Hollow Man (11 page)

The chair squeaked as I sat back and stared. The smell of the pub rose up again, dank and stale, and I felt dirty. I knew the guy, of course. Austin's a busy but incestuous community of musicians, and I'd rightly figured I'd know the guy.

And now that his identity was established, I was left with one simple question: what to do to him.

When the day came, Tristan and I took turns in the late afternoon watching the surveillance computer in one-hour shifts. Lucky we did, because we spotted a potential hazard I'd not seen before: a security guard. He was barely more than a shadow in the corner of the screen, but given his size and where he was working, I wagered he was one of those sloppy cop wannabes who were weeded out at the first round by the police academy and whose only connections to law enforcement were a desire to exercise power and a love of donuts. Underpaid, disinterested, and trying to stay out of the heat, he or she bumped past the other corner of the computer screen an hour later in a golf cart. In search of, I assumed, a shady tree and a breeze. Certainly not looking for trouble.

The next most exciting thing we saw was a squirrel checking out the camera. Its rodent face loomed on the screen like a giant rat, looking in on us for a few seconds before it lost interest.

At 9 p.m. I left Tristan in front of the computer and carried three blankets to the trunk of my Honda, to use as bedding for the surveillance camera that we needed to retrieve and to cover the two camouflage bags we'd be taking from Señor Silva.

We left at 9:30. We both wore dark cargo pants and black T-shirts. I wore my old Doc Martens, and Tristan clumped to the car in his new sand-colored Timberland work boots.

He seemed calm when we left, but he fidgeted beside me all the way to the trailer park. He began by picking at his seatbelt like it was a guitar string and moved on to twiddling his shirt buttons, clutching the edges of his seat, and finally, as we got within a mile of the park, tying and retying his shoelaces. I wanted to laugh but instead wondered whether I should feign nervousness, too. I didn't bother in the end because my mind was occupied with what we were about to do, and also because he was too antsy to notice my demeanor. He'd gone from calm to anxious in twelve miles, and I didn't like it. I'd worried about holding Gus's hand, and once he'd gone I figured I had a useful partner next to me. I didn't want to hold Tristan's hand, if only because I didn't know where it'd been.

By the time I turned into the trailer park, the sky had darkened, if not to black then at least a long way from the scalding steel-blue it had been all day. A breeze had picked up and leaves, and a few pieces of trash, scuttled in front of the car. I turned left inside the rusted, metal gate poles, bumping slowly along the dirt track. I could see in the distance a few men standing beside their grills, poking at coals with crooked sticks and holding beer cans, either oblivious or studiously ignoring us.

I stopped the car in the blind spot, lowered the front windows, and killed the engine. Tristan opened the laptop and tapped a few keys.

“Connected to the Internet,” he said. “Camera coming up now.”

“Which means the cops didn't take it,” I said, provoking him on purpose.

“Doesn't mean they didn't find it.”

“Hey, if they roll up lights and sirens, we're just a couple of lovers pitching woo.”

“I'm not gay,” he said, “and I'm not pretending to be.”

“Right, God forbid. Much better to go to jail, you're right.”

He shot me a look, then his eyes went back to the screen. “He's here. Early, fuck.”

“Stay cool, little friend.” I leaned over and watched Silva park in the same spot he'd used the previous month. We sat in silence as the
landlord moved across the screen, climbing out of his van with his shoulder bag bumping against his hip. He looked tired, his feet shuffling in the dust and his head down. Even better.

He moved out of sight and we waited the agreed sixty seconds, then Tristan closed the laptop, put his hand on my leg, and pulled a knife from his boot.

“Change of plans,” he said.

I stared at the silver blade, wondering if it was the kind of hefty but blunt toy that juvenile punks waved at each other to look tough. But it looked new, shiny, and very sharp, the five-inch blade curving up into the kind of tip that would disappear through clothing and flesh with ease. With pleasure, even. Someone else had visited Cabela's hunting store to prepare for this outing. This would explain why he'd suddenly become so nervous, wrestling with himself as to whether he'd go through with it. Whatever
it
was, in his mind.

“What's your plan, then?” I asked. “Stab me to death, and keep the money?”

“No. Look, we need to forget stealing the car. It's too complicated, too risky. Way too much can go wrong. Much easier to just threaten him, take the money, and go.”

“Much easier how? Done this before, have you?”

“You know I haven't. But think about it, he's not going to want to fight two guys and a knife.”

“Unless he has a gun, then I'm sure he'll be happy to. Now put that away before you cut yourself, or me, and we leave a nice red trail of evidence.”

“Dude, I'm serious—”

“So am I,” I snapped. “Original plan or we leave right now.” He didn't respond, so I turned the car back on and made a show of checking my mirrors, like my biggest concern was flattening some Mexican's crappy grill.

Tristan swore and leaned forward, sliding the knife back into the ankle sheath I'd not noticed.

Fucking idiot
, I thought. I was happy he'd just done as he was told, but much less happy that he was showing signs of being a wild card. I'd explained to him, oh, about a million times, that the only way we pulled this off and stayed out of trouble was to formulate a good plan and stick to it.

“Thank you.” I killed the engine and opened my door, screwdriver and ball-peen hammer in hand. “You just wasted two minutes of our time, so how about we get on with this?”

“Sure.” His voice was flat and I couldn't tell whether he was recalcitrant or pissed. But he followed me out of the car and we strolled, as casually as we were able, around the slight bend to Silva's van. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it but froze when I saw someone walking to our right, a man acting like he hadn't seen us. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he looked like he fit in, a fat dude ambling his way toward a case of beer somewhere: my other partner in crime, Otto Bland.

I'd not told Tristan about him, about his involvement. For many reasons. Mostly I didn't want him bitching about the cut in his share, or asking fifty questions about Otto that I couldn't answer. They'd crossed paths at the DA's office, but not very often, and I was certain that Tristan knew more about Otto's reputation than about the man himself. As a result, he had no reason in the world to trust Otto, and telling him about the man's inclusion wouldn't have helped his nerves one jot. That was why I'd made it a condition of Otto's involvement that he act like he'd just come across us, ham it up a little. I didn't figure him for much of a George Clooney, but given that we'd be in the middle of a crime, it seemed unlikely that Tristan would pay much attention to his theatrical deficits. Otto had even taken the initiative and gotten himself a security job with the management company running four mobile-home parks, one of them being Crooked Creek. I was impressed.

At that moment, Otto was forty yards away and acting oblivious to the world around him. He shuffled through the dust, then
stepped off the track and squatted under a tree, facing away from us and toward the mobile homes that Silva was visiting for his monthly scoop.

“He hasn't seen us,” Tristan whispered. “And we're not bailing now.”

I nodded my agreement and was at the driver's door of the van in a few seconds, focusing on the job at hand. I tried the handle and it was locked, as I'd expected. I used the round end of the hammer and gave the lock a hefty whack. The lock popped inward like it was greased, and a quick tug had the car door open. I slid behind the wheel and looked up in time to see Otto rise to his feet, looking around. He'd heard the whack but wasn't sure what it was, and I was low, so he shouldn't be able to see me.

I put the tip of the screwdriver into the ignition slot. Holding it there with my left hand, I used the business side of the hammer to tap and then whack it deep into the steering column. I gave it a twist, but nothing happened.

“What the fuck,” Tristan hissed. “Hurry up.”

“I'm hurrying, it's not working,” I said. I tapped the screwdriver again with the hammer, then turned it. This time it felt like it would go with a little more effort, so I gripped the handle of the screwdriver until the ridges bit into my hand, then turned it with all my strength. The engine sparked and turned over with a short growl, shaking the van into life for a brief second before falling silent. I twisted the screwdriver again, harder, my wrist shaking with the effort, and the engine ground its teeth for three seconds, but it was a protest, not acquiescence, and I yanked the screwdriver out of the ignition slot with a curse.

“Oh, fuck.” Tristan was backing away from the Transit van, and I looked through the windshield to see two people running toward us. On the edge of the track, Otto gaped like a fish as Ambrosio Silva and the sloppy security guard jogged toward us, dust kicking up around them. I considered one more attempt at starting the van
and speeding away with the jackass's money right in front of him, but they were closing fast and, even if I got it started, speeding away would necessarily involve running them over. And I was still trying to avoid bloodshed.

I jumped out of the van and looked to see if either had a weapon. The security guard had lost his cap on his run, and I suddenly didn't like the look of him. A buzz cut suggested he was former military, and despite his bulk he moved with the kind of grace and power that indicated more-than-grunt military. He was several steps ahead of Silva and making a beeline for me, a walkie-talkie in one hand, a wooden baton in the other.

He stopped twenty feet from me, puffing but attentive. Behind him, Ambrosio Silva skidded to a halt in the dust and shouted, “What the fuck you doing in my car?”

I held out my hands, all open and innocent, knowing I didn't look the part of a car thief. Didn't look like I belonged in this part of town at all.

“Relax, the car was open, I was just curious about—”

“Hands where I can see them.” The security guard looked even meaner and more capable up close than when charging up the track. And it was him I watched, because whereas Silva was a criminal and barely legal, which meant he was careful around confident, white strangers, the security guard was all attitude. Like he already had us in handcuffs.

“Dude, I said relax. I'm with the DA's office, we're out here on a case.” I had my badge with me, in my wallet as ever, though I was not happy about having to use my ace so soon. My right hand drifted toward my back pocket.

“Don't fuckin' move,” the guard said. I didn't see where his gun came from, had no idea he was carrying. But he was, a nice shiny piece with a silver barrel pointed right at my chest. I would've invited him to get my wallet himself, but my gun was tucked in my belt, and that would take a little explaining. From my perspective, this was all
turning shitty. We'd gone from a quick, anonymous, and unarmed car-grab to a standoff involving, it has to be said, at least one Mexican.

And then Otto appeared.

Apparently, he'd ducked into the tree line when Silva and the security guard passed him, making his way up to us quiet and unseen. Impressive for a lump like him. He came out of the bushes, slightly behind Silva and the security guard, his gun leveled and his voice firm.

“Austin Police. Put the gun down,
now
.”

The security guard stiffened but didn't turn around or lower his gun. “What's your badge number?”

It was a smart question because it told us he knew cops, and it tested whether Otto knew how many digits APD gave their officers. Otto knew. “Six-three-four-nine.”

The security guard looked slowly over his shoulder at Otto, his gun still pointing at me.

“I said drop it,” Otto repeated.

“You're not APD,” the guard said. “You're with these assholes.” He didn't wait for a response, shifting his weight to his left foot and pivoting, the gun swinging away from me and toward Otto. Two loud bangs made me jump, and for a moment, the few seconds it took my ears to stop ringing, I couldn't tell who'd fired. Then the security guard staggered backward, his arms cradling his midriff, his gun dropping into the dust. He stood still for a moment, rocking gently in the evening heat, then fell face down into the dirt.

Otto moved forward, his gun trained on the fallen man, and then a movement by Ambrosio Silva caught my eye. He'd sidled away so we couldn't see his back, and he was reaching into his waistband. I glanced at Otto, but his eyes were on the motionless security guard, so I took care of it myself. I pulled my gun and aimed at Silva, a twenty-foot shot that I nailed. The first bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him to face me, a stunned look in his eyes.

A look that turned to dead when I shot him in the chest.