged on him and started asking what the hell was going on. The kid said, "You talk to them!" In the background, Mr. McMurray was screaming how important he was.

  Engels nodded to his compatriot, Geiger.

  Geiger walked to the warehouse doors and rolled them shut, to the renewed protests of the boat jockeys outside.

  "Chain it," Engels said.

  Geiger took a length of chain off a hook, ran it through the door handles.

  Engels pulled out his asp, extended it with a rapid flick of the wrist. He looked at Lopez and me. "There's the staircase, Detective. I suggest you and your friend use it. Leave the piece of shit here."

  I hoped that the friend reference was for me, but I wasn't sure.

  "This is dumb, gentlemen," Lopez said. "You got a warrant?"

  "No need," Geiger said. "Possible officer in trouble. I just called it in, based on a witness I talked to outside. I came in. My partner Engels was here. The backup unit will be here in about ten minutes, I'd guess. Pl
enty of time."

  "Mr. Doebler know you're here, Engels?" I asked. "You getting a bonus for this?"

  Engels ignored me. He stepped up to Armand. "Give us Garrett Navarre, everything's fine. Don't give us Navarre, then you are about to assault an officer. It's going to get a little rough when I have to subdue you."

  From the back of the warehouse, Clyde Simms' voice said, "Engels, you prick."

  Clyde appeared from between two motorboats, wearing white shorts and white Tshirt and flipflops-like an overweight, Aryan Jesus coming out of the tomb. He was holding his weapon of choice-the Bizon2-down by his side. Garrett was with him, a few steps behind, wheeling along in his chair. Garrett looked okay, better actually than I'd seen him in quite some time.

  Clyde said, "You know I ain't letting you near any friend of mine."

  Engels smiled thinly. Geiger, slowly, drew his gun.

  I locked eyes with Garrett, trying to implore him not to do anything stupid. He lifted a hand to reassure me, defeat in his eyes. He was a man about to give up, even if Clyde didn't know it yet.

  Lopez said, "Hey, Clyde. Garrett. Under the circumstances, guys, I'd go with the flow.

  Come on out here and surrender. We'll work it out."

  "Do what the detective says," Geiger urged.

  "Then we can file a report on these assholes together," Lopez added. "Get them suspended the right way."

  The deputies looked at Lopez, and Armand chose that moment to charge.

  He went for Geiger, the man with the gun.

  Engels swung the asp and Armand's shoulder caught a glancing blow, but Armand had his momentum. He slammed into Geiger and the two went down hard on the cement. Geiger's gun went flying.

  Clyde fired off a burst from the Bizon2 that punched a downward arc of holes in the warehouse door, the last and lowest shot snicking Engels' head-his ear flowered in blood. Lopez dove for the cover of the forklift. I rolled the other way and hugged the nearest boat hull.

  Clyde had disappeared behind a rack of boats. Garrett, wisely, had wheeled himself back at top speed, out of sight.

  Geiger and Armand were still rolling on the ground.

  Engels was on the asphalt, screaming, his hand clamped around his ear and blood seeping between his fingers.

  Lopez scrambled over to him, examined the wound, decided it was not fatal, drew the deputy's pistol, and went into a police crouch.

  He glanced at Geiger, seemed to be deliberating how best to help him with Armand, when Clyde shot off another burst from somewhere in the back of the warehouse-bullets pinging like pin balls against the metal scaffolding. Lopez quickly retreated around the far side of the forklift, going into stalk mode for Clyde.

  Geiger got the upper hand on Armand, started strangling the biker, but that just gave Armand new spirit. He rolled on top and smacked the deputy's head into the asphalt once, twice, three times. Geiger loosened his grip.

  More gunshots sparked off the forklift.

  Armand staggered to his feet, leaving Deputy Geiger curling on the cement like a steppedon spider. Engels was still yelling, bleeding from the side of his head. He would not be getting up soon.

  I could see Lopez's feet on the opposite side of the forklift, sneaking around, but he couldn't see Armand, who mumbled, "Fucking cops!" and headed for the forklift.

  Armand climbed aboard, cranked the engine to life, then swung the machine around.

  Lopez fired once, ineffectually, then had to scramble to get out of the way.

  Armand's turn was too tight. The forklift slammed into the lowest rack of boats and its Stingray payload keeled sideways, slipping off the prongs. Mr. McMurray's pride and joy hit the warehouse floor with a sound like a fortyton Tupperware bowl. It slid to a stop right next to the unconscious Deputy Geiger.

  Lopez spilled onto the ground behind the forklift. He'd lost his borrowed gun. He was trying to get to his feet, but it looked like he'd broken something.

  Armand slammed the forklift in reverse, trying to free it from its tangle in the racks.

  Another spray of shots came from the back of the warehouseprobably meant for Lopez-but one of them hit Armand's thigh in a burst of red mist.

  Armand bellowed, lost control of the machine. The forklift was now backing up toward Lopez, who was scrambling to crawl out of the way, much too slow.

  I cursed, ran to the forklift.

  I jumped aboard and Armand paid me no attention. He was clutching his thigh, rocking, screaming more Cajun obscenities. I tried to hold on to him and keep us both on the forklift while figuring out the controls fast. I did it, sort of. I managed to slam the thing out of reverse and back into full forward, which sent us away from Lopez but on an unfortunate collision course with Deputies Geiger and Engels.

  I tried for a turn, slammed full steam into Mr. McMurray's Stingray-pushing it toward the warehouse doors with an immense fiberglass GRRRRRINNNND. We hit the doors? the corrugated tin bowed, gave way. Then we were in the open, pushing the boat along the asphalt.

  When I finally got the forklift stopped, the boat jockeys were staring at us in horror. The rich Mr. McMurray was gaping at his boat, which had just been delivered the hard way.

  Armand was still yelling, his blood soaking his pants.

  Out of the warehouse came Lopez-rearmed with Clyde's Bizon2, limping, leading Clyde Simms at gunpoint. Garrett wheeled along behind. Garrett looked okay, but Clyde sported a large new welt on his temple.

  Sirens were wailing far off in the hills.

  I exhaled for the first time in several minutes, then looked at our audience.

  "Mr. McMurray," I said, "your boat is ready now."

  CHAPTER 38

  The front of the Travis County Jail is a severe concrete triangle, jutting toward West 11th Street like the prow of a battleship.

  Vic Lopez led Maia and me inside the tiny foyer. He deposited his gun in a police locker, then signalled the security guard behind the bulletproof glass. We were buzzed through the double airlock door.

  The guard on duty was busy explaining parole forms to a guy in a threadbare suit.

  I looked at Lopez. "Do we sign in?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Take a tag-doesn't matter what colour."

  It's not often I get to be someone's attorney. I took a red tag.

  "Bad enough you don't invite me to your parties," Maia murmured. "Now you want to replace me."

  Her mood had not been sunny since she received word of our expedition to the marina. Lopez had, amazingly, gotten off with only a mild censure, thanks again to his prominent attention in the press for bringing in three dangerous men. Deputies Engels and Geiger had been taken to the hospital, where they, too, were receiving accolades from the press.

  I'd been released after questioning, with no punishment but cold stares. Lopez had vouched that I'd saved his life by stopping the forklift, but I wasn't sure that had won me any points with Lopez's superiors. The marina had been closed until further notice.

  Clyde Simms and Garrett had both been taken here-the county's maximum security facility for violent offenders.

  Strangely enough, Armand, who'd started the whole thing, was the only one who got out on bail. Perhaps that was part of his plea bargain for copping to assault charges-something Clyde had not been willing to do. Perhaps the police simply failed to provide a Cajun interpreter when they read Armand his rights.

  As for Garrett, his bail had been revoked. The fact that he hadn't directly resisted arrest was ignored. Maia's best speeches and tirades didn't help. Wheelchair or not, Garrett had now graduated to hardcore incarceration.

  The prison corridors smelled like dayold meat loaf. The walls were brown and beige, in keeping with Travis County's Hershey Bar patrol colours. We walked past the med ward-the psych patients, the newbies waiting for their TB tests to pass. Guards in white lab coats did their rounds, slipping food and drugs through the little slots in the cell doors. All the deputies knew Vic. They highfived him, asked him what was up, gave Maia Lee appreciative glanc
es.

  We waited for the elevator with four inmates in bluegreen scrubs who were helping a deputy transport a supply cart.

  Lopez looked at one of the inmates, a young Anglo guy with starchwhite hair and a pasty face and a nervous smile. Vic said, "How you doing, Hans?"

  The jail deputy grinned, as if pleased by some inside joke.

  Hans said, "Fine, sir. I'm fine."

  "These boys treating you okay?" Lopez asked.

  I looked down at Hans' feet. He was the only one of the inmates without shoes.

  "They're treating me fine," he said.

  Two of the other guys-both Latinos with hair nets-grinned at each other.

  Hans mumbled, "I got hope. My boss knows he ain't going to get his deposits in the bank next Friday without me. I got hope."

  "You got to have hope," the other deputy said.

  "That's right, brother," Lopez said.

  At the top of the elevator, the inmates let us get out first. One held the door for us.

  Everybody called Maia "ma'am."

  Lopez and I walked up to the guard station. The sentry, a Weebleesque woman, was talking on the phone.

  We waited.

  The deputy from the elevator led his four charges to their cell block and told them it was time to declare contraband items. The inmates started patting down their clothes.

  There were no bars anywhere, just plexiglass walls and big brown metal doors. Inside the block, I could see a metal picnic bench with welded seats, like at a highway rest stop. A little TV was mounted from the ceiling. Along the back wall was a row of tenbyten cells, each with its own brown metal door, each crammed with books and magazines. The whole block was intensely quiet. Much quieter than any jail I'd ever been in.

  Three of the inmates showed the deputy their empty hands. One of the Latinos, almost bashfully, offered up a spoon and a comb- two potentially deadly weapons.

  The deputy looked satisfied. He took the spoon and the comb and buzzed the cell block door open.

  "You bust Hans?" I asked Lopez.

  "It isn't Hans, Navarre-it's Hands. Only been in here a couple of days. Killed a guy he owed money to-dumped the body in the woods and thought we'd never be able to track the victim's identity if he cut off the hands and threw them in the Colorado River.