Ramon Cabrera drove a metallic yellow 1978 Corvette convertible with mag wheels and wide white walls. It was in pristine condition with red leather seats, a stereo system with a subwoofer that shook the car with each beat, and a plastic Jesus magnetically attached to the dash. It was his prized possession-the Corvette, not the plastic Jesus-since his wife had left him. He would not allow Andy behind the wheel. But he wasn't inking anyone's body that afternoon, so he was now driving Andy down Interstate 35 to Buda, Texas. The top was down, the wind was whipping Andy's hair, and the volume on the Latino radio station was blaring. Sitting next to Ramon Cabrera in the low-slung hot rod, Andy felt like he was co-starring in a Cheech and Chong movie.
Buda, Texas, had long been a small farming town situated between Austin and San Antonio, nothing but cotton and cows and a cement plant. But over the last decade, developers had bought the farmland and subdivided the pastures and built homes for Austinites who could no longer afford the city. Buda-from the Spanish viuda — was now a bedroom community, home to five thousand residents who slept in Buda but worked in Austin. But tens of thousands of people regularly made the journey down I-35 to Buda these days, and not just for the 'World Famous Wiener Dog Races.' They came to shop at Cabela's, a 185,000-square-foot hunters' paradise, a place selling enough guns and ammo to satisfy any Rambo-wannabe. The chamber of commerce's slogan was 'Have a Budaful time in Buda.'
Or at least buy a gun.
Andy had printed out a map on Ramon's computer. The address on the driver's license was on Old Black Colony Road outside town where there was still some country left. A Toyota Corolla sat in the driveway. But they couldn't just park a yellow Corvette at the end of the driveway and takes photos. They would be easily spotted. So they parked down the road where they could see if she left.
Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, Frankie Doyle left.
Andy wrote down the Toyota's license plate number; no doubt the car was registered under her latest alias. They followed her to the Buda Elementary School where a cute girl with flaming red hair ran to the car and got in. She didn't appear sick. Andy took photos of the girl, but he couldn't get a clear shot of Frankie.
They followed Frankie and her daughter around town and then back to their house and again parked down the road. Ramon decided to take a nap. Andy leaned over to check the digital images on the camera in the dark under the dash and 'Are you following me?'
Andy jumped and banged his head on the underside of the dash. He turned. Frankie Doyle was standing there. In real life.
'Jesus, you scared me.'
Ramon opened his eyes and lowered his sunglasses. He gave Frankie a long admiring look. Her hands were now clamped on the window sill, and her face was no more than a foot from Andy's. She didn't have red hair. She had jet black hair, a smooth creamy complexion, and green glaring eyes whose dark pupils made him feel as if he were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
In his oily Latin accent, Ramon said, 'I am Ramon Cabrera. Your skin is magnificent. Have you considered body art?'
Her eyes moved to Ramon; she looked him over then said, 'No.' Back to Andy: 'Did you really think I wouldn't notice a yellow Corvette?'
No sense in lying.
'I had a heck of a time finding you.'
'I'm calling the cops.'
Andy held his cell phone out to her.
'You don't think I'll call?'
'Nope.'
'Why not?'
'Because I don't think you want the cops or anyone else to know who you really are… Frankie Doyle.'
She stared at him, but showed no emotion. Then she abruptly turned and walked fast toward the house.
'Nice looking lady,' Ramon said. 'I wonder what bar she goes to?'
Andy jumped out and ran to catch her. She was wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans; from behind, she had a nice behind. Not like Suzie's, of course, but nice.
'Frankie, I know why you're running.'
She kept walking. Over her shoulder: 'How'd you find me?'
'Your mother.'
She stopped and spun around. 'You saw my mother?'
'At her house.'
Hands on her hips. 'Who are you?'
'Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer in Austin.'
She looked him up and down-the sneakers, the jeans, and the Kinky T-shirt.
'You're a lawyer? Wearing that and'-she pointed at the yellow Corvette-'riding in that?'
'Oh, that's Ramon's car. He's my landlord… and a tattoo artist.'
'Your landlord drives you around?'
'I don't own a car. I ride a bike.'
'You're a lawyer, you ride a bike, and you've got a tattoo artist for a chauffeur? Is this some kind of joke?'
'Uh… no.'
'You went to see my mother in Boston, trying to find me?'
'I went to Boston to see Mickey, trying to find you.'
'You met Mickey?'
'At his shop.'
'How is he?'
'Probably the same as when you were married to him.'
'God, I need a cigarette. See, you mention Mickey, and now I want to smoke again. How's my mother?'
'In and out.'
She nodded. 'It was hard to leave her.'
'She showed me the photo, in Montana.'
'How'd you find us here?'
'Benny said you wanted to get as far away as possible-'
'You saw Benny, too?'
'At the bar.'
'How is he?'
'He misses you.'
'I miss him.'
'Anyway, I knew the Montana photo was after you'd left, so I flew out there, figured you'd settle in the smallest county near Billings, until you could change your name. Then you went to New Mexico and West Texas. Changed your name each time.'
'How'd you know where to look?'
'Your sketches, at your mother's. I recognized the landscapes.'
'Montana and New Mexico, we liked it there. West Texas, that was hard. The wind was relentless, like Mickey's mother.'
'You're very good-at sketching and hiding.'
'Not good enough, apparently. So that's how you found me. Now why did you find me?'
'My client wants to help you.'
'How?'
'He wants to give you money.'
'How much?'
'A million dollars.'
'He wants to give a million dollars to a complete stranger?'
'He knows you.'
'What's his name?'
