by Mark Gimenez
"I've got to find a phone. I'll be back."
"Andy…"
"Yeah?"
"If you decide not to come back, I'll understand. This is our problem, not yours."
"I'll be back."
Andy rode the Slammer to a convenience store and called Dave. His buddy seemed distracted.
"Dude, quit combing your hair and listen. Don't you have a listing near the greenbelt? A foreclosed mansion?"
"Man, Russell Reeves must be paying you a fortune."
"I'm not buying, Dave. We just need a place to stay tonight."
"We who?"
"You don't want to know. But, Dave, it's an emergency."
"She's hot, huh? Why don't you take her to a fancy hotel, you can afford it, Reeves' lawyer."
"Not anymore."
"No kidding?"
"What about that place?"
"It's a mansion overlooking the greenbelt. Vacant, they just walked away, even left the furniture. Electricity's on. Here's the lockbox code. Key's inside."
Dave gave Andy the code and the address. It was just a few blocks away.
"What if someone comes over to look at the place?"
"No one's looked at that place in two months. Credit crunch."
"What about the neighbors? Will they call the cops if they see the lights on?"
"Nope. House has automatic timers. A few lights inside come on at dark, turn off at midnight. So criminals think someone's still there."
"Thanks, Dave. I owe you, man."
"Andy, if I can't let my good buddy trespass on one of my listings, what the hell good am I? But try not to stain the sheets, okay. They're satin."
Andy hung up and dialed Tres.
"Andrew, how are you?"
Andrew? The only person who had ever called him Andrew was his mother back when he was a kid and she had been really mad at him.
"Man, Andrew, remember that time you took a header for those senior citizens?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Have you been back out there since?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm-"
"We need to do that again, Andrew."
"Fly off the ravine?"
"No, sit right there and talk."
"Well, okay, but first-"
"How about today, Andrew? At two."
Tres hung up. It was one-thirty. Andy rode back to Frankie and Jessie at the greenbelt.
"I need to go down the trail, to meet someone."
"Can we come?" Jessie said. "I'm scared."
Andy put his arm around her and led them down the trail.
Just before two, Tres rode up on his trail bike. Andy, Frankie, and Jessie were sitting on the same rock he had sat on after taking the header that day. Andy introduced everyone then turned to Tres.
" Andrew? What's that about?"
"Didn't know if someone was listening in."
"To your phone calls?"
"Hey, man, the Feds are spying on everyone these days."
"But why you?"
"Because I asked the wrong question."
"Which was?"
He glanced from Andy to Frankie and back.
"It's okay."
Tres gestured at Frankie. "This is her? Patient X?"
"No." Andy nodded at Jessie. "That's her."
"Thought Patient X was a woman?"
Andy shook his head. "A girl. Baby X."
"Well, you were right, the Feds know all about her."
"You found something?"
He nodded. " 'Patient X: A Cost-Benefit Analysis.' "
"They studied her?"
"They studied the idea of her. No one knew if Patient X was real or some kind of medical hoax, but they run analyses on all kinds of hypothetical scenarios. You know, what-ifs. Like war games. Would she be good or bad for the economy? They discovered Patient X could bankrupt the government, put the country into another Great Depression. At least that's the conclusion after they ran the numbers."
"What numbers?"
"The decreased cost of Medicare and Medicaid if Patient X could cure even a few diseases-the numbers are staggering."
"So that's good."
"Yeah, but those numbers are nothing compared to the increased costs of social security. Right now, life expectancy is seventy-four. What if it were a hundred? People start living that long, it would bankrupt social security. They'd have to raise the tax to fifty, sixty percent on top of the income tax. People would be paying ninety percent of what they make to the federal government. Society would collapse, there'd be social chaos. Our social programs are predicated on people dying on time."
"But I pay fifteen-point-nine percent of my income into the social security trust fund. The government's investing all that money to pay me when I retire."
Tres laughed. "Andy, there's no trust fund. Your taxes aren't invested. Social security is a Ponzi scheme: the money you pay in today is paid out to old folks tomorrow. Any money left over is spent just like regular tax money. Last year there was a $175 billion social security surplus. But it wasn't invested in the trust fund. It was spent for farm programs and the Iraq war and pet projects for members of Congress. The so-called 'trust fund' is nothing more than a stack of IOUs from the government to the Social Security Administration. They're literally sitting in a file cabinet in D.C. The trust fund is just a huge hoax on the American people."
"So the government won't help her?"
Tres shrugged. "I called a buddy over at the FBI. He said they'll take her into the witness protection program, give her a new identity, move her to a new place."
"We don't need the FBI for that," Frankie said. "And if she goes into protective custody, she'll be a freak again." She shook her head. "We're on our own."
"No, Frankie, you're not on your own. I'm here."
"Mom, what are we gonna do?"
"What we've always done, honey. Run."
Jessie started crying. "Mom, I'm tired of running. I want to live with Jean and Paul and Max and the birds. I want to fish and learn to ride a horse. And Paul's teaching me the guitar."
Andy pulled Frankie aside and said, "You can't run forever."
"What choice do we have, Andy? They'll never stop coming for her, as long as she's alive."
Andy looked over at Jessie sitting on the rock and crying with her face in her hands. He turned back to Frankie.
"Then we'll have to kill her."
Three miles away, Cecil said, "What do you want?"
Harmon put his hand over the phone. "Caramel macchiato and a sugar-free brownie."
Cecil got out of the car and went inside the Starbucks. Harmon said into the phone, "Where the hell are they?"
"We don't know."
The boss.
"Why don't you know?"
"We can't ping Prescott's phone."
"Why not?"
"He either figured out we're tracking him with his cell phone and turned it off, or he's in a dead zone. When he comes out or turns it on, we'll have his location in minutes."
Harmon hung up.
When Cecil returned, he said, "Well?"
"We wait."
Andy drove them to Dave's listing. He opened the lockbox, removed the front door key, and unlocked the door. They stepped inside and Jessie said, "Wow."
It was in fact a mansion.
"You guys check the place out, I'm going to run over to SoCo and pick up a few things. What kind of pizza do you like, Jessie?"
"Pepperoni and Italian sausage."
"Frankie?"
"Same."
"I'll be back in a few hours."
By eleven that night, they had eaten pizza, drunk a few beers, and prepared everything for the next morning. Jessie had fallen asleep in a recliner. Frankie and Andy were on the couch, watching a movie on the TV: The Way We Were with Robert Redford. He was handsome. Frankie had rested her head against Andy's chest. He had his arm around her.
"Andy, what if we killed them instead?"
"I don't think we could. They're professionals.
But even if we could, they'll just send someone else. You're right-they'll never stop coming for her. It's the only way."
TWENTY-FIVE
Andy turned his cell phone on.
"Are you sure about this?" Frankie said.
"No. But we've got no choice."
It was eight the next morning. They were in the vacant parking lot of the Barton Creek Square Mall on the Capital of Texas Highway, also known as Loop 360, on the southwest side of Austin. The greenbelt was just across the highway. But that Sunday morning Andy Prescott wasn't bombing the Hill of Life on a mountain bike. He had a different kind of adrenaline rush in mind that day.
"Go."
Frankie flicked her cigarette to the ground and hugged Jessie then jumped into the passenger's seat of Tres' Beemer.
"Good luck, Andy," Tres said.
They drove off. Andy watched as they veered onto Loop 360 heading north, then he popped the top on a can of Red Bull.
"What's that?" Jessie asked.
"Rocket fuel."
"Doesn't that have lots of caffeine?"
"It'd better."
"That's bad for your health."
"Two guys shooting at me is bad for my health."
He downed the Red Bull then faced Jessie.
"You ready?"
"I'm scared, Andy."
"Me, too."
He gave her shoulder a little squeeze.
"Undo your hair."
She removed the clip in the back and shook her hair loose. It hung to her shoulders and lay on the black jacket he had bought for her the day before.
"I wish my hair were still that long," Andy said.
"Why?"
"The Samson theory."
The black sedan entered the far end of the parking lot.
Harmon was riding shotgun. He spotted the big black motorcycle across the vacant parking lot. Prescott was kneeling beside it; the girl was standing next to the bike. He had engine problems. Harmon said into the cell phone, "We got him, boss. I'll call you when it's done."
He ended the call and released the safety on the Glock.
"Pull up next to them, Cecil. I'll pop her and we can be back on the highway before she hits the ground."
Cecil accelerated the Crown Vic across the black asphalt. Harmon lowered his window, but Prescott spotted them and jumped up. He straddled the motorcycle; the girl jumped on behind him. They sped off.
"Damn, he got it going. Don't lose them, Cecil."
The motorcycle exited the parking lot and accelerated onto Loop 360 heading north. The girl's red hair stood straight out behind her as they flew across Scottish Woods Drive. Cecil pointed to an undeveloped treed area on his left.
"That's the Barton Creek Greenbelt. Must've named it after the mall. Eight hundred acres. Got a creek with trails and waterfalls. It's supposed to be really neat."
"Maybe you should bring Harriet here for a vacation."
"But then I couldn't get a hooker."
"Life is full of dilemmas, Cecil."
They were only a few car lengths back of the motorcycle, but Harmon had no chance of hitting the girl at that speed. Fortunately, traffic was light that early on a Sunday morning; there were more cyclists in the bike lane than cars on the highway. They crossed Lost Creek Boulevard; the valley to the east offered a big view of downtown Austin in the distance.
"Wow, look at that," Cecil said.
"Look at the road."
But Harmon had to admit it: Austin was a pretty place. Paradise compared to Jersey. Might be a nice place to retire to, although he kept a map with black dots at every city where he'd killed someone so he'd know if he were returning to the scene of an unsolved murder or murders. After today, it might be best to retire somewhere else.
"Stoplight up ahead," Cecil said.
"On a highway?"
Traffic slowed to a stop at an intersection called Bee Caves Road. But the motorcycle didn't. Prescott swerved into the bike lane, drove around the stopped vehicles, and ran the red light.
"He's good."
"Don't lose them, Cecil."
The motorcycle was slowing down. Prescott was leaning over, driving with one hand and fiddling with the engine with the other.
"He's got engine problems."
But when the light turned green, the motorcycle sped off again.
"Did."
"We still got him."
They followed the motorcycle past the Wild Basin Wilderness Preserve off to their right.
"Seven women founded that place thirty years ago," Cecil said. "They wanted to save a piece of the wilderness."
As if Harmon gave a shit.
"Drive."
The road turned up then down and left then right. Walls of white limestone rose on either side.
"All this land used to be a sea, millions of years ago," Cecil said. "Hence, the limestone."
" Hence? " Harmon looked at his driver. "Hence, Cecil?"
"I read it in that book about Austin last night."
"I thought you were watching Sex and the City reruns?"
"I was reading and watching TV. I can do two things at the same time, Harmon."
"Really? Well, do two things now: shut up and drive."
The road began a long decline toward a suspension bridge over the river. Cecil drove in silence until they arrived at the bridge. But he was like a kid in a car-he couldn't help himself. He had to talk.
"Pennybacker Bridge," Cecil said. "No part of the bridge touches Lake Austin."
"Looks like a river."
"It is. The Colorado River."
"Then why do they call it Lake Austin?"
" 'Cause it's in Austin."
"Cecil, shut up and drive."
They drove over the bridge and through another limestone canyon, then the motorcycle abruptly exited the highway.
"He's getting off."
"I got him."
The motorcycle blew through the green light and turned left under the highway. The street sign read FM 2222. They caught the red light behind three other cars.
"Go around."
Harmon gave him hell, but Cecil Durant was a skilled driver. He had never let Harmon down, and he wouldn't today. Cecil maneuvered the Crown Vic around the other cars to the right, drove onto the grass shoulder, then ran the red light and cut through the intersection and left under the highway.
"Nice work, Cecil. He's heading west."
Cecil accelerated, but the motorcycle was nowhere in sight.
"Maybe he turned back."
"Where are they?"
They passed several boat shops and shopping centers then stopped at a light at River Place Drive. A huge black Hummer pulled alongside; a cute blonde was driving. She smiled down at Harmon.
"You know," Cecil said, "with gas prices and global warming, driving one of those is just irresponsible."
"Yep. But she's a real doll."
"The Hummer?"
"The driver."
When the light turned green and the Hummer accelerated off like it was the Indy 500, Harmon spotted the black motorcycle.
"There."
Prescott had pulled over in the parking lot at the 3M plant. He was leaning over and fiddling with the engine again, but when they turned in, he sped across the lot and back onto the road heading west again. The motorcycle flew through the intersection at FM 620, then the road reduced down to two tight lanes and became severely winding with steep descents. The girl hung on for dear life as they hit eighty and didn't slow for the curves.
"You know," Cecil said, "it's really not safe for her to be riding that motorcycle without a helmet. She's just a kid."
"Cecil, we're trying to kill her."
Cecil nodded. "Good point."
A few minutes later, they passed a sign for Hippie Hollow on the left.
"That's a famous beach," Cecil said. "Maybe we can stop in for a look on the way back."
"No."
"It's a nude beach."
"Well, maybe for a minute."
&nb
sp; They stayed with the motorcycle until the blue water of a large lake came into view.
"Lake Travis," Cecil said. "Named after William Barrett Travis. He died at the Alamo. Sixty-three miles long. Some places are two hundred feet deep. I read that, too."
"Well, Cecil, that's very interesting. But right now-"
"Shut up and drive?"
"Exactly."
The road turned into a gut-wrenching roller coaster. Another steep decline was followed by several hairpin turns on the narrow road. They had to slow down, but Prescott didn't. He seemed intent on doing their job for them. A sheer rock ledge rose on their right; a steep cliff dropped off on their left down to the lake. Harmon breathed a sigh of relief when they came to a T-junction at Farm-to-Market Road 2769.
Prescott turned left and accelerated past a marina. They followed but lost sight of the motorcycle as the road made a series of S turns; the speed limit was only twenty miles an hour. The lake was to their left, thickly treed terrain to their right. Cecil negotiated the turns like the professional he was. They accelerated past Geronimo Street, Pocahontas Trail, and Navajo Pass and climbed to a high point above the lake. They came into a small town called Volente and drove past the Volente Beach and Water Park. The road turned winding again, but the motorcycle was just ahead.
Prescott had engine trouble.
The road tracked the lakeshore, cutting in and out around little coves down below, and was protected only by intermittent low guardrails. They were now high above the lake, and they were alone. No other cars were in sight.
"Now, Cecil."
Cecil accelerated and got directly behind the motorcycle.
"He can't get enough power.
Harmon rolled his window down and stuck the Glock out. He fired several times, but apparently missed.
"Damn, I thought for sure I hit her. Get on him."
They made several hard curves, then caught up again on a short straightaway. Harmon fired three more rounds directly at the girl's black jacket. But she held on. Another curve put them right on a ridgeline with the lake directly below them. Prescott kept glancing back.
"I can take her from here."
Harmon leaned out the window, steadied his arm on the side mirror, and sighted the girl in. He emptied the clip. Prescott jerked as if he'd been hit.
"I got 'em."
The motorcycle weaved back and forth across the road. Prescott had lost control of the bike. He was slumped down, and the girl with him. But they weren't slowing down. They were going even faster. The motorcycle veered hard inland and then hard back toward the lake-and didn't veer back. The motorcycle, Prescott, and the girl drove straight off the road; the massive black motorcycle hung in the blue sky a long moment and then disappeared from sight.
