the backyard - about twenty feet of grass, a barbecue pit, swing set, pecan tree. In the corner a wooden garage was topped with a second-story apartment. The day was sunny, but it felt miles away outside the gloom and the powder and the dust.
"Miguel!" Paloma called again.
This time sheets rustled in the corner. A little spherical dent appeared in them, slid toward the entrance, then emerged at the opening as the head of a five-year-old boy.
If I had not known he was half Latino, I never would've guessed it. His skin was paler than mine, paler than damn near anybody's. His eyes were blue like Aaron Brandon's, his hair reddish like his mother's.
He was wearing a T-shirt and underwear and nothing else. He peered up at me with mild curiosity.
"Miguel," Paloma said, "this is Senor Navarre. Senor Navarre is a college teacher like your papa."
Michael seemed to be trying to reach some conclusion about my face, as if he weren't quite sure if it was real or a pretty good mask.
"Hey, Michael," I said.
"This is my cave," he informed me.
"I can see that. It's a real nice cave."
Michael suddenly developed a keen interest in picking the skin off his knuckle.
"He needs to clean it up," Paloma grumbled, but not like she expected any action.
"What's with the powder?" I asked.
"It's fog," Michael said to his knuckle. "Makes you invisible."
"That's good," I said. "But just in case they get through, you zap them, right?"
He snatched his ray gun, gave me an upward glance.
Paloma receded in the doorway and gestured for me to follow. I told Michael I'd see him around.
The last I saw of him he was digging the muzzle of his ray gun into his bare knee.
"This," Paloma said, "is normal."
It took me a few steps before I could speak. "Since his father's death?"
"Before. Since the fights. Now will you go?"
We stopped in the living room, Paloma once again holding the front door open for me. Her face seemed even more compressed, her eyes almost slits, her mouth flattened into a hard amber line. The irreverently stretched Holy Father smiled up at me from Paloma's shirt, one papal eye bigger than the other.
"I'll go," I promised. "But the apartment in back, above the garage - is that yours?"
She stiffened.
"You were the witness - the one who ID'ed Zeta Sanchez for the police."
"Madre de Dios, if you don't leave now - "
I didn't make her finish the threat. I said good-bye and went out to my car. When I looked back, Paloma stood motionless in the doorway - her eyes dark, her face hard and impassive, as if she'd turned back into red Texas granite. I couldn't blame her for that. Anything as soft as human flesh could never have supported the weight of the Brandon household.
Chapter 16
Sometimes necessity is the mother of invention. Sometimes necessity is just a mother.
All the way back to the University, I brainstormed ideas for the graduate seminar, knowing I would have just enough time to stumble into the classroom with none of Brandon's backlogged papers graded and no prepared lecture notes. I kept trying to come up with some brilliant game plan to make a good first impression. At ten past one, sitting on a table in front of eight graduate students in HSS 2.0.22, I was still without that plan.
"So." I tried to sound enthusiastic. "I thought we'd start by going around - tell me your names, a little about yourselves. Ask whatever you want about me.
Who wants to start?"
No hands shot into the air.
I waved encouragingly toward a couple of mid-fiftyish women by the door. They were crocheting from a shared bag of pink yarn.
"You ladies?"
They introduced themselves as Edie and Marfa, escaped housewives. Marfa told me she wanted to read some medieval romances. Edie smiled and gave me the eye.
"Ah-ha," I said. "And you, sir?"
The elderly man cleared his throat. He wore a mechanic's jumpsuit and a buzz cut. "Sergeant Irwin, USAF, retired. I'm still in this class because the military is paying every penny, and so far I'm damn glad of it."
I thanked him for sharing, then waved toward the next man - a young Anglo in a Men's Wearhouse Italian suit.
He looked up from his organizer long enough to say, "Brian. I run a small carpeting business and I'm probably going to drop the class. Don't mind me."
Behind Brian was Gregory, the giant radish mail boy who delivered