The Common Lawyer (39 page)

"Pardon me! Coming through!"

He jumped over the price scanner and then the recyclable brown paper shopping bags and hit the ground again; two big steps and he grabbed the metal railing, vaulted the glass panel, and dropped onto the down escalator. He squeezed past customers and their carts and ran out the doors.

He was in the garage.

The bike was right outside the door, but he fumbled for the combination to the lock; he checked back for the men. He finally got the lock opened and hopped on the Stumpjumper just as the brutes blew out the door to the escalators. He stood on the pedals and raced around the garage; they ran around cars and climbed over cars and tried to cut him off. But he beat them to the Bowie Street exit, flew out onto the street, and turned south. He turned east on Fifth Street, cut through two alleys, and arrived at the loft. He opened the front door and pulled the bike inside.

He had made it.

He stood there a moment to catch his breath. Then he smiled. He had two breakfast tacos. And they were still warm. He went to the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and popped the top. He sat down and ate his breakfast. Protein, carbs, and beer—the breakfast of champions. He had just finished the second taco when he heard noises outside. He went to the window and peeked out.

The thugs were there.

The two black Mercedes-Benz sedans were there. How had they found him in this loft? He watched them through the blinds. They were pointing at the other lofts; there were twenty in this building. They were splitting up and going door to door. Which meant … they knew he lived in one of these twenty lofts, but they didn't know which loft. They had tracked him to this building, but not to this loft. How?

There was a knock on the door.

Andy finished off the Corona, grabbed his sunglasses, and went down a flight of stairs to the one-car garage that sat slightly below ground level. A short driveway ramped up to the street out front where the Mercedes-Benzes were parked.

He hit the light.

The garage was stark white and immaculate; there wasn't a broom, shovel, lawn mower, tool, or grease spot in sight. But parked in the center of the garage was a glossy black American IronHorse Slammer. Seven hundred forty-two pounds and one hundred ten horsepower of pure adrenaline rush. The biggest, baddest, most ass-kicking motorcycle on the planet.

Andy saddled up and ran his hands over the dual gas tanks as if they were Suzie's smooth thighs. The front tire measured one hundred twenty millimeters in width, the back tire three hundred, the better to hold the road. The wheels were chrome Streetfighters and featured disc brakes front and rear. The S&S Sidewinder engine beneath him filled one hundred eleven cubic inches of space. The transmission was six-speed with overdrive. The price tag was $42,500.

He had ordered the Slammer a month before, right after Russell Reeves had hired him to find his old girlfriends at $500 an hour. He had taken delivery of the motorcycle only the day before, after Russell's men had chased him from UT to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He had bought his dream with Russell Reeves' money—money Andy had earned finding Frankie Doyle.

Now he needed the Slammer to make things right.

Andy secured the black bowl-type crash helmet on his head and inserted the sunglasses. He took a deep breath then fired up the Slammer. He revved the engine just to hear the distinctive IronHorse roar. No other sound on Mother Earth could compare.

Adrenaline coursed through his body.

He stood the Slammer straight and kicked the stand back. The bike was pointed directly at the garage door. He hit the automatic opener clipped to the handlebars. The door rose. Andy shifted the Slammer into gear, but held the clutch in tight. When the door was high enough, he ducked down, popped the clutch, and gave it the gas. The Slammer shot under the door and up the driveway ramp past the startled thugs and between the Mercedes-Benz sedans and out onto Fifth Street. He leaned hard right and accelerated; he saw in the side mirrors the men scrambling into the sedans. He heard tires squealing.

He would lose them out on the big road where the IronHorse could do what it did best: go fast.

He turned south on Guadalupe Street and hit South First then accelerated across the bridge over Lady Bird Lake. He veered east onto Riverside past Threadgill's then south onto Congress Avenue. The sedans were six car lengths behind him. He accelerated up the hill past the School for the Deaf then slowed and yelled at Guillermo Garza hanging his head out the window at Jo's.

"Keep the faith, bro!"

Guillermo ran outside with his fists in the air.

"Andy, my man! You are the man!"

Andy gave Guillermo a fist-punch in the air then gave the Slammer the gas. He hit the center turn lane and blew past a line of slow-moving cars. He spotted Oscar sweeping the front porch at Güero's and shouted "Dude!" as he drove past. In the side mirror he saw Oscar drop his broom … and the black sedans gaining on him.

He juiced the Slammer.

He passed his little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor and wondered if he'd ever contest another traffic ticket. When he had run from Russell Reeves the day before, he had crossed the line. He had chosen Frankie over his client. Right over wrong. Morality over money. Love over law. All the wrong choices for a lawyer. He would be disbarred.

If he wasn't killed first.

He hit the brakes hard. Traffic was backed up at Oltorf Street.

But he couldn't stop now.

So he veered across the northbound lanes, cut through a parking lot, turned back west on Oltorf, made it through the intersection and turned south on Congress before the light turned green. Fortunately, no Austin cop was around; the fines from those moving violations would top $1,000. But now he was ahead of the traffic and the sedans. He slowed when he came to the new low-income town homes his client was building for SoCo.

Russell Reeves was a complicated man.

Andy arrived at Highway 290 West. The road that climbed three hundred feet to the top of the Balcones Escarpment. A road that required a powerful engine. Like the Slammer's S&S Sidewinder.

Andy cut through a gas station to the access road then accelerated down onto the entrance ramp to 290. He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy before he entered the highway. He had it running eighty through the split at the Capital of Texas Highway and past MoPac Expressway located just south of the Barton Creek Greenbelt. He checked the side mirrors; the black sedans were nowhere in sight.

Which was a good thing because he was approaching Oak Hill, where the freeway portion of Highway 290 ended and stop lights interrupted the traffic flow. The road through Oak Hill was four tight lanes that squeezed past a fifty-foot-high limestone wall, one of the first terraces of the escarpment. There was no way around the traffic. The sedans would catch up in Oak Hill. Two red lights in they did; Andy was sitting between two massive pickups; he figured they couldn't see him from a dozen cars back.

He was heading due west at the Y where Highway 71 turned northwest and Highway 290 turned southwest. He could take 71 then turn back against traffic onto the 290 ramp; he might lose one of the sedans. The light turned green, and the traffic surged forward. Andy was in the left lane that stayed 290. Just before the road split, he gunned the Slammer and swerved into the right lane and took Highway 71. He accelerated as if making his move.

In the side mirror, he saw one black sedan follow. The sedan accelerated hard, so Andy slowed a bit. Just before the sedan was on him, he cut in front of the oncoming traffic and turned south onto the ramp leading back to 290. The sedan got caught by the traffic; horns honked. Those dudes were history.

But where was the other sedan?

Andy veered back onto 290 and headed west. He came around the first bend and spotted the other black sedan waiting at Convict Hill Road. He had open road until Dripping Springs fourteen miles away. The speed limit was sixty, but this was Texas; no one drove sixty. Andy blew past the sedan, weaved in and out of traffic, and took the bike through the gears. But he knew they were behind him.

He also knew Highway 290.

The highway inclined as the road began the long, winding climb up the escarpment. He would lose them on the climb.

He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy-five past Rim Rock Trail and the Polo Club. He leaned into each curve and felt the wind on his face and the engine beneath him. Ten minutes later, he crested a steep climb and checked the mirror; he could see back for miles and the road was empty.

That was easy.

He relaxed now and considered Frankie and Jessie. Could he make things right for them? Would they have to go back into hiding? Move to another state and change their names again? Was that their future? And would Frankie let him share that future with them? These questions were running through Andy's thoughts when he glanced in the side mirror and damn near fell off the Slammer: the black Mercedes-Benz sedan was coming up behind him—fast.

Goddamn German-made cars.

That German engine could power the sedan up the escarpment as well as the S&S Sidewinder engine could the Slammer. He wouldn't lose them with speed and power alone. So he had to test their stability on sharp curves. And if you wanted curves, there was only one road to ride.

He entered Dripping Springs and slowed to the prescribed forty-five. He turned south on Ranch Road 12 and accelerated to sixty. Passing was prohibited on the narrow two-lane road, so the sedan stayed two cars back. Fifteen minutes later, he glided down into the Wimberley valley and over Cypress Creek. He cruised through the town square and then accelerated across the Blanco River and up the hill on the south side of the valley. Four miles south of town he made a hard turn west onto Ranch Road 32.

The Devil's Backbone.

The backbone was a ridgeline that ran high and hard with nasty curves and sudden drops. If you're going to drive the backbone fast, you'd better know the road. Andy knew the road.

The first four miles were pure straightaway. The backbone set novices up for the kill with the easy drive and the beautiful vistas of distant hills and valleys. Andy had the Slammer running seventy.

The sedan stayed with him.

They passed Purgatory Road, and Andy accelerated to eighty. The sedan stayed on his tail. He ducked down low and pushed the Slammer to ninety. They flew past the Devil's Backbone Tavern, and they were suddenly in the curves—sharp swings right and left and right then climbing hard and curving left and right and left and then descending fast and curving right and left and right. Andy leaned into each curve, and the wide tires hugged the black asphalt like they were running down rails. He checked the rearview for the sedan; with each curve it veered farther out of his vision in the mirror—wider into the oncoming lane. The driver was overcompensating.

And suddenly the sedan was gone from his mirror.

Andy slowed and glanced back. They had gone off the road.

He turned north and circled back to town. As he entered the town square from the west, emergency vehicles headed south. He cut through town and turned into the Prescott homestead. He parked the Slammer out front of the house, cut the engine, and removed the helmet. His hair was soaked with sweat. He blew out a breath.

Hell of a morning.

"Sounded like a damn tornado."

Andy's father unloaded the shotgun, stuck the shells in his pocket, and leaned the gun against the porch rail. He stepped down off the porch.

"Damn thing's bigger than you are."

"Russell's guys found me in Austin, chased me out 290. So I took them out on the Devil's Backbone. Good thing those big Mercedes have airbags all around."

"Can't you find this guy?" Harmon said.

"We're working our contact," the boss said.

"Well, work him harder!"

"You got a number?"

Harmon read the phone number and said, "Now find Andy Prescott!"

TWENTY-THREE

Andy stashed the Slammer in the barn then went into the house. His mother wouldn't be home for a few hours yet. They had lunch, then his father took Jessie down to the creek for a fishing lesson. Andy and Frankie followed, but Andy needed to talk to her alone; she needed a cigarette.

"You dyed your hair black."

She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded.

"Your hair is really red."

Another nod.

"Red hair is recessive."

"Which means?"

"It means Jessie isn't Russell Reeves' daughter. He lied to me."

"I'm glad you finally believe me."

"I don't. You're lying to me, too."

"We'll leave."

"No, Frankie, you don't need to leave. I'm just trying to figure out why you can't tell me the truth."

She didn't tell him now. They walked down to the creek and found his father and Jessie fishing from the rock outcropping. Jessie squealed at the sight of a small fish hooked on her cane pole.

"I always wanted Jessie to grow up in a place like this, maybe have some horses."

"You can stay here as long as you want."

"Or until Reeves finds me. And he will."