by Rick Riordan
Page 40
"You have a five-year-old now. Nobodys making you a new identity this time. "
"Give me a one-night head start. "
She tried to get up, but I caught her wrist.
Our eyes locked.
"What is it to you, Tres?" she demanded.
"People leave things behind by accident," I said. "But not you. Not that journal. Not the photograph George mustve found. "
She tugged against my grip.
"You left a trail," I said, "because you wanted to. You run again, youll just leave another trail. "
"Absurd. "
"You said it yourself, Ines. You dont get away without a fight. You havent had yours yet. Turn around and face what you left behind, take the consequences. Or you can run away again, talk tough about how youre somebody new, somebody who doesnt need help. If youre somebody new, then maldicion. You and Sandra Mara wouldve gotten along just fine. "
Her eyes flashed murderously. "I wont risk my child. You cant promise Michael will be safe. "
"Look at your son. Tell me hes safe right now, in that cave hes been making. "
"God damn you," she whispered.
"Nobody can guarantee Michael will be safe, Ines. You might as well realize it here, where youve got some friends. "
"I — I cant, Tres. I wish—"
The sound of little sneakers hushed her. The boys crashed into us, showing off their spoils. Their arms glittered with holographic stickers.
I let go of Ines wrist and forced a smile. I complimented Jem on his Felix the Cat. The waitress brought our check and left us with a few more admonishing comments about what nice boys we had.
Michael climbed onto his mothers lap. He was a little large for the task, but he just about managed a fetal position. He tucked his head against Ines chest and began picking at a silvery low-rider decal on his wrist.
"I want to go home," he mumbled.
Ines stroked his hair. Sweat had plastered it into curls over his ears.
"We will," she promised. "Itll be like a sleep-over. In the new apartment. And tomorrow—"
Michael turned his face into her bright shirt, rubbed his nose back and forth, then looked up at her again. "No. Home. "
"Sweetheart—"
"You took it down, I bet," he muttered. "You said you wouldnt. "
Ines hand closed over Michaels on her chest. Her mouth began to tremble.
"Michael," I said. "Were inviting you and your mom over to Jems house, kiddo. You can have your sleep-over there. What do you think?"
Curled against his mother, Michael just looked at me, his eyes as pale blue as his murdered fathers.
Jem, however, perked up instantly. He started filling Michael in on all the games they could play once they got into his room.
"Sweetheart—" Ines interrupted hoarsely.
But Michael didnt want to hear her. He was too busy listening to Jems descriptions of Sega-Wonderland. The little frown didnt leave his face, but he kept his eyes on Jem.
I glanced at Ines. "If you cant beat them. . . "
She closed her eyes for one second, two. When she looked at me again, I couldnt shake the impression that her irises were dark, fractured prisms.
"Perhaps just for tonight," she said.
Jem and I rode together in the Barracuda, leading the way back toward Erainyas. Every few seconds, I checked the rearview mirror. Each time I was surprised to find Ines headlights still behind us.
As we drove, Jem told me how super-funny Michael was. Jem wanted to make a sheet cave like his.
"I dont know if thats the best idea, Bubba. "
Jem disagreed. He told me how cool Michaels setup had been inside.
He said Michael had been trying to make the cave bigger and bigger, so that someday he would never have to come back out again. Someday, Michael would close up the entrance and just disappear. It hadnt worked out that way, but Jem still figured it was a great plan.
"I dont know, Bubba," I told him. "I think maybe Michaels mom was right to take down the sheets. "
Jem was unconvinced. He said that, according to Michael, that wasnt even his real mom. His real mom had disappeared down the sheet cave years and years and years ago. Thats where Michael had been going — following his mom into the dark.
FORTY-THREE
Plans were discussed. Erainya cursed and slapped the air a lot. Jem and Michael were sent off to play video games. Ines was force-fed a platter of Greek food to make up for the dinner she hadnt eaten, then browbeaten into taking the main bedroom.
While Ines was changing clothes and the children were playing in Jems room, Erainya broke out a Heineken and the keys to her gun cabinet.
"You," Erainya said to me. "You go home. "
I insisted on checking the boys one more time.
Through his bedroom doorway, I watched Jem sitting at his PlayStation, engrossed in a 3-D jungle with flying, basketball-dribbling dinosaurs. Michael wasnt participating. He sat cross-legged a few feet behind Jem, a stack of Jems old Nickelodeon magazines and toy-store circulars by his side. Michael was cutting out the pictures with safety scissors.
I drove slowly all the way home.
Back at 90 Queen Anne, I stared reluctantly at the phone for several minutes, then called Ana DeLeons work number, got her voice mail.
I left a cryptic message — I had new information, I might be able to share it soon, but first we needed to talk. Preferably over another pitcher of margaritas. DeLeon didnt call back.
I called Brooke Army Medical Center. No change in Georges condition. Then I lay down on my futon and burned my eyes out reading The Woman in White. By page 200, I still couldnt fall asleep.
Maybe it wouldve been easier if the Suitez family across the street had had another party and lulled me with the familiar sounds of Freddy Fender or Narcisco Martinez. Or if Mrs. Geradinos Chihuahuas had yapped at the moon. Or if Gary Hales upstairs TV had blared out a John Wayne movie on the night-owl theater. These noises I couldve dealt with. But not dead quiet on a Saturday night in San Antonio.
Robert Johnson had no insomnia worries. Hed curled up happily on my crotch, closed his eyes, and proceeded to increase his body temperature by a hundred degrees.
I stared at the ceiling. I counted the inches that the moonlight advanced across my wall.
I thought about the ventilator in Georges hospital room, about Zeta lying in his jail cell, looking out olive-green bars at more rows of olive-green bars, his eyes empty and maybe his thoughts just as hollow. I thought of Ana DeLeon the night before, in those few moments when the ice in her demeanor had melted. Mostly, I thought about Ines and Michael Brandon.
Finally I slid Robert Johnson as gently as I could off my crotch. I got up and dressed — black sweats, black T-shirt, black Nikes, a fanny pack with a few select tools.
The rumble of the Barracudas engine seemed obscenely loud in the nighttime quiet. I headed down Broadway, past a group of low-rider Chevies in the Lions Club lot, a few teenagers smoking and talking outside Taco Cabana, the usual late-night crowd at Earl Abels Coffee Shop. Otherwise, the town had shut down. I drove south, under I-35, past Southern Music, then turned right on Jones. Unless Del Brandon had another nighttime transaction under way, I planned on resolving some unanswered questions tonight. If possible, I also planned on finding something I could use to nail Del Brandons fat ass to his Super-Whirl. RideWorks looked closed up, even the office. There were no cars on the street.
I parked at the gates, got out of the car, and was just examining the chain and padlock when headlights swung onto Camden behind me, about fifty yards back. The obvious didnt occur to me — that I should get back in the Barracuda and get the hell out of there. Instead, stupidly, I squandered five or six seconds watching the white van pull up alongside the Barracuda. Before it had even come to a stop the side door slid open and five Latino men unloaded. One was Chicharron — still a Child of the Night in his black leather and silver, his trench coat c
onveniently covering the damage Ralphs fan-throwing practice had done to his arms. The self-confident burn in Chichs eyes told me hed coked himself up just enough to make this encounter enjoyably bloody.
His four friends were the teenagers Id met at the Poco Mas — Porkpie, with the hat and loose-cut cholo threads, his Taurus P-11 drawn with no preliminaries this time. The other three formed a right flank — all smooth young faces and wispy black beards, jeans, white tank tops, expensive sneakers. I focused on little differences — one had a hairnet. One a gold nose ring. The third held a length of bike gear chain. No visible guns except for Porkpies. Not yet.
"I hear youre a professor. " Chicharron smiled at me with what looked like artificially pointed teeth. "For a teacher, you learn slow. "
I said nothing. With Porkpies Taurus trained on me, there didnt seem much point, I chose to stay standing, back to the gate, arms free, Georges car between me and them.
Chich kept smiling, measuring me. He wouldnt be sure if I was carrying a gun or not, if I were alone or not. Hed want to be sure my situation was really as hopeless as it looked, that Id truly been stupid enough to drive out here on my own, unarmed.
He gestured toward the Barracuda. "Nice wheels. "
"A nice guy used to drive them. "
Nosering cracked his knuckles. Hairnet and his friend with the gear chain both glanced over at the vampire, waiting for a signal.
"Funny," Chich said. "I start asking around, I didnt have no problem finding some people wanted to hurt you. Maybe we do you, then we go looking for your friend Ralph. "
Porkpie said, "One round. Chest. "
Chich held up his fingers for patience. His smile widened.
"You scared of the odds?" I asked him.
My only chance was to keep it close-range, keep them thinking I was a nothing job — blood sport. And then hope like hell to surprise them. The private eye as moron.
Porkpie chambered a round.
"Nah," Chich said. "Get him in the van. "
The news that they preferred me alive failed to comfort me. It only meant they preferred the bloodstain to be somewhere of their choosing.
Hairnet and Bikechain went around either side of the Barracuda. Nosering pulled a blackjack. He opened my passengers-side door, stepping onto the seat like it was a doormat.
Chicharron leaned against his van and watched. Porkpies gun kept making a warm spot in my gut.
I had no intention of waiting to be surrounded on three sides. I stepped toward the hood of the Barracuda to meet Bikechain. He was the least prepared, his hands committed to the chain, probably thinking he would garrote me while I was busy with the others. Before he could change his strategy I feinted a punch at his face, forced his hands up, then shoulder-butted him in the sternum with my full body weight. I turned and ducked as his friends blackjack slashed air next to my ear. I grabbed the blackjackers pierced nose between my thumb and forefinger and yanked. The blackjacker screamed, dropped his sap. I dropped the bloody nose ring, then rolled the guy with the hairnet over my shoulder and onto the pavement.
I retreated, stepping over Bikechain, putting my back to the RideWorks gate, now fifteen feet away from the Barracuda. Porkpies gun was still aimed at me. Chich was still smiling.
The guy whod had the nose ring was making a hand-tent around his face, blood striping his chin and speckling his white T-shirt. The guy with the hairnet was getting up off the street. Bikechain limped forward, rewinding the chain around his fist. He scraped the gear links across the Barracudas red paint job, then kept coming. His friends were close behind.