by Mark Gimenez
Not good.
He spun around and rode straight back at the dirt bikes speeding toward him. Just before they collided, he cut the handlebars to the right and caught air; he flew over a set of stairs leading down to a courtyard fronting Goldsmith Hall. He bounced hard on reentry then turned west down an alley that led back to College Hill. He swung south and careened down "Confederate Hill" past statues of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States, Albert Sidney Johnston, General of the Confederate Army, and Robert E. Lee, General in Chief of the Confederate Army. When he hit Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, he left the campus and the two black riders behind.
He had lost them.
He sat up on the bike. He cruised down Guadalupe and caught his breath… until the dirt bikes cut him off at Sixteenth Street.
Shit.
He stood on the pedals again and swerved east on Sixteenth and then south on Lavaca against oncoming one-way traffic; the dirt bikes followed. He turned east on Fifteenth then south on Colorado, hopped the curb, rode on the sidewalk around the north side of the Supreme Court Building, and carved the corner at the Statue of Liberty replica. They followed.
The state capitol now loomed large in front of him.
They were right on his tail, so he pedaled past the gardens and around the chain traffic restraint and straight up the wheelchair ramp at the north entrance of the capitol-"Hold the door!" — and through the tall door being held open by an old man.
"Thanks, dude."
He looked back; the dirt bikes had not followed.
The interior of the Texas State Capitol boasted marble statues and terrazzo floors, fine hand-carved wood and delicate glass doors, massive staircases and well-armed state troopers. Andy wanted out. Straight through to the south entrance was the fastest route out, so Andy rode through the north foyer and into the rotunda where framed portraits of every Texas governor hung on the wall and two dozen blue-shirted school kids on a field trip stood on the Great Seal of Texas. The tour guide was saying, "Our capitol is the biggest in the country…"
"Coming through!" Andy yelled.
The startled tour guide jumped out of the way.
"Hey! Call security!"
Someone already had. Two state troopers were running from the south foyer; they blocked his exit. So Andy turned right into the west wing then hung another right behind the wide staircase-even a Stumpjumper couldn't climb those stairs-and circled back around to the north foyer. He'd leave the way he had come. But two more troopers were now blocking that exit, so he rode across the foyer and straight into an open elevator.
He punched the second floor button. The doors closed just as the troopers arrived. They weren't happy. Andy breathed a quick sigh of relief then realized he wasn't alone. A older couple was also on board. He looked at them and smiled.
"Shortcut."
They backed into the far corner.
The elevator arrived at the second floor. The doors opened, and the old couple hustled out. Andy stayed in. Troopers coming up the west stairway had spotted him. He punched the third floor button. The doors closed again and opened on the third floor. He peeked out. The coast was clear, so he pedaled out and onto the circular balcony overlooking the rotunda. Down below, the students were pointing up and laughing. The troopers were not.
"He's gotta go down the elevators! Block every floor!"
That left the stairs.
Andy steered into the east wing and turned the bike down the staircase. He hung on for the two flights to the second floor, made the turn at the landing, and turned the bike down again. The Stumpjumper's suspension ate up the stairs.
The bike ripped!
He hit the first floor, turned west, and rode into the rotunda again. The troopers were now on the second and third levels pointing down. The students screamed with delight; no doubt this would go down as the best field trip of the year. Andy turned south and rode between life-size white marble statues of Sam Houston and Stephen F. Austin and through a gauntlet of white pillars and straight out the south entrance doors being held open by another man.
"Thanks, dude."
From there it was straight downhill to the Eleventh Street gates. He hit the Great Walk again and sped past the Confederate monuments and the trooper stationed in his cruiser at the exit Shit, the trooper was pointing his gun at Andy!
But he didn't shoot. Instead, he jumped into the cruiser and hit the lights and siren. Andy raced through the tall wrought-iron gates and right into the book festival. He swerved to avoid hitting a worker holding a tent pole-"Sorry about that!" The worker fell down, and the tent dropped on top of him.
Andy turned west on Congress then south on Colorado. He stood on the pedals past the once magnificent Governor's Mansion, now just a charred shell after some jerk torched the place. He didn't hear the motocross bikes. No doubt they had turned back at the sound of the siren. So he veered right at the U.S. Courthouse on Eighth then crossed over Lavaca. He figured he'd go south on Rio Grande straight to the loft, but two black Mercedes-Benz sedans cut him off at Guadalupe.
Uh-oh.
He swerved south on Guadalupe. He picked up speed fast, no pedaling required; it was downhill to the lake. And that's where he was headed. The sedans couldn't follow him onto the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He ducked down to cut wind resistance. But there'd be no timing the lights. There'd only be luck.
He shot through red lights at Seventh and Sixth, barely avoiding collisions with motorists both times, and caught green lights at Fifth, Fourth, Third, and Second.
Dude, you're shredding Guadalupe Street!
His speed increased as he approached Cesar Chavez Street, the four-lane east-west boulevard that bordered the north side of Lady Bird Lake. Cars were backed up in both directions. The Guadalupe light was still green, but the pedestrian signal showed a solid red DON'T WALK; the light was about to change. The green light turned yellow, and southbound cars on Guadalupe stopped; Andy didn't. He rode between the cars.
This is gonna be tight.
Andy hit Cesar Chavez a split second after the east-west light turned green. Traffic surged forward in both directions; the gap between the eastbound and westbound cars closed fast. Andy flew through the intersection just before the gap had closed completely. Horns honked, drivers cursed, cars missed.
Now that was an adrenaline rush!
He had made it across. Barely. But the sedans had not. The traffic had caught them. Andy hit the steep path leading down to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. Once on the trail, he turned west and rode under a bridge where two homeless guys were sitting on an abandoned car seat and fishing. The lake was calm and the breeze was cool. Canoes and kayaks and a guy on a surfboard fitted with a sail glided across the glassy green surface. The tourist paddleboat chugged upstream. Walkers, runners, and their dogs pounded the trail. Cyclists tried to avoid colliding with walkers, runners, and dogs.
Andy caught his breath.
Russell's mind had snapped, just like Floyd T. had said. But why did he think the girl was his? He had seemed genuinely surprised when Andy told him the DNA was from Frankie. None of this made any sense, and Andy didn't know what to think. But he did know one thing.
Frankie Doyle had more to tell.
He removed his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Thick trees shaded the trail; the sunglasses made it too dark to see well. He passed the Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge; he'd exit the trail at Lamar Boulevard and cut over on Fifth to the loft.
He heard a distant scream.
He stopped pedaling and listened. He heard more shouts and a faint whining sound. He stood tall on the pedals and peered down the trail. He saw them. The black riders. The dirt bikes were heading directly toward him from the west.
Jesus, why don't you guys give it up?
Andy flipped the bike around and hammered the trail back east, weaving around walkers and joggers "On your left! On your left!"
— but the sound was gaining on him. He couldn't outrun them on the flat trail. So when he arrived bac
k at the Pfluger Bridge, he stood on the pedals up the wide concrete spiral ramp that looped up to the footbridge over the lake. Once at the top, he stopped and looked down to make sure the dirt bikers were following him up. They were. When they flew off the up ramp, he turned the bike back down.
He knew where he'd lose them.
Once back down on the trail, he turned east and hit a narrow straightaway section; the lake was close on his right and an inlet of water close on his left. That stretch was sunny, but just ahead the trail plunged into shadows under a stand of trees.
They would catch him on the straightaway. But he wanted them to be running top speed when they did, so he hammered the trail like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. He dodged pedestrians and slow-moving cyclists. He heard the noise behind him. He glanced back and saw the riders gaining ground fast.
They were soon on either side of him. He couldn't see their faces through the glare of the sun off their dark visors, but the visors would make it hard for them to see when the trail went into the shadows again.
At least Andy hoped so.
The rider on his right pulled a wheelie- now that's just showing off — then tried to kick him over, so he sped up. They gunned their bikes to catch up. He looked at them; they looked at him. They should've been looking at the trail.
Andy abruptly hit the brakes and skidded sideways to a stop right where the trail ducked back into the shadows-right before the trail made a sharp ninety-degree turn north along the water's edge. They didn't. They rode straight off the trail, hit a low rock wall, and vaulted over their bikes and somersaulted into the lake like synchronized divers. They hadn't seen the turn in the shadows through their dark visors.
Andy didn't hang around. He crossed over a little bridge then rode up the bank to Cesar Chavez and rode north on San Antonio past Silicon Labs. He didn't see the black sedans so he cut over on Third and rode behind the Music Hall and turned north on Rio Grande. He rode directly to the loft, unlocked the front door, and rolled the Stumpjumper inside. He set the bike against the entry wall, went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold Corona, and popped the top. He sat in the leather chair in front of the television.
He downed the beer in one long continuous drink.
He was safe in the loft. They couldn't find him there. Tres' friend had not required a tenant app, and nothing was in Andy's name-not the title, utilities, mail, newspaper, land line, or Internet account. Andy Prescott had left no paper trail leading to this loft.
The attorney was safe from his client.
Andy's brief tenure as Russell Reeves' lawyer was over, as well as everything that had come with it: the girls, the clothes, the lounges, the loft, the money. Except the complications; Andy's life remained complicated.
One complication was the money in his trust account. Russell had wired $50,000 for Hollis McCloskey and $1 million for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. Andy had paid $25,000 to Hollis and $9,999 three times to Lorenzo. That left $995,003.
And got a legal pad and a pen and calculated his billable hours since his last bill to Russell: the Boston, Montana, and San Diego trips, tracking Frankie down, collecting her DNA, even the chase from UT. He came up with one hundred twenty hours. Times $500 an hour, he was due $60,000 in fees. Plus $12,000 in expenses, including the $1,000 he paid to Mickey and the $1,000 to Ramon. Less the $25,000 Russell had already paid him (the $10,000 for the DNA was a bonus), and Andy was owed $47,000.
He would transfer that sum to his checking account. That would leave $948,003 in his trust account. He was legally obligated to return that money to his former client, Russell Reeves. It wasn't Andy's money. He pulled out his cell phone and called home. When his father answered, Andy asked for Frankie.
"Andy, are you okay?"
Her voice sounded good.
"Reeves' people just chased me all over town."
"Why?"
"I wouldn't tell him where you are."
"I told you he'd come for me."
"Frankie, you got a bank account?"
"In Buda."
"How'd you get a bank account without using your social security number?"
"I used my mom's. I'm her legal guardian."
"Are you her sole beneficiary?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Give me your account number."
"Why?"
"Trust me."
"But you're a lawyer."
Notwithstanding that fact, she gave him her bank account number. He hung up. It was all his fault. If he had just taken no for an answer when McCloskey couldn't find Frankie Doyle, none of this would be happening. But he had wanted the money. He had wanted Suzie and Bobbi and everything else that came with the money. So he had gone to Lorenzo. He had found Frankie Doyle. He had brought Russell Reeves to her. Andy's mother was right: Money makes good men do bad things. Now he would have to make things right.
He wondered if a C student were up to it.
TWENTY-TWO
Andy woke early the next morning without the alarm. It was Friday, and he wanted to get to Wimberley. He needed to talk to Frankie. He showered and dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He was starving, and there was no food or coffee in the loft; and coffee and a muffin at Jo's was out of the question.
But he needed carbs.
He decided to pick up breakfast tacos and a coffee at Whole Foods then hit the road. He grabbed his cell phone, the bike lock, and the Stumpjumper then stepped outside. He put on his helmet and saddled up. He looked around; no dirt bikes or black sedans were in sight.
The coast was clear.
He pedaled west on Fifth the two blocks to Whole Foods. He turned north on Bowie Street and entered the underground parking garage-just to be on the safe side. He parked and locked the bike outside the escalators. He went in through the automatic doors and stepped onto the up escalator.
The down escalator to Andy's left was crowded with shoppers heading to their cars in the garage with grocery carts piled high. The down escalator at Whole Foods was the kind that flattened out into one long ramp; the grocery carts didn't roll down the ramp because rings connected to the wheels locked the carts into the escalator grooves. So shoppers could take their carts down the escalator to the parking garage.
At store level, both sides of the escalator were protected by waist-high glass panels to prevent a customer from inadvertently falling down the escalator bay. As he rose into the store, Andy ducked slightly and peered through the glass panels for anyone who looked out of place. To his right was a dining area; to his left were the checkout lines. At the mouth of the escalator were the outdoor market and the floral department; beyond were shoppers gathered at the nut roaster. He saw tattoos and body piercings, shaved heads and unshaven legs, hippies and yuppies, and fit females in Spandex.
Just the normal Whole Foods crowd.
He got off the escalator and came around the checkout counters. He wanted to run straight down the gluten-free aisle and into "Beer Alley" and hide out in the walk-in beer cooler for the day with a case of Coronas; instead, he walked toward the food court with his head ducked down. He went past the Organic Clothes and Whole Body and Health amp; Beauty section selling environmentally friendly jewelry and was passing the juice bar when Team Member Charlene sang out, "Hi, Andy!"
He cringed.
For Christ's sake, Charlene, why don't you just announce over the store's public-address system that I'm here?
He stopped at the breakfast taco bar. Team Member Brad said, "The regular?" Andy nodded then scanned the food court crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Hi, Andy."
Except Suzie.
"Oh, uh, hi, Suzie."
"You haven't called me."
Still searching the crowd.
"I've been busy."
"With Bobbi?"
"Work."
"Do you like my new gym outfit?"
"What?"
Andy now turned his attention to Suzie and her gym outfit. She twirled around for him to see. Sweet Jesu
s. Now that was a gym outfit: a skin-tight white tube top that revealed much about her anatomy and white Spandex short-shorts that stretched the few inches from well below her navel to just below her cheeks. Body parts were snugly encased, ripped abs were exposed, and Andy's body was enthused. Spandex.
"That's a, uh, really nice outfit, Suzie."
When Andy finally looked up at her face, his peripheral vision caught two black figures standing at the sliding glass entrance doors to the food court; two Darrell-wannabes had just entered from the outdoor patio. They wore black pants and black knit shirts stretched tight around their muscular bodies; they looked like they had cornered the steroids market. Andy had the urge to cut and run, but (a) Suzie was standing between him and the men in black, so they didn't have a direct line of sight to him, and (b) he was starving. He needed those carbs.
"Hi, Andy."
Bobbi glided past Andy and Suzie and gave him a coy smile. Andy turned and stared at her Spandex. Wow.
"Andy!"
Back to Suzie.
"You're looking at Bobbi instead of me?"
Suzie was gorgeous, but Andy could never resist looking at other girls who walked by-why was that? Suzie put on her pouty face and stormed off. Andy turned his back to the front door then ducked behind a tall display for Electrolyte Enhanced Water. He peeked around at the brutes in black.
Christ, they were talking to Suzie.
Figure her to find the two fittest men in Whole Foods. And they were fit. But not fit in the Austin way. They were fit in the military way. Their muscles weren't carefully constructed by a high-priced personal trainer for the express purpose of attracting the opposite sex at Whole Foods-although they were sure as hell attracting Suzie. Their muscles were made for fighting. He could read their lips: "Have you seen Andy Prescott?"
Suzie turned and pointed at the breakfast taco bar.
Thanks a lot, Suzie.
"Andy, your tacos."
Team Member Brad was holding out two hot delicious breakfast tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. Andy pulled a $10 bill from his pocket, stood with his back to the men, and handed the bill across the counter.