“We’re going to need a bigger boat.”
“You sure as hell are,” said Stark.
Joe kept his eyes on the tumbleweed. He decided the heat was playing tricks on him. Nothing moved without wind pushing it. There was no wind, so the tumbleweed couldn’t have inched closer. He razzed himself for being paranoid. Once a sniper, always a sniper. Dripping Springs was not Iraq. Smiling, he looked back at Stark and saw it: a thin column of dust rising into the air five hundred yards behind them. Someone was approaching on the inbound road.
“Everything okay?” asked Stark.
“Shut up.” Joe picked up his phone. “Boots, that you?”
“Boots” was Keefe’s nickname, earned God knows how or when.
No one responded.
“Boots, come back.”
Stark turned halfway around in his seat to peer out the back window.
“Get down,” said Joe, as he drew his weapon and thumbed the safety off.
“What’s going on?” asked Stark, eyes locked on the pistol. “I thought you said no one followed me.”
Joe started the car. “Buckle your seat belt. The ride may get a little bumpy.”
Stark muttered something, then elbowed the door open and threw himself out of the car.
“Get back here,” said Joe.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Get inside.”
Stark looked around the clearing. “Government never protected anyone. I can take care of myself.”
“Give me the drive.”
“Go screw yourself. I was an idiot to trust you.”
“Hal!”
“I’m out of here.” Stark took a step toward his car, then hopped back toward Joe. “Hey,” he said, “I got it. Where that line about the gum came-”
Stark’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain and he dropped to the ground.
Joe caught a muzzle flash from inside the tumbleweed. No rifle report. A sniper like him.
Desperately he slammed the Tahoe into drive. The windshield shattered. He threw himself flat onto the seat and a second bullet struck his headrest. He drove blindly for a few seconds, then raised his head. A bullet hit the steering wheel, cracking it. Another hit the engine block. Steam escaped from beneath the hood. The car ground to a halt.
Joe lay still. His phone had fallen into the footwell. He picked it up and dialed. “Answer,” he whispered feverishly. “Pick up. Please.”
He heard a car stop behind him. Doors opening. Male voices. The unmistakable metal crunch of a clip being loaded into an automatic weapon.
Joe held the phone to his ear. “Come on. Pick up.”
The phone answered. “Hi. This is Mary. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a great day.”
Joe closed his eyes. “Babe…where are you?”
2
“Not today,” Mary Grant whispered, grasping the steering wheel harder. “Do not make me late today.”
It was four o’clock, and traffic on Mopac was blocked solid as far as she could see. Rush hour started early in Austin.
“Everyone doing okay?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
Grace gazed out the window, sipping her Sonic limeade, her thoughts a million miles away. Jessie sat beside her, headphones on, eyes glued to Mary’s phone, fingers ferociously tapping away.
“Jess, hon, what are you doing with Mom’s phone?” asked Mary.
Jessie didn’t answer.
“She can hear you,” said Grace. “She just doesn’t feel like answering.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I don’t know. Probably Instagramming.”
Mary watched Jessie’s fingers go pat-pat-pat on the glass surface. More like writing an article for the encyclopedia, she thought. She could feel the throbbing bass of the music assaulting her teenage daughter’s eardrums, an angry voice shouting something she knew she’d rather not understand. “Jessie?”
The cars in front of them began to move, and Mary forgot about the phone. She drove fifty yards before traffic came to another halt. At this rate they’d be lucky to make it home by five.
Today was her and Joe’s seventeenth anniversary. Mary couldn’t quite believe it. All those clichés about the years going by too fast turned out to be true. She glanced in the mirror. Her eyes were a little more tired, her skin not as taut as it once was, but if she smiled and kept her features alive, she did a pretty good job of keeping the years at bay. She’d even managed to lose six pounds so she could fit into her favorite little black dress. One hundred twenty-five pounds wasn’t bad for a five-foot-four-inch, thirty-nine-year-old mother of two.
She began to think about the night ahead. A dirty martini at the hotel bar to get things started. Dinner at Sullivan’s. There was no stopping her once she set foot in a good steakhouse. She couldn’t just have the steak. She needed all the trimmings. Creamed spinach, garlic mashed potatoes, and a big ol’ wedge of chilled iceberg lettuce with plenty of blue cheese dressing. She wondered how she would fit into her dress after eating a bone-in cowboy rib eye.
After dinner they’d head back to their room at the Westin, overlooking Lady Bird Lake, a reservoir on the pretty green river that snaked through downtown. She and Joe needed the night. He’d been preoccupied with work lately and away even more than usual. There hadn’t been any arguments, at least not any big ones. Still, the tension that came from not being able to share each other’s lives adequately was building between them. Tonight was for remembering why they were meant to be together. Joe had promised to be on time and on his best behavior, which meant no phone, no work talk, just them. The little black dress would do the rest.
The car in front of her inched forward. Mary saw her prompt arrival going up in smoke.
It was her fault, trying to pack in so much when she knew she had a big evening planned. She had to make dinner for the girls, shower, dry her hair, do her makeup, then drive right back downtown by seven. Not gonna work.
Mary started revising her plans. Chicken strips instead of spaghetti. Fries instead of broccoli. Maybe her hair would be fine without a shower. She caught Gracie looking at her in the mirror. Was her anxiety that obvious?
“We’ll be home soon. You can lie down and take a nap.”
“I want to go to the park and play soccer.”
“It’s a little warm to play outdoors, don’t you think?”
Grace shook her head.
“You can take your medicine, then rest a little before going out. I’ll make you a milkshake.”
“I don’t want a milkshake. I want to play soccer. I don’t care about the bruises.”
“You’ll be able to play next year. You wait and see.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Mary’s white lie was rewarded with a broad smile. “Anyway,” she added, “you have another two weeks of vacation.”
“Two weeks,” said Jessie. “BFD.”
“No cursing, Jess,” said Mary.
“BFD isn’t cursing.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I told you she could hear,” said Grace.
“Shut up, brat,” said Jessie.
The fingers went pat-pat-pat on the glass.
“Jess, my phone.”
“Just a minute. I’m almost done.”
“Done with what?”
“Can you turn up the radio?” asked Grace.
Mary upped the volume a notch. A young woman sang mournfully about lost teen love. Grace sipped her drink and looked out the window
“I hate Taylor Swift,” said Jessie, leaning over the seat and switching the radio station.
“You’re not even listening,” protested Grace. “You have your Beats on.”
“I can still hear her. She sucks.”