The Devil went down to Austin tn-4

by Rick Riordan

  "You think you can stop him, Ruby? You think he'll allow that?"

  Three parking spaces.

  "You told me Pena understood people," I called after her. "I guess you're right. He's sure got your number."

  She whirled to face me.

  The nearest boat jockeys had stood now, their poker game forgotten. One of them called, "Ms. McBride?"

  "I'm all right!"

  I picked up her Adidas, brought it to her.

  "No one has my number, Tres," she told me. "No one."

  "Pena wouldn't do something randomly. He'd pry into your past, look for weaknesses, pick something he knew would rattle you. Why deer blood, Ruby?"

  "I didn't-" She choked, forced a shaky inhale. "No one destroys my property. That wasn't…"

  "Part of the deal?"

  She snatched the shoe, hobbled over to the nearest car, slid down against the bumper, and started fumbling with her laces. "I can make things right, Tres.

  At least I'm going to try."

  It was the same thing Garrett had told me five days ago.

  There was blood between two of Ruby's toes-her own blood now-but she didn't seem to notice.

  One of the boat jockeys called, "Ms. McBride? You sure-"

  "Leave me alone!" She tugged on a shoe, started picking at the laces of the other.

  "You can't confront Pena," I told her. "Not by yourself. Don't be stupid."

  "I'm not confronting Pena."

  Her purse lay in the gravel. The black butt of a gun-probably the one I'd seen on her boat the day before-peeked out the top.

  "I can fix this," she told me again. "But I have to do it. Carefully. You can't help me, Tres. Neither can Clyde. I'm not asking you to understand-"

  She stopped, looked out toward the water. "Maybe I am asking you to understand.

  Jimmy is dead. Garrett doesn't have a clue what's really going on. I can fix this. But that can't happen if I don't go out tonight-by myself."

  Ruby got her other shoe on, stood up. The setting sun turned her shadow into stilt person.

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  "You could follow me, Tres. You could seriously screw this up. But I'm asking you-if it were the other way around, would you want me to stop you? Would you like it if I barged in, assumed I had the right to tell you what was safe, what you needed to do?"

  The boat jockeys had gone back to their game and their cigarettes. Clyde hadn't moved from the top of the deck.

  "I want to make amends," Ruby said. "I was serious about that, Tres. You were right.

  It's my fault-I opened the door."

  "The back door."

  She closed her hand into a fist. "All right. Yes. Now let me stop it."

  She shouldered her purse.

  She seemed to be part of the sunset-her entire form glowing red. I felt like I could touch her, and I would disappear into the glare.

  "Be careful," I told her.

  She let out a long, relieved exhale, came up and kissed me roughly on the cheek, exactly where she had slapped me. "I'll make it all right."

  She turned and walked toward the docks-toward the Ruby, Too.

  I watched her until she got to the pier, then I headed back up the drive, toward the tower where Clyde was still playing gargoyle.

  I wouldn't say he was exactly waiting for me at the top of the stairs, but he was there-leaning against the redwood railing, looking over the tops of the live oaks toward Mansfield Dam.

  Ruby's hot tub cover had been peeled off. I hadn't remembered it being like that a few minutes before. Water bubbled and rumbled and small objects bobbed in it-pecans, though where these would've come from in early June I had no idea.

  "Where's she running off to?" I asked.

  Clyde shook his head. "She wanted me to know, she'd tell me."

  "So much for protection."

  Clyde was silent. In the sunset, his eyes were so blue they were translucent, like bottle glass. "You shook her up yesterday. There was no talking to her. I tried… I'd do anything for her."

  "Same as you'd do for my brother."

  He stared at the churning water in the hot tub, the dark little orbs of pecans bobbing in the foam. "Garrett might kill a guy who took his woman. He wouldn't do that-" He waved toward the open door of the kitchen.

  "I ain't going to let nobody mess with my friends anymore," Clyde decided. "Not the cops, not Pena. I'm going to call a few of my buddies, have them come around tonight, just in case."

  "In case what?"

  No sound but the hum of the hot tub. The daylight was almost gone.

  "I'm not going to trust the police, man," Clyde said. "That's all I'm saying."

  "You going to form a human chain of bikers around Garrett?"

  "You're not a biker-not a onepercenter. You don't know."

  I felt like I was talking to my brother, which suddenly made me realize why Garrett got along with bikers so well. For both, conversation is like spinning wheels in gravel. It doesn't matter if you get anywhere, as long as you make noise and shoot out a bunch of rocks.

  "Best of luck, Clyde," I said. "Have a good evening."

  I started to leave.

  He put a massive paw on my shoulder, pushed me back a step.

  "I know you don't like your brother much. But you should respect him. The man says he'll be there for you, he will. The guys in my club know that."

  "You're right, Clyde. Garrett's a regular Eagle Scout."

  "He going to be out on bail for the Buffett concert tonight?"

  "He got a quick hearing. The wheelchair helped, the fact he's got no priors. Maia Lee took care of things the best she could. He'll be out."

  Clyde looked somewhat mollified. "Buffett music-Buffett knows what it's all about, man. Renegades got to stick together."

  He stepped out of my way. "I expect you to be there for Garrett, Tres. You got some makeup work to do."

  Part of me wanted to slug Clyde because he assumed he knew what I needed to do, as if he knew the history-who had abandoned whom over the years. Part of me wanted to slug him because I thought he was probably right.

  "Call me," I said. "Let us know Ruby got back safe."

  He nodded. "End of the day, man, you better stand with your family. And guess what: the end of the day is here."

  CHAPTER 28

  Southpark Meadows was throbbing with canned music by the time we pulled in.

  The parking lot smelled of hay and mown grass. Headlights cut across a haze of dust.

  A few late tailgaters hung out drinking beer- women in cutoffs and bikini tops, men in Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, humanoids of indeterminate gender dressed as Caribbean life forms. Even the lobsters had drinks in their hands.

  Garrett pushed his wheelchair along between Maia and me, occasionally getting his wheels snagged on a rock or a tire rut. Dickhead the Parrot sat on his shoulder, flapping his wings helpfully whenever the chair got stuck.

  When we got to the rise, we could see the stage two hundred yards downfield-a wired black box of Mecca, the pilgrims swirling around it a sea of drunk pirates and Key West outcasts. A huge rainbow beach ball bounced over a forest of hands. Caribbean music played from buildingsized speakers. Stage lights pulsed. Around the perimeter, long lines snaked away from the beer booths.

  We passed a guy in a foam shark suit, a couple making out in matching crustacean hats, a woman dressed as a tequila bottle.

  "Like the BaytoBreakers race in San Francisco," I said to Maia.

  She gave me an icy look. I'd been getting my share of those from her today.

  "A little," she agreed, "except no one is naked."

  "Give it an hour," Garrett promised.

  We wove our way around the periphery of the crowd. The smell of ganja was everywhere, the field strewn with beach blankets and lawn chairs and coolers.

  Every few yards somebody would recognize Garrett and we'd have to stop for introductions and compliments about the parrot and, invariably, a proffered swig from somebody
's secret flask. If anybody knew about Garrett's newfound celebrity status as a murder suspect, no one mentioned it.

  Maybe the murder charges didn't matter. At the rate we were going, I figured we'd be dead from alcohol poisoning by the time we found a place to sit anyway.

  We finally settled on a knoll to one side of the stage, close enough so Garrett could park his chair and have a fair chance of seeing, far enough away so he wouldn't blast out the parrot's eardrums. Garrett settled back on his Persian cushion and proceeded to get out his jointrolling kit.

  Neither Maia nor I had come so prepared-no blanket, no provisions, no funny costumes.

  A warmup act came on stage and began an instrumental number to a spattering of applause.

  Maia's eyes were fixed on the horizon, studying the stars above the oak trees.

  "I've apologized," I told her. "I don't know what else to say."

  "I don't blame you for bringing evidence to Lopez's attention. I blame you for not calling me. Not telling me. Not warning me."

  Garrett glared up at us from his halfrolled joint. "Could we not talk about this anymore? I'm trying to get stoned. You want to plan my funeral, how about you two go up that way some?"

  Then Garrett was besieged by a group of tropicalshirted fans who wanted to admire his bird. Flasks of liquor came out.

  Maia and I exchanged looks, then moved up the hill.

  We found an abandoned quilt kicked into a U-its owner either gone to get beer or gone toward the stage.

  Metal drums trilled on stage. The lights surged.

  What I'd taken for a warmup band was actually Buffett's band.

  Mr. Margaritaville himself was now coming on stage. The mega screen TVs flashed online to either side of the stage, so that J.B. was either a small orange and red dot walking across the stage or a huge, grinning tan face with blond cropped hair.

  The cheering started.

  "At least Garrett's talking to you again," Maia said.

  "Sure," I agreed. "What better punishment?"

  She didn't try to make me feel better.

  Buffett launched into something I didn't recognize, but the crowd did. A guy near us raised a beer can and did a pretty good approximation of a rebel yell.

  Maia hugged her arms, as if the eightyfivedegree night warranted shivers. "I want you to know, I tried to convince Garrett to get another lawyer. The DA didn't contest my right to represent, but… I don't want a trial. That's not why I came to Texas. Garrett insisted. I guess he was too shaken to think about hiring someone he didn't know."

  At the moment, Garrett didn't appear shaken. He and his friends were nodding their heads to the music, drinking, passing around the joint.

  "You'll have to suggest a plea bargain," I told Maia.

  "Unless something changes drastically. Manslaughter, maybe."

  "He won't go for it."

  "Of course not," she said bitterly. "Navarre stubbornness forebears."

  A prickly silence formed between us.

  "Tell me I'm not crazy," I said. "Pena could be responsible for Jimmy's murder. Or Ruby. Or W.B."

  "Garrett's your brother. You don't need permission to take his side."

  It wasn't the kind of answer I'd wanted, and I guess it showed.

  "You've been acting guilty for days," Maia said. "It's not just finding that casing. What's bothering you?"

  Buffett was still playing that song I didn't know. Pot smoke was so thick that every few seconds another wisp of it would cross the moon like a cloud.

  "Listening to Ruby," I said, "how she abandoned Garrett after his accident. I guess I hadn't thought about that night in a long time."

  Maia studied my face.

  In all the years we'd been together, I'd never discussed my family with her much. She hadn't even known Garrett was disabled until she'd met him.

  "We found him on the tracks," I told her. "My father, my sister, and I. I knew where Garrett went to hop trains. I waited almost two hours before I said anything to my dad."

  "That was twenty years ago," she said. "You were how old, twelve?"

  Garrett was up on the hill, having a great old time. A young blond girl, maybe twentythree, had settled into his lap. She coaxed Dickhead the Parrot onto her wrist, then lifted her arm up and down to the beat, forcing Dickhead to hold his wings open for balance like a hang glider.

  "Garrett's fine," Maia said gently. "Look at him, for God's sake."

  I didn't answer.

  I wasn't sure I could explain to Maia that she was giving me too much credit. What bothered me wasn't the idea I might've done more for Garrett, all those years ago.

  What bothered me was that I finally understood how Ruby McBride felt. She'd made me remember the revulsion, the horror of Garrett's condition, the desire to run away from him. She'd reminded me of my darkest, most contemptible wish when I was twelve years old-that perhaps it would have been better if I'd just gone to sleep that night, not said anything to my father.

  Maia reached out, took my hand.

  She was about to say something when her face went blank.

  Matthew Pena was walking toward us.

  He'd changed out of business clothes, into a sleeveless Gold's Gym Tshirt and workout pants. Unfortunately, he did not appear to have sustained any permanent injuries from Maia Lee tossing him into his bookshelf yesterday. His hair gleamed with gel and his eyes were brighter than I'd seen them before, almost animated. If dead things can be animated.

  "A picnic," Pena said. "How cozy."

  "Matthew." Maia's tone was steady and cold. "I didn't figure you for a Buffett fan."

  He held up the laminated card around his neck. "Gift from a prospective client-backstage pass. How could I say no?"

  For Pena, the event could've been ballet or baseball or an art opening. It didn't matter.

  The important thing was that he could walk around with that backstage pass on, prove to the diehard fans that he could do better than they could without half trying.

  I looked back at Garrett. He saw us, all right. He made a finger gun, fired it at us, then he returned his attention to the young blonde dancing in his lap.

  Pena crouched in front of me. "Had a busy day, Navarre? I heard your brother is in a little trouble. If there's anything I can do-"

  "Like confess?" I asked.

  Pena smiled. "By the way, I thought I'd return this to you."

  He took the button recorder I'd left stuck under his desk, tossed it in my lap.

  "Expensive piece of equipment," he said. "Shouldn't leave it sitting around. I had my people erase it for you. All it failed to pick up, I'm happy to tell you, is good news. We've isolated the problem in Techsan's software. Stupid mistake on the part of the original programmers, I'm afraid. Easily corrected."

  "Surprise, surprise."

  "Of course, there's the matter of those confidential documents being posted. I can't promise there won't be a criminal investigation against your brother and Ruby, maybe some more lawsuits, but hey- at least the program will be on track. Your brother's AccuShield stock should go up. By the time he gets out of jail, he'll be able to pay his debts, retire to the lower middle class."

  "I think," Maia said, "that you should leave."

  The Buffett song ended to deafening applause.

  Pena checked his watch. "You're right. I'd better get back to my clients. We've got a night dive scheduled after the concert-going to check out an old observatory mirror and a few concrete sculptures sunk at eighty feet off Starnes Island. Sure you don't want to come along? Either of you?"

  Before Maia could strangle him with our quilt, I said, "Treat Ruby well, Matthew. Listen to her."

  He looked at me as if I'd just slipped into another language. "Whatever you say, Navarre. Enjoy the evening."

  Then he melted back into the crowd, people around him fawning over his backstage pass.

  Maia followed him with her eyes. Her face was pale, tightly controlled.

  I asked the question I'd been trying to avoid for
two days. "Did you tell him about Hawaii?"

  Maia's eyes reproached me. "No."

  "Then how?"

  "How does a shark smell blood, Tres? I don't know."

  Hawaii, four years ago, had been Maia's and my last vacation together as a couple.

  We'd spent a week on the west side of Oahu- drinking, walking on the beach, making love. And then I'd gotten the bright idea it would be fun to dive the Mahi shipwreck off Waianae.

  I remember Maia forcing herself through the scuba class, coming up shaky after every practice dive, even the pool sessions, but successfully conning me into believing she was fine. She made it through the skills tests, even convinced our instructor, who was no slacker for safety, that she could handle open sea. We didn't know the kind of terror she'd been suppressing until she hit de^› watersixtyfive feet under-and panicked.

  We fought to get her to breathe and not shoot to the surface. Through the mask, her eyes had been the size of silver dollars. As we made our emergency ascent, she'd purged the contents of her stomach through the air manifold, then clawed my regulator out of my mouth and breathed on it, forcing me to grope for my backup.

  For another diver, the failure might not have been so personal, but Maia Lee never retreats, never surrenders. She was raised on stories of her greatgrandfather who survived the Long March, her grandfather who survived reeducation during the Cultural Revolution. For Maia, admitting defeat to a phobia is unthinkable.

  We'd flown back to San Francisco twentyfour hours later, Maia curled into her plane seat, intensely quiet, as if she were trying to compress the Mahi dive into her safebox for darkest memories. For months afterward, whenever she looked at me, I saw a tinge of resentment-shame that I'd witnessed her moment of vulnerability.

  The fact Matthew Pena had so quickly read that fear, had played up the part of his own life that would maximize her discomfort, filled me with dread. What worried me more was Maia-the fierce pride that had made her push through scuba lessons, deny the warning signs, get sixtyfive feet under before realizing she couldn't handle it. I was worried what would happen if she handled Matthew Pena the same way she handled scuba.

  The second song ended. The crowd yelled.