The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan Read Free

me with great effort. "I don't —
I don't..."
    DeLeon patted the old professor's shoulder, telling
him she thought he was going to be okay. Then she looked at me. "A
doctor for that cheek. What do you think?" I looked out the hole
somebody had just blasted in a perfect spring day. I said, "I
think I'll take the job."
 
 
    TWO
    The bomb-squad guys were a laugh a minute.
    After barking orders to the campus uniforms and
kicking through the rubble in their storm trooper outfits, sniffing
the trash can and measuring lug nuts and screws and other metal
fragments that had embedded themselves several inches into the
concrete window frame, the squad decided it was safe to stand down.
They threw Gregory the mail boy into an office down the hall for
questioning by the FBI folks, though it was clear the poor kid knew
nothing about the bomb and was already rattled to tears at the
thought of his werewolf essay being blown to Valhalla. Then the squad
relaxed in the hallway with their Dr Peppers and let lesser
individuals take over the investigation.
    "Same as that'n last year," one of the
storm troopers said. "You remember that kid?"
    A blond guy with a sergeant's badge clipped to his
belt took a noisy pull on his soda. "Blew off three of his
fingers, didn't it?"
    "Four, Sarge. Remember? We found one of them
later, under the bed."
    They all laughed.
    Another guy mentioned the lunatic they'd caught last
month trying to drop TNT-filled Ping-Pong balls off the Tower of the
Americas. He reminisced about how the perp would've blown a hole in
the sergeant's crotch except Sarge was such a good catch. Hilarious.
    I was sitting in a student desk about thirty feet
down the hallway. I would've been happy to move farther away and
leave the squad to their fun, but there was a paramedic patching up
my face.
    The narrow mustard-colored corridors of the
Humanities Building were overflowing with SAPD, campus police, ATF,
UTSA administrators. With everybody bustling around and the
bomb-squad guys hanging out in their flack suits, I had the distinct
feeling that I'd been dropped into the Beatles' yellow submarine
during a Blue Meenie invasion.
    One of the bomb-squad guys glanced down the hall to
where Ana DeLeon stood talking with Lieutenant Jimmy Hernandez, the
SAPD homicide commander. "Always thought DeLeon'd be a blast."
    Another said, "Dyke. Forget it, man."
    The sergeant cupped his crotch. "Just hasn't met
the right kind of pipe bomb yet."
    That got a few more guffaws.
    DeLeon was a lot closer to them than I was, but she
gave no indication that she'd heard. Neither did the lieutenant.
    An evidence tech came out of the blown-up office. He
went over to the bomb-squad sergeant and compared notes. I.E.D.
Improvised explosive device. A metal pipe joint packed with solid
oxygen compound and a few common household baking ingredients, some
nuts and bolts thrown in for extra nastiness, a nine-volt battery
wired to the package's flap — designed to break circuit when the
package was opened. Instead it had broken prematurely on impact with
the desk. The whole thing had probably cost thirty bucks to make.
    "Gang-bangers," the sergeant told the
evidence tech. "Solidox — real popular with the homies. Simple
and cheap. Half the time they blow themselves up making it, which is
all right by me."
    Detective DeLeon was still talking with Lieutenant
Hernandez. Another plainclothes detective came up behind them and
stood there silently, unhappily. He was about six-one, Anglo, well
dressed, looked like he ate rottweilers for breakfast.
    DeLeon gestured in my direction.
    Hernandez focused on me, recognized me with no
pleasure, then said something to the rottweiler-eater. All three of
them started down the hall.
    "'Scuse me," DeLeon told the bomb squad.
    A few riotous comments appeared to be dancing on
their lips until they noticed Hernandez and the big Anglo guy
flanking her. The squad managed to contain their humor.
    When DeLeon reached my paramedic she asked, "How's
he