Rick Riordan: The Devil went down to Austin

There is one message in this issue.

Topics:

I. reunion

{#} Replies to this digest are directed to list@marina. com

Date: Thur 15 Jun 2000 18:52:26 0100 From: little brother ‹lilbro@marina. com› Subject: reunion

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.

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."

Gravel crunched underfoot as we walked toward the water. I watched the restaurant for signs of movement.

Two different planks led from shore. Beer bottles floated in the scummy water between.

Maia drew her Sig Sauer and gestured that she would take the left plank. Matthew and I took the right.

I stepped across the gangplank, pushed on the heavy wooden door. The sign NO ONE

UNDER 18 ADMITTED crinkled under my palm.

A dove flitted out of the exposed rafters and I nearly shot at it.

Matthew and I made our way through a barroom that smelled like lemon ammonia and dried whiskey. I brought out my pencil flashlight and shone it into dark corners-a plastic spoon, a napkin, a forgotten handbag. It was so quiet we could hear the lake gurgle and plunk against the aluminium pontoon floats beneath the floor.

I thought, just for a moment, that I heard a man's voice-a murmured question.

I stopped Pena. We listened.

Nothing.

We rendezvoused with Maia in the main dining room-a forest of upsidedown chairs stacked on tables. The deck doors were open, letting in the smell of the water and the entire panorama of the lake.

Mansfield Dam rose up immediately on the left-an enormous slab of charcoal.

Pena started to whisper, "This was a waste-"

And then someone else spoke, directly in front of us. There was a human form out on the deck.

Pena and I moved toward it, Maia a few steps behind, bringing up the rear.

The man glistened-the glint of wet suit material. Victor Lopez was sitting on the railing of the deck.

"Vic?" I called.

We were at the open doorway now, Lopez only ten feet away.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed his gear-the air tank, the regulator, the mask around his neck. He wore two weight belts that were solid with squares of lead, another two belts crossing his chest like bandoliers. No BC to counteract the lead. No fins.

If Lopez went over the side like that, he would sink fast and have a hell of a time coming back up. He was also holding a gun at his thigh-not a service pistol.

Something smaller. An oldstyle Raven from back in the 1980s. A. 380 automatic.

Lopez was staring out over the water, as if in a reverie.

I glanced back at Maia, who shook her head slightly-I don't know.

Then Vic mumbled something. "Here. Right here, I think."

"Lopez?" I called.

He looked over, said nothing.

There was more scuba equipment at his feet-another air tank, fastened to a BC. On a nearby table was a mask. Next to that, a computer disk.

I shone my pencil flashlight in Lopez's face.

His pupils stayed fully dilated. His expression didn't change- as if there were no circulation in his face.

"Is this-" he droned. "Is this… okay?"

"We should leave," Pena murmured. "Now."

Then the deck boards creaked behind us. I spun.

A second figure had separated from the darkness right next to Maia. The only thing that wasn't pure black was the gun. It was pressed against Maia's temple.

"Yes," said the voice I didn't recognize at all. "That's fine, Vic. Put your mask on."

Metal thudded against wood-Maia's gun dropping.

"That's good, dear heart," the voice crooned, the face still in the shadows. "Now your friend's-gun and the flashlight in the water, please."

Maia said, "Don't, Tres."

"Ah," the voice said. "But Tres can't shoot, can he? He doesn't trust his aim. He doesn't trust guns. And certainly, he knows I'll kill you if he doesn't cooperate."

Next to me, Pena stayed still.

I tossed my gun and flashlight over the railing, heard two tiny plooshes in the water.

The figure stepped forward, pushing Maia ahead.

A black baseball cap. A wet suit. A face painted black, eyes intense as a raptor's. The gun slid down, pressed tightly into Maia's jugular vein.

"My hero." Dwight Hayes gave me a pleasant smile. "Thanks for coming, Tres."

"You son of a bitch," Pena said.

"You don't know how appropriate your comment is, Matthew." Dwight's wrist rested on Maia's shoulder. The neoprene of the wet suit was soaking the top of her shirt. He moved his free hand around her waist, spreading his fingers caressingly across her abdomen.

"You smell good," Dwight told her. "I've never been close enough-except for your apartment, looking through your things. I'm glad you decided to pursue us, Maia."

She swallowed. Her throat muscles pushed against Dwight's gun and made it look like she was nodding.

I watched her fingers, waited for our old sign-a threefinger countdown, which would mean she was about to risk a move.

"All right, Victor," Dwight said.

Lopez had raised his gun. He was pointing it at Dwight Hayes, but his arm was bent, the gun turned sideways, as if some invisible armwrestling opponent was forcing his hand back at the wrong angle.

"You won't need that," Dwight assured Lopez. His voice was calm, deep. "Don't you remember?"

"You're drugged, Lopez," I said. "Fight it. Shoot the bastard."

Lopez's arm trembled. His chest had begun to cave in like an old man's under the weight and heat of the scuba gear.