by Mark Gimenez
"Frankie, you ever heard of Russell Reeves?"
"No."
"He's a billionaire."
"Is he your client?"
"Yes."
"And he says he's her father?"
"The DNA confirmed it."
"What DNA?"
"Hers."
"How?"
"Band-Aid in your trash."
She suddenly had the look of a cornered ostrich.
"Andy, now they'll come."
"Who?"
"Your client. The people who killed Mickey."
"Russell Reeves isn't a murderer. He's just rich."
She looked at Andy like he was a moron. Maybe he was.
"You really don't have a clue, do you?"
"A clue about what?"
She flicked the cigarette away and turned to her daughter.
"Come on, Jessie, we're leaving."
She grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her away. Andy ran after them.
"Where are you going?"
They kept walking fast.
"Somewhere we can hide from your client."
"Why do you need to hide from him?"
"Because he's not her father."
"Why would he lie about that? Why does he think she's his daughter if she's not?"
"Andy, I don't know Russell Reeves. I've never met him, I didn't have an affair with him. He's not her father, he didn't give her a cancer gene. She's not dying."
"Then why does he want to help her?"
"He doesn't." She stopped abruptly. "Andy, the blood on that Band-Aid… it was mine."
She pulled the girl up the path to the inn. Andy followed.
"Frankie-wait!"
"You don't know what you've done."
Andy ran to her and grabbed her arm.
"What? What have I done?"
She said nothing.
"I'll talk to Russell, straighten this out."
"He's coming, Andy."
"Frankie, let me help."
"You've helped enough."
Andy Prescott did not scare easily, but he was scared now-because she was scared. He saw it in her face.
"I know a place you can stay, where you'll be safe."
Paul Prescott was fixing lunch when he heard the big birds squawking to raise the roof. Someone was coming through the front gate. He walked to the screen door at the front of the house. A small car was coming up the drive. He didn't recognize it, so he grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and loaded two shells. Then he stepped out onto the porch.
It was just after noon.
Max bounded up to the car, barking like the place was being invaded. The car stopped, and Paul's son emerged. Andy squatted to greet the dog; a red-headed girl joined in. A young woman exited the vehicle. His son stood and walked over to the porch.
"Didn't recognize the car," Paul said.
He unloaded the shotgun and dropped the shells into his shirt pocket and snapped the button.
"Dad, this is Frankie and her daughter, Jessie. They need a place to stay for a few days."
"Welcome to stay here."
"Thanks. Frankie, meet my dad, Paul Prescott."
"Hi, Mr. Prescott," she said, but her eyes took in his orange skin.
"Just Paul. Jaundice. Got a bad liver."
"He's waiting for a transplant," Andy said.
"Y'all hungry? I was just rustlin' up some lunch. Your girl like grilled cheese sandwiches?"
The girl named Jessie ran over.
"I love grilled cheese."
Paul held the screen door open for Jessie and her mother.
"Come on, Max, or you're gonna miss out on lunch."
Max bolted up the porch steps and into the house. Andy was the last one in. Paul stopped his son.
"What's up, Andy?"
"You were right. Working for Reeves, it's not all good."
"You in trouble?"
"Maybe."
"The law?"
"Not yet."
"What about them?"
"They're running, but not from the law."
"Then from who?"
"Me, at first. Now Russell Reeves."
"Your client?"
"Yep."
"And now you're hiding them from him?"
"Yep."
"Isn't that what you lawyers call a 'conflict of interest'?"
"Yep."
"That's not good."
"Nope."
Paul Prescott scratched his beard then said, "Well, let's get them fed and fixed up in the spare bedroom. Pull her car into the barn, then we'll figure this deal out."
"Thanks, Dad."
Forty miles north, Harmon Payne and Cecil Durant were walking down South Congress Avenue asking the freaks they encountered if they knew Andy Prescott. Everyone said no, which annoyed Harmon because he knew they were lying. But his driver was whistling like a kid, a sure sign that he had "You got a hooker last night, didn't you?" Harmon said.
"Does it show?"
"It probably will in a couple of weeks."
They stopped at the coffee joint called Jo's and ordered skinny lattes and deli sandwiches at the walk-up window.
"You know Andy Prescott?" Harmon asked the Mexican boy working the window.
"Andy Prescott? Nope. Never heard of him."
The boy wasn't a convincing liar.
They got their food, but Harmon lost his appetite when he turned and found himself staring at a bare butt walking past. A man's bare butt. Right there on the sidewalk fronting Congress Avenue, before God and everyone. A few folks stopped the guy and took pictures with him on their cell phones just as if he were a real star like one of the gals on Jersey Shore. From behind them, the Mexican boy said, "That's Queen Leslie. He's a local celebrity." This Queen Leslie was older than Harmon, with gray frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail and a gray goatee; he was wearing only a pink thong, a black bra, and running shoes.
Cecil grunted. "You think he really jogs in that? Seems like it'd chafe your butt after a while."
"It's chafing my butt just looking at it."
Cecil gestured at the cell phone clipped to the Queen's thong.
"Who do you think he calls?"
"I keep having to look at his butt, he's gonna need to call 911."
Harmon's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.
"Hi, hon."
Cecil walked a few steps away so as not to obviously eavesdrop on Harmon's conversation. But he still heard Harmon.
"Yeah, we're wrapping up a meeting now… a few more days… his playoff game's on Saturday? At noon?… I don't know, this deal's dragging on… Sure, put him on… Hey, little man, how're you doing?… Three goals, that's super… I'm gonna do my best to be there, I promise… Okay, have fun at school… I love you, and tell your brother and sisters I love them, too. Bye."
Harmon tried to plan their trips around his kids' sports schedules. Four children, that wasn't an easy task, but Harmon seldom missed their games. Cecil hoped he was as good a father as Harmon, who hung up and turned to him.
"Cecil, we gotta find this guy fast. Between missing my son's games and guys wearing thongs, I'm liable to go postal."
Andy carried Frankie's stuff up the stairs to the spare bedroom. He opened the windows to let the breeze in.
"It's nice at night, sleeping to the country sounds, the breeze up from the creek. Bathroom's across the hall. Towels, toothpaste, whatever you need."
"Your dad's great."
"I like him."
"How soon does he need a liver transplant?"
"Soon."
"I like your skin."
Paul Prescott was showing the girl how to pet an ostrich.
"Aw, I look like a big ol' pumpkin."
They started walking down to the creek. The girl had told him about their travels and name changes. He had offered to show her the ostriches and the creek while her mother got settled into the spare bedroom.
"You're a lucky girl, Jessie. I've been stuck with the same name my whole
life."
"Esmeralda was my favorite name. Esmeralda Bustamante."
"Why's that?"
"When I said it, it was like I was singing."
Paul sang: "Esmeralda, Esmeralda, my sweet Esmeralda… You're right, it is a song. You like to sing?"
"It's my dream. I want to be a country singer, like Carrie Underwood."
"Well, now, that little gal can sing. Can you?"
Frankie said, "It's nice out here."
They had come outside looking for Andy's father and her daughter and so Frankie could smoke. Andy tossed a stick for Max to fetch. The dog shot off and returned with a stick-but not the same stick.
"We haven't had a real home in three years. Before that we lived with Mickey, which didn't make for a great home life for either of us. It's nice to see a normal family."
"Us? Normal? An alcoholic country-western singer waiting for a liver transplant, a leftist art history professor who's been arrested for protesting wars and football God knows how many times, and a traffic ticket lawyer who rides a trail bike? What's normal about that?"
"No one's getting drunk and hitting each other."
"The Prescotts are a non-violent people. You want to see my mom's studio?"
"Sure."
They walked into the barn and back to the studio. Frankie studied the clay angel sculpture.
"She's good."
"So are you."
"This was my dream-my own studio, a place to draw and paint and sculpt." She was quiet. "Just wasn't meant to be."
"You're only twenty-eight, Frankie. Your life's not over."
"I've got a billionaire chasing me. It might be."
"I'm here."
"Yes, you are. And so am I. And Jessie. We're all here, Andy."
"I'm sorry, Frankie."
They went outside and saw Jessie running toward them. She didn't look like a kid with a ticking time bomb inside her.
"Mom!"
His father followed behind.
"Paul's going to teach me to play the guitar."
"That's great, honey."
His father arrived and said, "This little gal, she can sing."
"That's her dream."
Paul Prescott patted Jessie on the head. "Let's go pick some tomatoes for dinner. My tomatoes are as red as your hair. Where'd you get that red from? Not your mama."
"Red hair is recessive, Dad."
He gave Andy a funny look. "Okay."
Jessie and his father headed over to the garden.
"I'd better help," Frankie said.
She followed them. Andy watched after her a moment, then went back up to the house. He walked through the back door just as his mother entered through the front door with Earth-friendly canvas grocery bags in each arm. He took them from her, and they walked into the kitchen.
"I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home," she said. "Thought we'd have salmon. Where are they?"
"Picking tomatoes."
She walked onto the back porch and looked out toward the garden.
"How old is the girl? Eight, nine?"
"Eight."
"And her mother?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Oh, I saw your girlfriend, the blonde. At Whole Foods. She was talking to a guy."
"Who?"
"I didn't ask."
"Did he look like a lawyer?"
"Now that you mention it, he did."
"Richard Olson. He drives a Porsche."
"What's going on, Andy? With them?"
Paul Prescott said, "He gave you tickets to the biggest game of the year? Good Lord, don't tell your mother. What'd he want from you?"
"I already gave it to him. That's why they're here."
Frankie and Jessie had gone upstairs to clean up before dinner. Andy had parked the Toyota in the barn and was walking up to the house with his father. They found his mother in the kitchen, and Andy told them the rest of the story: his trips to Boston and Montana, Hollis McCloskey and Lorenzo Escobar, and the DNA from the Band-Aid.
"He thinks Jessie is his daughter."
"Is she?"
"The DNA says yes."
"What does Frankie say?"
"She says no."
"I figure the mother would know."
"He says she might have the same cancer gene he gave his son. Says he just wants to save her from Zach's fate. Why would he lie about that?"
Andy's cell phone rang; it was Russell Reeves. He went out onto the back porch and answered.
"Andy, have you found her?"
"Not yet."
"Why's it taking so long?"
"She's smart, Russell. She knows we're looking for her. How's Zach?"
"Not good."
"Tell him hi for me."
"Come tell him yourself."
"I will."
There was silence on the line.
"Russell?"
"Andy, you're not lying to me, are you?"
"No. I'm gonna come see Zach."
"About Frankie."
"Russell, I'm your lawyer."
"You didn't answer my question."
"No. I'm not lying."
He was lying about not lying. Tres was right. Everyone lies.
"Hurry, Andy."
He hung up and went back inside.
"Reeves?" his father said.
Andy nodded. "I can hold him off for a day or two, but he'll figure out I'm lying. Then he'll come for her. Frankie. We'll move on in a few days."
"We?"
"I'm responsible for them now. I found them."
"Well, he'll never find them here."
"Dad, I've learned a few things about finding people. First thing they'll do is search the property tax records for 'Prescott.' "
"This land belongs to your mother, Andy. It's under her maiden name-Warren, not Prescott. They can stay here as long as they want. Be nice to have some company."
Harmon and Cecil walked into the tattoo parlor at 1514 South Congress. BODY ART BY RAMON. A Mexican wearing a white muscle T-shirt was sitting in front of a computer screen and tapping the keys.
"You Ramon?"
"Yep."
"I'm looking for Andy Prescott. You know him?"
"Nope."
"He offices right above you."
"Oh, that Andy Prescott. The traffic ticket lawyer. He's never around."
"What's he look like, this Prescott?"
"Six-four, black hair, fat."
"What does he drive?"
"A Buick."
Harmon walked out and snorted. "You see that guy? Tattoos all over his body?"
Cecil nodded. "He could play for the Knicks."
Jean Prescott was tending to the salmon, Andy and Frankie were setting the table for dinner, and Paul was teaching Jessie a few chords on the guitar on the back porch. Andy could hear their voices in the kitchen.
"Sing this, honey."
His father played a few notes, then her singing voice came through: "Honky-tonk heroes, we're a dying breed now, the world's gone corporate and the music has too…"
Her voice was strong and full and good. Paul Prescott came into the kitchen carrying his guitar.
"Jean, you hear this girl sing? She's the real deal. We got us a country singer."
Jessie followed.
"Paul, you're not teasing me, are you?"
"About what, honey?"
"About me being a country singer."
"Honey, I never tease about dreams. Sing it again."
He played and she sang.
"Honky-tonk heroes, we're a dying breed now…"
And his father joined in.
"The world's gone corporate and the music has too…"
They sang until dinner.
"We've had to move around," Frankie said. "Montana, New Mexico, West Texas. We hoped this would be our last move. "
"Well," his father said, "we've been here thirty-five years now. Jean inherited this land before we got married." He winked at Frankie. "I married her for her land."
"I marrie
d him to feed the birds," his mother said. "Andy says you're an artist."
"I want to be an artist."
"I'd like to see your portfolio."
"Really? It's upstairs."
"After dinner, then."
His father looked over at Jessie. "You like that salmon? You'd better say yes, or Jean'll make you eat tofu tomorrow."
"Is that Chinese food?"
"Should be."
Two hours later, Andy found his mother on the back porch with a glass of wine. His father was already in bed; Frankie and Jessie were getting ready for bed. Andy sat next to her.
"I'm going to miss that man," she said.
Andy felt the tears come again, so he didn't speak. They sat silently and listened to the night sounds and felt the soft breeze up from the creek.
"I remember sitting on this porch when I was a young girl, wondering what the man I would marry would be like. I never pictured Paul Prescott. But when I saw him that night at the Broken Spoke, those blue eyes, I fell hard for him. Thirty-five years later, I'm still falling."
"Dave's folks are divorced, Tres' would be except for the trust fund-why'd it work for you and Dad?"
"Because we each have our own life, and a life we share. We never tried to change each other. And we both understand that a life without passion isn't much of a life. It's like a movie-a pretense of life. We've had a real life."
Andy took her hand and squeezed it. She patted his.
"I knew it would happen."
"What?"
"You'd bring a girl home to meet your mother. I was hoping Mary Margaret wouldn't be the last one."
"Hey, she was hot-for a fourth-grader."
"Frankie's a better fit for you."
"Than Mary Margaret?"
"Than those Whole Foods girls."
"It's not like that, Mom. Between us."
"I saw the way you look at her… and the way she looks at you."
"I think that's the urge to kill."
She smiled. "I don't think so." She picked up Frankie's portfolio. "No training and she can do this? She's a natural."
"She hasn't had many breaks in life."
"Her life isn't over." She sipped her wine. "It's good they're here. Your father was more alive today than he's been in a year. That twinkle was back in those blue eyes."
Andy thought about life without Paul Prescott. His and hers.
"Mom, can I get a ride into town with you tomorrow? My bike's at the loft."
She nodded. "Come by the office. I've got tickets."
In the penthouse at the Austin General Hospital, Kathryn Reeves grabbed her husband's shirt and screamed, "Save him, Russell! Save him! Don't let him die!"
