Uh-oh.
He swerved south on Guadalupe. He picked up speed fast, no pedaling required; it was downhill to the lake. And that's where he was headed. The sedans couldn't follow him onto the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He ducked down to cut wind resistance. But there'd be no timing the lights. There'd only be luck.
He shot through red lights at Seventh and Sixth, barely avoiding collisions with motorists both times, and caught green lights at Fifth, Fourth, Third, and Second.
Dude, you're shredding Guadalupe Street!
His speed increased as he approached Cesar Chavez Street, the four-lane east-west boulevard that bordered the north side of Lady Bird Lake. Cars were backed up in both directions. The Guadalupe light was still green, but the pedestrian signal showed a solid red DON'T WALK; the light was about to change. The green light turned yellow, and southbound cars on Guadalupe stopped; Andy didn't. He rode between the cars.
This is gonna be tight.
Andy hit Cesar Chavez a split second after the east-west light turned green. Traffic surged forward in both directions; the gap between the eastbound and westbound cars closed fast. Andy flew through the intersection just before the gap had closed completely. Horns honked, drivers cursed, cars missed.
Now that was an adrenaline rush!
He had made it across. Barely. But the sedans had not. The traffic had caught them. Andy hit the steep path leading down to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. Once on the trail, he turned west and rode under a bridge where two homeless guys were sitting on an abandoned car seat and fishing. The lake was calm and the breeze was cool. Canoes and kayaks and a guy on a surfboard fitted with a sail glided across the glassy green surface. The tourist paddleboat chugged upstream. Walkers, runners, and their dogs pounded the trail. Cyclists tried to avoid colliding with walkers, runners, and dogs.
Andy caught his breath.
Russell's mind had snapped, just like Floyd T. had said. But why did he think the girl was his? He had seemed genuinely surprised when Andy told him the DNA was from Frankie. None of this made any sense, and Andy didn't know what to think. But he did know one thing.
Frankie Doyle had more to tell.
He removed his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Thick trees shaded the trail; the sunglasses made it too dark to see well. He passed the Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge; he'd exit the trail at Lamar Boulevard and cut over on Fifth to the loft.
He heard a distant scream.
He stopped pedaling and listened. He heard more shouts and a faint whining sound. He stood tall on the pedals and peered down the trail. He saw them. The black riders. The dirt bikes were heading directly toward him from the west.
Jesus, why don't you guys give it up?
Andy flipped the bike around and hammered the trail back east, weaving around walkers and joggers "On your left! On your left!"
— but the sound was gaining on him. He couldn't outrun them on the flat trail. So when he arrived back at the Pfluger Bridge, he stood on the pedals up the wide concrete spiral ramp that looped up to the footbridge over the lake. Once at the top, he stopped and looked down to make sure the dirt bikers were following him up. They were. When they flew off the up ramp, he turned the bike back down.
He knew where he'd lose them.
Once back down on the trail, he turned east and hit a narrow straightaway section; the lake was close on his right and an inlet of water close on his left. That stretch was sunny, but just ahead the trail plunged into shadows under a stand of trees.
They would catch him on the straightaway. But he wanted them to be running top speed when they did, so he hammered the trail like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. He dodged pedestrians and slow-moving cyclists. He heard the noise behind him. He glanced back and saw the riders gaining ground fast.
They were soon on either side of him. He couldn't see their faces through the glare of the sun off their dark visors, but the visors would make it hard for them to see when the trail went into the shadows again.
At least Andy hoped so.
The rider on his right pulled a wheelie- now that's just showing off — then tried to kick him over, so he sped up. They gunned their bikes to catch up. He looked at them; they looked at him. They should've been looking at the trail.
Andy abruptly hit the brakes and skidded sideways to a stop right where the trail ducked back into the shadows-right before the trail made a sharp ninety-degree turn north along the water's edge. They didn't. They rode straight off the trail, hit a low rock wall, and vaulted over their bikes and somersaulted into the lake like synchronized divers. They hadn't seen the turn in the shadows through their dark visors.
Andy didn't hang around. He crossed over a little bridge then rode up the bank to Cesar Chavez and rode north on San Antonio past Silicon Labs. He didn't see the black sedans so he cut over on Third and rode behind the Music Hall and turned north on Rio Grande. He rode directly to the loft, unlocked the front door, and rolled the Stumpjumper inside. He set the bike against the entry wall, went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold Corona, and popped the top. He sat in the leather chair in front of the television.
He downed the beer in one long continuous drink.
He was safe in the loft. They couldn't find him there. Tres' friend had not required a tenant app, and nothing was in Andy's name-not the title, utilities, mail, newspaper, land line, or Internet account. Andy Prescott had left no paper trail leading to this loft.
The attorney was safe from his client.
Andy's brief tenure as Russell Reeves' lawyer was over, as well as everything that had come with it: the girls, the clothes, the lounges, the loft, the money. Except the complications; Andy's life remained complicated.
One complication was the money in his trust account. Russell had wired $50,000 for Hollis McCloskey and $1 million for Sally Armstrong in San Diego. Andy had paid $25,000 to Hollis and $9,999 three times to Lorenzo. That left $995,003.
And got a legal pad and a pen and calculated his billable hours since his last bill to Russelclass="underline" the Boston, Montana, and San Diego trips, tracking Frankie down, collecting her DNA, even the chase from UT. He came up with one hundred twenty hours. Times $500 an hour, he was due $60,000 in fees. Plus $12,000 in expenses, including the $1,000 he paid to Mickey and the $1,000 to Ramon. Less the $25,000 Russell had already paid him (the $10,000 for the DNA was a bonus), and Andy was owed $47,000.
He would transfer that sum to his checking account. That would leave $948,003 in his trust account. He was legally obligated to return that money to his former client, Russell Reeves. It wasn't Andy's money. He pulled out his cell phone and called home. When his father answered, Andy asked for Frankie.
"Andy, are you okay?"
Her voice sounded good.
"Reeves' people just chased me all over town."
"Why?"
"I wouldn't tell him where you are."
"I told you he'd come for me."
"Frankie, you got a bank account?"
"In Buda."
"How'd you get a bank account without using your social security number?"
"I used my mom's. I'm her legal guardian."
"Are you her sole beneficiary?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Give me your account number."
"Why?"
"Trust me."
"But you're a lawyer."
Notwithstanding that fact, she gave him her bank account number. He hung up. It was all his fault. If he had just taken no for an answer when McCloskey couldn't find Frankie Doyle, none of this would be happening. But he had wanted the money. He had wanted Suzie and Bobbi and everything else that came with the money. So he had gone to Lorenzo. He had found Frankie Doyle. He had brought Russell Reeves to her. Andy's mother was right: Money makes good men do bad things. Now he would have to make things right.