of Brent's murder, maybe with Tilden Sheckly paying me to find a convenient solution, I'd start with you. Your husband disappears, your lover gets torched, you've got a history of violent, unpredictable behaviour. I doubt many people would come to your defence.'
She hugged her arms. 'I've got nothing. Brent is dead. Les is gone, Milo's got the agency, and I've got nothing. Just leave me alone, okay?'
She leaned forward until her face was almost over her knees.
I counted to ten.
It didn't help.
'Get up.' My own voice sounded strange. 'Come on.'
I grabbed Allison's upper arms and lifted her to her feet. She was heavy-not dead weight, but her bones seemed to be lead. I had to use most of my strength to keep her from twisting out of my grip. Finally she succeeded and pulled away. She stood there, weteyed, rub
The Widower's Two it Step 337 bing the white stripes on her arms where my fingers had been. 'You fucker.'
'I don't appreciate the selfpity. It's not going to get us anywhere.'
'Just get out, Tres. You hear me? I used to think you were all right.'
She glared at me, willing me away, but the anger was unsustainable. She took a long shaky breath and looked around at the boxes again, the roll top desk, the blank walls.
Finally he sank back down onto the bed.
'I'm so tired,' she murmured. 'Just go away.'
'Let's get you out of here. Let's do something constructive.'
She shook her head apathetically. When I sat next to her, Allison leaned against me-nothing personal, just like I was a new wall.
'I'm moving home to goddamn Falfurrias,' she said. 'Can you believe that? This house can buy me about six of the nicest houses down there. I can raise cows. Listen to crickets at night. Isn't that insane?'
She looked up at me. Her eyes were watery.
'I'm the wrong person to ask.'
She laughed the word shit. 'You never give me a goddamn straight answer, do you?
Where is Miranda?'
'Staying safe.'
'In your apartment? Sharing that little futon?'
'No. Not with me.'
Allison looked at me uncertainly. She heard the finality and the edge of bitterness in my voice and she didn't know quite what to do with it. She started to get up but I held her shoulder, not forcefully.
I'd like to say that from there events took their own course and I was caught by surprise. But they didn't and I wasn't.
I kissed her.
For once Allison SaintPierre didn't put up a fight. She eased into the kiss with a kind of exhausted relief.
After a long time she leaned back into the bed and I went with her. She bit and kissed and breathed in my ear as I tried futilely to work the first button on the massive white dress shirt until she laughed and whispered, 'Forget it.'
She sat up just enough to get the shirt off overhead. Then she pressed against me again and felt twice as warm, almost feverish. Her back was all goose bumps.
We rolled around on Les SaintPierre's bed and with each new angle the most exposed piece of clothing was kicked or pulled or cursed away. I think Allison stopped crying by the time the clothes were all gone. Her skin was uncomfortably hot except for her fingers. Those were icecold.
There was some unstated agreement that this love making would require nonstop movement, not necessarily frenzied but definitely continuous. Stopping would lead to thinking and thinking would be bad. We took turns crushing each other into the slick, uncomfortably bumpy surface of the mattress, little pinprickers of rayon stitching needling us in our backs. The room was air conditioned but we quickly became sweaty and noisy until the sounds became an uncontrollable cause for the giggles and then almost as quickly stopped mattering. We rolled a little too far, off the side of the bed. I remember something about a pain in my elbow but that didn't matter much either. We readjusted and sat facing one another, Allison's chin at the level of my mouth and her feet curled against the small of my back. Allison hugged me very tight with her arms and legs and buried her face in my neck and trembled quietly, as if she were crying again. I inhaled sharply and joined her and my body didn't know to stop the movement until Allison's muffled voice spoke into my neck. 'Please-okay. Okay.'
We stayed still then, feeling each other breathe until the rhythm of our lungs slowed and the hardwood floor began to feel uncomfortable. Our skin separated in places like candle wax being peeled away.
Allison smushed her nose against my cheek and rubbed around until her lips connected with mine. When I kissed her the second time I kissed teeth.
'When you say 'let's do something constructive,' Mr. Navarre-'
'Shut up.'
She laughed, pulled her face away, and cupped my ears lightly with her fingers. 'Didn't happen.'
'Of course not.'
She kissed me again. 'You're still holding out on me for fifty thousand dollars.'
'You're just trying to get the money.'
We showed each other how much we detested each other for a while longer.
At some point I remember looking up and seeing the Latina maid in the doorway, but when I opened my eyes for a better look she was gone, just a momentary vision of bored, aging eyes in an impassive face, showing more irritation than embarrassment at the gringos on the floor of the stripped bedroom, giggling foolishly and muttered little
'I hate you’s.” Maybe to the maid we were just one more item she would be glad to be rid of when the house passed to more respectable owners.
52
'I liked the Audi better,' Allison told me.
We were sitting in the VW with the top up, the windows open, but not a bit of circulation coming through. The afternoon had turned thick and gray and lukewarm. Nothing interesting was happening at the warehouse across the street.
'What is this?' I asked. 'Number seven?'
'Five,' she corrected, pushing up the sunglasses. 'It just feels like seven.'
I borrowed the list of addresses from her, a photocopy of the document we'd found in Les SaintPierre's boat shed. I scanned the page. A total of twentythree addresses just in San Antonio. At this rate it would be way past Friday before I even had time to find them all, much less figure out ways to get inside and see if they had value to the case against Sheckly. Sam Barrera could have probably put his agency into high gear and gotten the job done in one afternoon if he hadn't had legal restrictions to deal with.
Sam Barrera could go to hell.
So far all the addresses were storage facilities or trucking yards. Not all of them said Paintbrush Enterprises on the gates but I had a suspicion Tilden Sheckly or his friends from Luxembourg had a stake in each, one way or another.
Each address had a date next to it. Allison and I had started the search with the location closest to today and worked our way forward in time. We were now on November 5, four days from now. The address was in a light industry park in the elbow of land where Nacogdoches met PerrinBeitel and became, in true Texas creative thinking, NacoPerrin.
The storage facility consisted of a pair of long parallel buildings, painted army green with mauve trim. The inwardfacing walls were lined with steel rollup doors and stubby loading docks and were just far enough apart that
