The Common Lawyer (44 page)

"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."

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.

"Shit!" Cecil said. "They went airborne!"

"Pull over!"

Cecil skidded to a stop. Harmon jumped out and ran to the other side of the road. Cecil followed. They stood on a steep cliff above the lake. The motorcycle lay crashed on the rocks a hundred feet below. Harmon didn't see Prescott or the girl.

Cecil pointed. "There!"

Prescott and the girl were floating face down in the water.

"She's dead," Cecil said.

"I'll make sure."

Harmon ejected the spent clip then loaded another into the Glock. He fired thirteen rounds at the girl. The bullets splashed into the water around her body, but several made direct impact into her black jacket.

"Now Baby X is dead."

"What about Prescott?"

"Looks dead to me," Harmon said. "But I wasn't paid to kill Prescott. Only the girl." Harmon spotted a car coming. "Let's get out of here. We hurry, we can make the noon flight back to Jersey. I'm sick of Texas."

"Are we going back to kill the Mexican that took your gun?"

"Cecil, we're professionals, just like lawyers and accountants. We don't kill out of revenge or passion or personal enjoyment. We kill because we're paid to kill. We're not being paid to kill that Mexican either, so we're not going to kill him. And as a professional, I have to consider the potential downside. What if the Mexican gets off a lucky shot, hits one of us? Then we're at a hospital answering questions from the police. That could end our careers. So killing the Mexican wouldn't be a smart move. Or professional."

Cecil nodded. "You're right. You're always right, Harmon. Still, I'd really like to shoot that Mexican son of a bitch, you know, on a purely personal, non-professional level."

"Yeah, me, too."

"Can we at least eat first? I'm starving."

"Sure. But not Mexican again."

"Barbecue?"

"Barbecue's good."

Harmon Payne and Cecil Durant got into the Crown Vic, turned around, and headed back to Austin. But they stopped at Hippie Hollow for a quick look. As Harmon Payne always said, "You only live once."

Tres jumped from rock to rock and splashed through the shallow water. He found Andy lying face down on the bank. He dropped to his knees next to his buddy.

"Andy!"

He rolled Andy over. His eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from his nose.

"Jesus!"

Tres slapped Andy's face.

"Andy! Andy!"

Nothing.

"Shit."

Frankie arrived in a rush and knelt next to them. She leaned over Andy and put her ear to his chest. She bent over him, pinched his nose, and blew into his mouth. She straightened up, put her hands together, and pushed on his chest.

"One, two, three … one, two, three … one, two, three … Come on, Andy!"

She bent over and put her mouth over his and blew … and blew again … and again.

"Come on!"

Tres sat back and looked at his buddy lying there lifeless. He felt tears come into his eyes.

"Andy … why'd you cut your hair?"

Frankie knelt up and pushed on his chest again.

"One, two, three … one, two, three … one, two, three … Come on, Andy!"

She bent over again and blew into his mouth—once, twice, three times.

"Please, Andy. Please."

Andy coughed. Then he spit up water. Another cough and more water came out. He opened his eyes.

"Do that again."

"What?" Frankie said.

"The mouth thing."

Frankie cupped Andy's face and kissed him.

Andy pushed himself up on his elbows, which hurt. He was experiencing a full-body hurt. Water was harder than it looked.

"Is she dead?"

Frankie nodded. "Yes."

She pointed at the body floating in the water. Tres waded out and grabbed the girl's red hair; he pulled her onto the bank. Her hair came off in his hands, revealing a head as bald as a billiard ball. The mannequin's head.

"At least they think she's dead."

"Are you okay, Andy?"

Andy turned to Jessie standing there.

"I'm good."

"Your plan worked, Andy," Frankie said.

After losing the black sedan at the FM 2222 red light, Andy and Jessie had raced ahead and pulled into the 3M parking lot, where Tres and Frankie were waiting. Jessie had jumped off the Slammer, and Tres had secured the mannequin behind Andy with a belt under the black jacket. The day before, Andy had gone into SoCo and bought matching black jackets and pants and the mannequin with the red wig from the front display window at Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds. Frankie had dressed Jessie and the mannequin in the identical clothes and secured the red wig to the mannequin's head. From behind, you wouldn't know the mannequin wasn't Jessie. Tres helped Andy to his feet.

"Dude, you flew right off the freaking cliff!"

Andy had picked that exact spot—a sheer fall to a deepwater cove below—to ride off the cliff.

"Did get the adrenaline pumping, I'll give it that. How's the Slammer?"

"It's toast."

"Figured."

They stared at each other a long moment, then Tres shook his head. He held an open hand up; they clasped hands and bumped shoulders, as close as two heterosexual males could comfortably come to a full-body hug.

"I'm glad you're not dead."

"Me, too."

Jessie hugged him. "Thanks, Andy."

Frankie stepped to Andy and embraced him tightly. When she released him, he said, "Stay here. In Austin. With me."

She cupped his face with both hands, then kissed him—on the cheek. A "dear friend" kiss. Not an "I love you" kiss.

"Andy, what you did, that was manly. I was wrong, you're not like Mickey. You're a grownup."

"But?"

"But we can't be Karen and Jessie James anymore. We have to leave."

EPILOGUE

At exactly seven-thirty on the first day of June, loud rock music woke Andy Prescott. He reached over and turned off the radio.

Another Monday morning.

He was back in the little house on Newton Street in SoCo. He was back riding a bike to the office and traffic court. He was back to his old life.

He felt like Cinderella after the ball.

But he wasn't hung over. He had not gotten drunk the night before at Güero's. In fact, he hadn't been drunk since the day Frankie and Jessie had left. He had gotten stupid drunk that night, but not since. He had lost interest.