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  Gonzales’ hand strayed toward her belt, but of course she wasn’t armed. Guards never were, inside the fence.

  “Where are your supervisors?” she asked.

  She must’ve been scared, but she kept an edge of anger in her voice—trying to control the situation, trying to avoid any hint she was vulnerable.

  Stirman pointed to the vestry. “Right in there, ma’am. ”

  Gonzales frowned. She took a step toward the vestry. Then her eyes locked on something—Pablo’s hand. He had completely forgotten the shank.

  She stepped back, too late.

  Zeke crushed her windpipe with the soldering iron as she tried to scream. He grabbed the front of her shirt, pul ed her down, Gonzales gagging, digging in her heels, clawing at Zeke’s wrists.

  Stirman got hold of her ankles. They dragged her into the corner where they taped her mouth, bound her hands. Zeke slapped her in the head when she tried to struggle.

  Pablo just watched.

  He was a statue. He couldn’t do a damn thing.

  Stirman rose, breathing heavy.

  “Bind her feet,” he told Zeke.

  “In a minute,” Zeke murmured.

  He tugged at Gonzales’ belt. He started pul ing off her pants.

  “Zeke,” Stirman said.

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fucking her. ”

  Gonzales groaned—dazed but stil conscious.

  Zeke got her pants around her thighs. Her panties were blue.

  The phone in the vestry rang.

  “Zeke. ” Stirman’s voice tightened.

  Officer Gonzales tried to fight, huffing against the tape on her mouth.

  Pablo wanted to help her. He imagined himself driving the shank into Stirman’s back, coming up behind Zeke, taking him, too.

  He imagined the back gates opening, himself at the wheel of the Reverend’s SUV, the plains of South Texas unfolding before him, Zeke’s and Wil Stirman’s crumpled bodies far behind in his wake. He just wanted to get back to his wife.

  The vestry phone rang again.

  “Zeke,” Stirman said. “Get off her. ”

  “Only take a minute. ” He was untying the drawstring of his prison pants. His hands, arms and neck were pale sweaty animal muscle.

  Pablo took a step forward.

  Stirman’s kidneys, he told himself. Then Zeke’s carotid artery.

  Stirman turned. He saw the shank, locked eyes with Pablo.

  “Give me that,” Stirman ordered.

  Pablo looked for his courage. “I was just . . . ”

  Stirman held out his hand, lifted his eyebrows.

  Pablo handed over the shank.

  Stirman walked behind Zeke, who was now in his underwear, straddling Gonzales’ huge bare thighs.

  Stirman grabbed his cel mate by the hair, yanked his chin up, and brought down the shank in one efficient thrust.

  It should have ended there, but something inside Stirman seemed to snap. He stabbed again, spitting cuss words, then again, cursing the names of people Pablo didn’t know, swearing that he had tried, he had fucking tried to forget.

  Afterward, Gonzales lay with her clothes half off, her gold-rimmed glasses freckled with blood. Zeke’s body trembled, waiting for a climax that was never going to happen.

  “Get the phone,” Stirman said.

  Pablo started. The vestry phone was stil ringing.

  He stumbled into the pastor’s office, picked up the receiver.

  “Damn, man. ” C. C. ’s voice. “Where you been?”

  C. C. said the way was clear. They’d taken down two more guards—one at the gate, one in the watchtower. The keys to the armory had yielded five 9mm handguns, a 12-gauge shotgun, and several hundred rounds of ammunition. Elroy and Luis were manning the sal y port, waiting for the SUV.

  Pablo put down the receiver. His hands were cold and sweaty. Some of Zeke’s blood had speckled his sleeves. He took one last look at the bound supervisor, Pastor Riggs, Grier’s body slumped at their feet.

  No other choice, he told himself.

  He went into the chapel.

  Stirman was kneeling next to Officer Gonzales, dabbing the blood from her glasses with a rag. Zeke’s dead arm was draped across her waist. Gonzales was shivering as Stirman told her it was okay. Nobody was going to hurt her.

  Stirman rose when he saw Pablo. He pointed the shank at Pablo’s chin, let it glitter there like Christmas ornament glass. “I own you, amigo. You are my new right-hand man. You understand? You are mine. ”

  No, Pablo thought.

  As soon as they got through those gates, Pablo and Luis would take off by themselves. They would head west to El Paso, as far from Wil Stirman as they could get.

  But Stirman’s eyes held him. Pablo had blown his chance. He’d frozen. Stirman had acted. Stirman had saved Gonzales. Pablo had done nothing.

  Pablo clawed at the fact, looking for leverage. He said, “Who are Barrow and Barrera?”

  Stirman’s jaw tightened. “What?”

  “You were saying those names when you . . . ” Pablo gestured to Zeke’s corpse.

  Stirman looked down at the body, then the terrified face of Officer Gonzales. “Couple of private investigators, amigo, ought to be worried today. Now get the SUV. ”

  Eleven minutes later, right on schedule, Pastor Riggs’ black Ford Explorer rol ed out the back gate of the Floresvil e State Penitentiary, straight into a summer storm that was starting to pour down rain.

  Chapter 2

  I didn’t mind bounty-hunting Dimebox Ortiz.

  What I minded were his cousins Lalu and Kiko, who weighed three-fifty apiece, smoked angel dust to improve their IQ, and kept hand grenades in a Fiestaware bowl on their coffee table the way some people kept wax apples.

  This explained why Erainya Manos and I were waiting in a van down the block from their house, rather than storming the front door.

  Our snitch owed Dimebox four grand in cockfighting bets. He was getting a little nervous about Dimebox’s habit of setting his delinquent debtors on fire, and was anxious to see Dimebox in jail. He had promised us Dimebox was staying with his cousins. He’d also promised us Dimebox had a date with a lady tonight, and if we staked out the cousins’ house, we could easily tail him and snag him in transit.

  Six o’clock, the snitch had told us. Seven o’clock, at the latest.

  It was now 10:33.

  I needed to pee.

  I had an empty Coke bottle, but it isn’t tempting to use that trick when your female boss is next to you in the driver’s seat and her eight-year-old son is playing PlayStation 2 in the back.

  Jem wasn’t supposed to be with us. The rain had washed out his plans to see the Woodlawn Lake fireworks with his second-grade friends. That left him nothing to do but a boring old stakeout with his mom.

  Erainya, with her usual bizarre logic about what was safe for her child, had weighed the risks of a baby- sitter against Lalu and Kiko’s grenades, and decided to go with the stakeout. Of course, given some of the surveil ance cases we’d worked involving baby-sitters and day-care workers, I supposed she had a point.

  So we had the soothing sounds of Spyro the Dragon in the back seat. We had a dark row of clapboard houses and chinaberry trees to look at. And we had the rain, which had been alternately pouring and drizzling al afternoon, and was now reminding my bladder of flow patterns.

  I was about to suggest that we cal it quits, that not even the munificent sum Dimebox’s bail bondsman was offering was worth this, when Erainya said, “We’l wait, honey. He’l show. ”

  The longer I knew her, the more Erainya answered my questions before I asked them. It had gotten to the point where she could slug me when I was even thinking about being a smart-ass.

  “Little late for a date,” I said.

  She gave me those onyx eyes—the Greek Inquisition. “Your payday is Friday, honey. Yo
u want a check?”

  That I heard loud and clear.

  The past few months, since Erainya’s archrival, I-Tech Security, had taken away our last bread-and-butter contract with a downtown legal firm, her finances had been slowly unraveling. We’d given up our office space on Blanco. Erainya’s high-speed Internet line had been shut off twice. Our information broker would no longer work on credit. We were taking whatever cases Erainya could get just to keep afloat—divorce, workers comp, bail-jumpers. The dregs of the PI business.

  I’d thought about making us cardboard signs, Will Sleuth for Food, but Erainya had slugged me before I could suggest it.

  I reminded myself she had more at stake in the agency than I did.

  She’d inherited the business from her husband, Fred Barrow, when he died. Or more accurately, when she’d shot him to death for abusing her, then been acquitted on murder charges.

  This was back before I became a calming influence in her life.

  After the murder trial, she’d disappeared to the Mediterranean for a year, reclaimed her maiden name and her Greek heritage, and returned to Texas the adoptive mother of a Bosnian orphan boy. She’d taken up Barrow’s PI business with a vengeance and had become arguably the best street investigator in South Texas.

  Yet she’d never done more than scrape by, no matter how hard she worked. It was as if Fred Barrow’s ghost hung over the agency, jinxing her luck. The old rivalry with I-Tech became more and more one-sided until I-Tech dominated San Antonio, while we survived off bounties on scumbags like Dimebox Ortiz.

  Lately, Erainya had been taking longer vacations with her boyfriend. She put off paperwork. She mused through old case files, which she would close and lock in her drawer whenever I approached.

  She’d been one of the two great mentors of my career. She’d gotten me licensed and bonded, terrorized me into good investigative habits for the past four years. Whenever I thought of quitting PI work and using my English PhD to find a ful -time col ege teaching position, which was about every other week, Erainya urged me to stick with it, tel ing me I was a natural investigator. I had a knack for finding the lost, helping the desperate. I chose to take that as a compliment.

  The last thing I wanted to admit was that I was worried about her, that I sensed her spirit going out of the job.

  So I tried to act excited about watching the Ortiz house.

  Erainya polished a . 45-caliber bul et. I nibbled on some of her homemade spanakopita, which she brought by the sackful whenever we went into the field.

  I got tired of PlayStation noises and switched on the radio. We listened to an NPR interview with an artist who turned roadkil into paintings for New York gal eries. I imagined my mother’s voice scolding me: See, dear, some people have real jobs.

  My mother, one of San Antonio’s few card-carrying bohemians, had been out of town for almost three months now, knocking around Central America with her newest boyfriend, a chakra crystal salesman who had ridiculous amounts of money. It was probably just as wel she wasn’t around to lecture me on my career choices.

  In the back of the van, Jem said, “Yess!”

  I looked at him. “Good news?”

  Delayed reaction: “Frozen Altars level. Twenty-eight eggs. ”

  “Wow. Hard?”

  Jem kept playing. The rain battered the windows.

  Jem’s silky black hair was cut in bangs, same as it had been since kindergarten, but over the past year his face had fil ed in considerably. He looked like your typical San Antonio kid—a something-percent mix of Latino and Anglo; black Spurs T-shirt, orange shorts, light-up sneakers. You would be hard pressed to believe that as a one-year-old he had been a Bosnian Muslim orphan, his parents’ mule-drawn cart blown apart by a land mine, his young eyes burned with God-knew-how-many-other images of war.