Andy cut through a gas station to the access road then accelerated down onto the entrance ramp to 290. He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy before he entered the highway. He had it running eighty through the split at the Capital of Texas Highway and past MoPac Expressway located just south of the Barton Creek Greenbelt. He checked the side mirrors; the black sedans were nowhere in sight.
Which was a good thing because he was approaching Oak Hill, where the freeway portion of Highway 290 ended and stop lights interrupted the traffic flow. The road through Oak Hill was four tight lanes that squeezed past a fifty-foot-high limestone wall, one of the first terraces of the escarpment. There was no way around the traffic. The sedans would catch up in Oak Hill. Two red lights in they did; Andy was sitting between two massive pickups; he figured they couldn't see him from a dozen cars back.
He was heading due west at the Y where Highway 71 turned northwest and Highway 290 turned southwest. He could take 71 then turn back against traffic onto the 290 ramp; he might lose one of the sedans. The light turned green, and the traffic surged forward. Andy was in the left lane that stayed 290. Just before the road split, he gunned the Slammer and swerved into the right lane and took Highway 71. He accelerated as if making his move.
In the side mirror, he saw one black sedan follow. The sedan accelerated hard, so Andy slowed a bit. Just before the sedan was on him, he cut in front of the oncoming traffic and turned south onto the ramp leading back to 290. The sedan got caught by the traffic; horns honked. Those dudes were history.
But where was the other sedan?
Andy veered back onto 290 and headed west. He came around the first bend and spotted the other black sedan waiting at Convict Hill Road. He had open road until Dripping Springs fourteen miles away. The speed limit was sixty, but this was Texas; no one drove sixty. Andy blew past the sedan, weaved in and out of traffic, and took the bike through the gears. But he knew they were behind him.
He also knew Highway 290.
The highway inclined as the road began the long, winding climb up the escarpment. He would lose them on the climb.
He poured on the power and had the Slammer doing seventy-five past Rim Rock Trail and the Polo Club. He leaned into each curve and felt the wind on his face and the engine beneath him. Ten minutes later, he crested a steep climb and checked the mirror; he could see back for miles and the road was empty.
That was easy.
He relaxed now and considered Frankie and Jessie. Could he make things right for them? Would they have to go back into hiding? Move to another state and change their names again? Was that their future? And would Frankie let him share that future with them? These questions were running through Andy's thoughts when he glanced in the side mirror and damn near fell off the Slammer: the black Mercedes-Benz sedan was coming up behind him-fast.
Goddamn German-made cars.
That German engine could power the sedan up the escarpment as well as the S amp;S Sidewinder engine could the Slammer. He wouldn't lose them with speed and power alone. So he had to test their stability on sharp curves. And if you wanted curves, there was only one road to ride.
He entered Dripping Springs and slowed to the prescribed forty-five. He turned south on Ranch Road 12 and accelerated to sixty. Passing was prohibited on the narrow two-lane road, so the sedan stayed two cars back. Fifteen minutes later, he glided down into the Wimberley valley and over Cypress Creek. He cruised through the town square and then accelerated across the Blanco River and up the hill on the south side of the valley. Four miles south of town he made a hard turn west onto Ranch Road 32.
The Devil's Backbone.
The backbone was a ridgeline that ran high and hard with nasty curves and sudden drops. If you're going to drive the backbone fast, you'd better know the road. Andy knew the road.
The first four miles were pure straightaway. The backbone set novices up for the kill with the easy drive and the beautiful vistas of distant hills and valleys. Andy had the Slammer running seventy.
The sedan stayed with him.
They passed Purgatory Road, and Andy accelerated to eighty. The sedan stayed on his tail. He ducked down low and pushed the Slammer to ninety. They flew past the Devil's Backbone Tavern, and they were suddenly in the curves-sharp swings right and left and right then climbing hard and curving left and right and left and then descending fast and curving right and left and right. Andy leaned into each curve, and the wide tires hugged the black asphalt like they were running down rails. He checked the rearview for the sedan; with each curve it veered farther out of his vision in the mirror-wider into the oncoming lane. The driver was overcompensating.
And suddenly the sedan was gone from his mirror.
Andy slowed and glanced back. They had gone off the road.
He turned north and circled back to town. As he entered the town square from the west, emergency vehicles headed south. He cut through town and turned into the Prescott homestead. He parked the Slammer out front of the house, cut the engine, and removed the helmet. His hair was soaked with sweat. He blew out a breath.
Hell of a morning.
"Sounded like a damn tornado."
Andy's father unloaded the shotgun, stuck the shells in his pocket, and leaned the gun against the porch rail. He stepped down off the porch.
"Damn thing's bigger than you are."
"Russell's guys found me in Austin, chased me out 290. So I took them out on the Devil's Backbone. Good thing those big Mercedes have airbags all around."
"Can't you find this guy?" Harmon said.
"We're working our contact," the boss said.
"Well, work him harder!"
"You got a number?"
Harmon read the phone number and said, "Now find Andy Prescott!"
TWENTY-THREE
Andy stashed the Slammer in the barn then went into the house. His mother wouldn't be home for a few hours yet. They had lunch, then his father took Jessie down to the creek for a fishing lesson. Andy and Frankie followed, but Andy needed to talk to her alone; she needed a cigarette.
"You dyed your hair black."
She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded.
"Your hair is really red."
Another nod.
"Red hair is recessive."
"Which means?"
"It means Jessie isn't Russell Reeves' daughter. He lied to me."
"I'm glad you finally believe me."
"I don't. You're lying to me, too."
"We'll leave."
"No, Frankie, you don't need to leave. I'm just trying to figure out why you can't tell me the truth."
She didn't tell him now. They walked down to the creek and found his father and Jessie fishing from the rock outcropping. Jessie squealed at the sight of a small fish hooked on her cane pole.
"I always wanted Jessie to grow up in a place like this, maybe have some horses."
"You can stay here as long as you want."
"Or until Reeves finds me. And he will."
Max was barking.
"I see them, boy," Paul Prescott said.
They had followed Jean Prescott home. A black Mercedes-Benz sedan now sat just outside the front gate. A dozen ostriches had gathered at the gate like palace guards; at four hundred pounds each, they presented quite an obstacle. Andy's father was sitting in a rocker on the front porch with the shotgun in his lap, an even bigger obstacle for a trespasser.
"Paul, are they coming for us?" Jessie asked.
"Honey, they'll have to get through the birds first, then this double-aught buckshot."
"Is that a no?"
His father smiled. "That's a no. They're not coming through that gate."
Not yet, anyway. But they might. So Andy called Russell Reeves.