Then he slipped out the tinted glasses and headed for his car.

Maybe it was just the fact that I'd said too many goodbyes that had turned permanent in the course of the week—to Jimmy, to Ruby, almost to Garrett. But I had to fight back a chill as Victor Lopez pulled away—a strange premonition that I wouldn't be seeing him again.

CHAPTER 39

Happy hour was under way on Sixth Street. Early evening revellers roamed from pub to pub, bands were setting up, the smells of Mexican food and mesquite barbecue filled the street.

Inside the Driskill lobby, lights glowed on the marble floors. At the baby grand, a lounge singer was doing Sinatra. I had to hold Maia's hand as we walked past, just to make sure she didn't draw her weapon.

We punched the elevator call button.

When the gold mirror doors slid open, we found ourselves face toface with Matthew Pena, holding a suitcase.

His eyes got very small. "What—"

I pushed him back into the elevator.

"Not leaving us yet, Pena," I said. "Not by a long shot."

Maia came in behind me, closed the door, punched fifteen. "How are you, Matthew?"

"You—" He looked like he was swallowing something spiky. "You, Maia—should be gone. Fired and gone. Ronald Te—"

I punched him in the mouth.

The suitcase clattered to the floor. Pena sank into a crouch.

My hand hurt. I'd cut a knuckle on his incisors.

Maia shook her head. "Gut, Tres. Always the gut."

"I know."

Pena pinched his jaw. His teeth were stained with blood. "What the hell are you thinking, Navarre? You call this private?"

Before I could ask what he meant, the door binged open. Wrong floor. The tenth.

A woman started to come in, did a hasty back step.

"We're going up," I told her. "Can't you tell?"

Maia pushed the button. The door slid shut.

When we reached the fifteenth floor, I pulled Pena to his feet. Maia got the suitcase.

Together we escorted Mr. Pena back into his luxury accommodations.

I wasn't even going to guess how much Pena was paying for the Cattle Baron Suite.

The decor was cedar and bronze and granite, Lone Star motifs, plush furniture, eighteenfoot ceilings, and massive curtained windows overlooking the nighttime skyline of Austin.

Two steps inside, Pena yanked away from me and landed a haymaker on the side of my face. There wasn't much force behind it. He tried for a second punch, but I slapped his hand down, kicked his feet out from under him. He landed on the maroon carpet.

"Knock it off," I told him.

Maia put the suitcase on the bed. She opened the snaps, pulled out several bricks of cash, Pena's portable computer, and a semiautomatic pistol.

She held up the gun by two fingers. "New hardsell tactics, Pena?"

"Get up," I told him.

He did, slowly, rubbing his hip. "I was about to ransom your brother's worthless life, Navarre."

"Really," I said. "How uncharacteristically noble. You want to explain?"

His eyes were dark and full of motion, not unlike snake pits.

Maia ejected the magazine from the pistol. "I'm disappointed, Matthew. There's no more than fifty grand here. I would've thought you paid better."

He put his thumb to his mouth, pulled it back, and looked at the blood. "The computer, Maia. The cash was the smallest demand—just an appetizer. The real price is an electronic stock transfer."

"And who's doing the demanding?" she asked.

Pena picked up an empty bottle from his champagne bucket, regarded it with disgust, dropped it again. "You need to ask? He just hit me in the mouth."

Maia and I exchanged looks.

"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:

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Date:Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:52:26 0100 From: little brother <

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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.

CHAPTER 40

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."