He was right.
'Tony Falco.'
'And?'
'He's a doctor, here in New York.'
'Thanks, Alvin.'
The man released his grip on Alvin's shoulder. Alvin breathed a sigh of relief just before the man shoved him into an alley a block down from the bar. Alvin looked back just in time to see the man raise a gun with a long, thick barrel to his head. And Alvin Adams knew he would never suffer another headache.
The voice on the phone said, 'Jesus, Harmon, why'd you kill Adams?'
'To silence him.'
'Who was he going to talk to? They just bribed him, for Christ's sake. And he gave you the name.' A deep sigh. 'From now on, Harmon, let the lawyer do the work for you. No more unauthorized killing, you understand? Remember-there's only one person we want dead.'
SEVEN
Andy Prescott turned to his back-seat passenger.
'Max, how about a swim in the creek after lunch?'
Max barked a Yes! Yes, I'd like that very much!
It was the following Saturday morning, and Andy was pedaling the Stumpjumper south on Ranch Road 12. He was packing the log owl in his backpack; it rose above his head like a lookout. Max rode behind him in a seat Andy had rigged up over the rear wheel. They both wore helmets.
Andy enjoyed biking the country roads outside Austin. The air was cleaner, the views of the Hill Country went on forever, and the odds of getting nailed by a speeding motorist were considerably lesser… except for Max barked.
He had heard it before Andy, and now Andy heard the roar of the massive engine. He looked back. The pickup truck rounded the last curve and barreled toward them at a high rate of speed. It was not your standard-size pickup. It was a black 4x4 with wide off-road tires and a grill guard and its suspension jacked up high. It looked like an Abrams battle tank hurtling down the narrow farm-to-market.
Andy steered onto the shoulder and braced himself for the blast of air current that buffeted them when the pickup blew past. The guy hammered his horn like a kid with a new toy. Andy dabbed so as not to fall over. He considered giving the guy the finger, but a new law allowed Texans to carry a weapon in their vehicles, purportedly to protect themselves against carjackers. No doubt this bubba was armed and stupid.
So Andy just pedaled on down the road.
The quaint Village of Wimberley, Texas, population 3,946, sits at the intersection of Ranch Road 12 and Cypress Creek forty miles southwest of Austin, far enough off the beaten path to discourage commuters but close enough to attract Austin's creative types. Wimberley has long been an idyllic colony inhabited by artists, sculptors, singers, writers, craftsmen, glass blowers, and dope smokers.
Jean Prescott had inherited fifty acres just outside town back before Wimberley had been discovered by city folk sick of the city; but city folk had since moved to the country and driven up land prices. His mother's land would bring a million dollars or more, if she wanted to sell out to a developer. She didn't. Real-estate developers ranked just below football coaches on her list. But the property taxes had risen along with the land values. His grandparents had kept cattle for the agricultural exemption, which reduced the taxes to a few hundred dollars. But his mother had sworn off red meat, so she and his father raised a few dozen ostriches instead.
Andy opened the barbed-wire gate. A few of the big birds-ostriches stood eight feet tall and weighed almost four hundred pounds-had wandered over to greet him; he shooed them away, then rode in and closed the gate behind him. He pedaled up the gravel road to the house.
Tall oak trees shaded the old two-story farmhouse with the wraparound porch where Andy had played as a child. A rainwater collection system gathered nature's water for irrigation and solar panels gathered the sun's energy for electricity; his father enjoyed the summer months when he sold surplus electricity back to the grid. Drought-hardy native Texas plants grew in the garden that followed the porch around the house-the log owl would fit right in-and vegetables in the organic garden out back. A compost stood by the fence line. His folks had been green before green was fashionable.
There was no place like home.
Max was barking. Andy parked and lifted the dog down. Max ran off to chase after the ostriches; and the ostriches would chase him. The two-toed birds could hit speeds of forty miles per hour. So they enjoyed free rein on the land, from barbed-wire to barbed-wire; the fence kept them from wandering onto the farm-to-markets and ending up road kill. Even a four-hundred-pound bird had no chance against a three-ton pickup.
Andy unbuckled the backpack and removed the owl. He stepped up onto the porch and entered the house through the screen door. His folks avoided the air conditioner even in the summer; but the house had been built to catch the breeze up from the creek. From the front door, he knew his mother had been baking a cake in the back kitchen.
'Mom!'
No answer. He knew where he'd find her. He walked through the kitchen where a still-warm strawberry cake-his mother knew Max couldn't eat chocolate-sat cooling on the counter. He continued through the screened-in back porch and out the door. Wind chimes hung from the eaves and limbs of the oak trees and played a symphony in the soft breeze. Colorful yard art-metal birds and coyotes and wind catchers-stood in the open space like a sculpture garden. Thirty steps farther and he was at the barn. From all outward appearances, it was a working barn; but once through the open double doors, the classical music playing on the stereo system told otherwise.
This was his mother's private place, where she could lose herself in her art. It was the same for her in there as it was for him out on the trails: she was free of all worldly constraints. She was in the zone. Jean Prescott was a sculptor. And the barn was her studio.
Andy found her in the back corner where the natural light from the windows filled the space. The back doors were propped open, and the cool breeze from the creek blew in like a whisper. She stood there in her natural element, all five feet five inches of her lithe body clad in jeans and a T-shirt, her stance almost athletic before the sculpture, like a lioness on the African savannah stalking her prey. Some human beings belonged in a corner office thirty stories up; others in a coal mine three miles down. Jean Prescott belonged in an art studio. She was putting the final touches on the clay figure of an angel.
'Nice.'
She turned to him and smiled.
'Andy.'
But her smile turned into a frown.
'You cut your hair.'
He had. Her eyes now seemed so sad Andy almost apologized, but then she saw the owl under his arm and her eyes brightened.
'Andy, I told you, no presents.'
He held the owl up for her.
'I know. But this is pretty cool, don't you think? For your garden. Happy birthday, Mom.'
She took the owl and admired it.
'It's beautiful. But you can't afford this.'
'I can now.'
'How?'
'I'll explain later. Where's Dad?'
'In his office.' She set the owl on a nearby table and wiped her hands. 'Go tell him it's time for lunch. Tofu burgers. I've got him on a feeding schedule like the birds.'
Andy stifled a groan. Not tofu burgers again.
