Flying first class to Chicago two days later, Andy Prescott hoped the search for the second woman on Russell Reeves' list would involve only eating a thick steak at Morton's that Friday night, finding a rich woman with healthy kids on Saturday, and then catching a Chicago Bears game on Sunday.
He rented a Lexus, stayed at the Ritz, ate that steak, and found Amanda Pearce the next morning. She was thirty-seven and appeared healthy when she walked out of her house to get the morning paper. He took photos. She lived in a nice suburban neighborhood; a late-model Buick sat in the driveway. They weren't rich, but they weren't poor. A few minutes later, a middle-aged man came out the front door followed by a cute teenage girl in a cheerleader uniform; they both appeared healthy. Andy took more photos. The dossier said Amanda also had a fourteen-year-old boy.
Andy was feeling good about the Pearce family… until the garage door opened. A van backed out and stopped in the driveway. It wasn't a family minivan or a cargo van or a tricked-out travel van. It was a specially-equipped van. Amanda got out and walked back inside the garage. When she returned, she was pushing a boy in a wheelchair.
Damn.
The van had a wheelchair lift. Amanda got the boy and the chair into the van, then backed out and drove off. Andy followed them a few blocks to a junior high school football stadium. Amanda parked the van in a handicapped space. Andy trailed them into the stadium. Amanda stationed the boy and wheelchair at the low chain link fence that surrounded the field. Andy leaned on the fence a few feet away and watched the game. After a few minutes, he smiled at Amanda and the boy.
"Good game," he said.
"Our daughter's a cheerleader." She pointed to the far sideline. "The one on the right. Becky. And this is our son, Carl."
"Hi, Carl."
The boy suffered tremors. He tried to say "hello," but he couldn't get the whole word out. Amanda leaned toward Andy.
"CP. Cerebral palsy. He can't walk on his own anymore. Bilateral spastic paraparesis." She was quiet for a moment then said, "I look at all those strong healthy boys running out there on the field, and I can't help but wonder, Why Carl?"
Andy returned to Austin the next morning and met with Russell Reeves that afternoon. Russell read the dossier and studied the photos of Amanda Pearce and her son. Andy sat quietly until his client spoke.
"Why's he in a wheelchair?"
"Cerebral palsy. Bilateral spastic parapa… parapara…"
"Paraparesis. Partial paralysis."
Russell Reeves rested his elbows on the card table and sat with his head in his hands for the longest time. Andy said nothing, but his client hadn't seemed surprised to learn that Amanda Pearce also had a sick child.
"They're a normal middle-class family," Andy said. "They've got health insurance, but his care is still a big financial burden. When I asked Amanda about that, she just smiled and said, 'He's worth it.' "
"A mother's love."
The next morning, Andy flew back to Chicago and drove to Amanda Pearce's house. He knocked on the front door and handed her a cashier's check for $1 million and sent Carl to Children's Memorial Hospital for treatment, all expenses paid. She cried.
The day after that, Andy flew first class to New Orleans. He prayed he wouldn't find another sick child. He didn't.
He found something worse.
He rented a Corvette, stayed in the French Quarter, and ate at K-Paul's. He found Tameka Evans that same day. She was thirty-five, poor, and a single African-American mother raising three boys and a girl-or so the dossier said. She was an attractive woman who might have been beautiful fifteen years before. Andy took photos from the car then sat on the front porch of the small shotgun house that had survived Katrina but sustained damage that had gone unrepaired. He talked with Tameka Evans about her life and her children's lives. Then he sat in the Corvette for a long time before driving off.
He flew back to Austin and met with Russell the next day. His client read the dossier and studied the photos and asked the same questions about Tameka and her children.
"How old are her sons?"
"Seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen."
"Anything wrong with them?"
As if he expected something to be wrong.
"No. They're healthy."
"Her daughter?"
"She would've been ten."
Russell looked up.
" Would have been?"
"She's dead."
"Dead? The dossier says she's alive."
"Hollis must've missed her death certificate. Maybe because of Katrina, all the lost records. She had sickle cell anemia. They tried experimental treatments a few years back, but she died a year ago. Stroke."
Russell shook his head.
"Three women," Andy said. "And three sick kids. That's odd, don't you think?"
"That's bad luck."
"Russell, is there something you're not telling me?"
"About what?"
"About these women."
"Such as?"
"Such as, Tameka Evans is a poor black woman who didn't get past the ninth grade. You're a billionaire genius. I can't picture you two dating."
They stared each other down a moment, then Russell's face sagged. He exhaled.
"We didn't date, Andy. I bought her for a night in New Orleans, okay? When I was young. I'm not proud of it."
Andy hadn't figured on that.
"Look, Andy, all I know about these women is that years ago I had a brief connection with each of them. And today they need my help. So I'm going to help them. Now, do you want to help me help them or not?"
Andy thought of Tameka Evans on her front porch, crying over her dead daughter.
"Yeah, I want to help you."
The next day Andy flew back to New Orleans and gave Tameka Evans a cashier's check for $1 million.
Every other day, Andy arrived at his office to find another dossier from Hollis McCloskey waiting for him. He flew to Seattle and found Beverly Greer; her last-known address had been in Denver, but she had since moved to Seattle. Andy took photos and returned to Austin and met with Russell.
"How old?"
"Thirty-five."
"Her boy?"
"Nine."
"What's wrong with him?"
An expectation now.
"Optic nerve hypoplasia. He's blind."
Andy flew to Dallas and found Pam Ward, who had moved there from L.A. He took photos and met with Russell.
"She's thirty-two."
"The girl?"
"Eleven."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Batten disease."
Andy flew to Miami and found Sylvia Gutierrez. Then he met with Russell.
"She's thirty-eight and her son is fifteen."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Seizures, from a head injury playing football."
Andy flew first class, he rented luxury vehicles, he stayed in five-star hotels and ordered room service; he found more women with sick children; he delivered a cashier's check to each woman for $1 million. They cried; he cried. Andy Prescott was being paid well to do good. He felt like Robin Hood, except he wasn't having to steal from the rich. The rich guy was just giving it away.
But the expense-account lifestyle had grown less exciting with each passing day; Andy had come to dread meeting another desperate woman with another sick child. Six old girlfriends… six sick children. What were the odds? When his rich client had called that morning about the delay in finding the seventh woman, Andy had decided it was time to find out what the hell was going on. Russell Reeves had sent the limo.
Darrell did not say a word on the ride over. He did not jump out of the driver's seat and run around to open the back door for Andy. He just stopped under the porte-cochere at Russell Reeves' lakefront mansion and waited for Andy to get out. Then he drove off.
Jerk.
Andy walked to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged Latino woman opened the door. It was just after noon.
"Mr. Prescott?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please come in."
Andy stepped into a magnificent marble foyer.
"Mr. Reeves, he is on a conference call. He said he will be with you shortly. Would you like a refreshment?"
"I'm good."
"You here to see my dad?"
A skinny, bald-headed boy wearing a blue New York Yankees cap on backwards and a green Boston Celtics sweat suit had walked into the foyer. Another sick child.
"Uh, yeah. I'm Andy Prescott."
"Zach."
The boy stuck out a closed hand. They fist-punched.
"You play Guitar Hero?" Zach asked.
"Zach, I am the Guitar Hero."
"Please. Don't embarrass yourself."
Andy grinned.
"Bring it on, dude."
"Dude, you're killing me."
The kid was good. Real good. Too good for Andy.
"I give," Andy said.
They leaned back in the gaming chairs. Zach's bedroom suite was bigger than the little cottage on Newton and housed every electronic gadget and game money could buy. The boy must have noticed Andy's envious eyes.
"I've spent most of my life in here. Thanks for playing, Andy. My dad's not very good."
"Don't you play with your friends from school?"
"I've never been to school. My dad hires tutors. TAs at UT. Grad students teach me English, Science, Spanish-?Le gustaria una revancha? "
"You like that?"
"Spanish?"
"Tutors."
"They're okay. But I'd rather go to school like normal kids."
"So what do you want to be when you grow up, Zach, a professional Guitar Hero player?"
"You mean, if I grow up."
"When."
"Either centerfielder for the Yankees, point guard for the Celtics, or quarterback for the Cowboys."
Andy looked at the boy. He was staring off, as if contemplating the odds of becoming a star athlete… or of growing up. After a moment, he turned to Andy.
"What about you, Andy? What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Who are you?"
A stern female voice. Andy turned and recognized Kathryn Reeves standing there. He jumped up. She came and stood next to Zach, like a mother standing between her child and a strange dog.
"Hi, Mrs. Reeves. I'm Andy Prescott. I work for Russell."
"In what capacity?"
"Uh, legal."
"Are you a courier at his law firm?"
Andy was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an "Austin Sucks-Don't Move Here" T-shirt. It wasn't a travel or traffic court day.
"Uh, no, ma'am. I'm a lawyer. At my own firm."
Okay, "firm" was a serious stretch, but what was he supposed to say, the truth? And no doubt Russell hadn't mentioned to his wife their search for his seventeen former girlfriends.
"I've never heard him mention your name. And what exactly do you do for Russell?"
"Special projects, Kathryn."
Saved by Russell Reeves. Andy exhaled with relief.
"Andy," his client said with a big smile, "is my secret weapon." He gestured at the video screen and said to Zach: "You win?"
"Of course."
"I want a rematch, dude," Andy said.
" Revancha. At my birthday party. Friday. Okay?"
"Yeah, sure, I'll be there. Here. Wherever."
Zach gave Andy a grin and another fist-punch.
"Let's go back to my office, Andy," Russell said.
"Later, dude." To Kathryn Reeves, he said, "Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Reeves."
"Nice to meet you, Andy."
She didn't sound convincing.
Andy followed his client out of Zach's room. Once in the hallway, the smile dropped off Russell's face.
"Kathryn doesn't know what you're doing for me."
"I figured."
They walked down the hallway in awkward silence.
"Zach's a neat kid," Andy finally said.
"The chemo knocks the cancer down, so once he recovers from the treatments, he has a good period. But the remissions are shorter each time."
"He said he wants to go to school, be a normal kid."
"I wish he could. He's always been too sick to go to school. So I hire tutors. Matter of fact, I need a new math tutor. You think your buddy Curtis would want the job?"
Was there anything Russell Reeves didn't know about Andy Prescott?
"Russell, Curtis Baxter is like a math genius. He'll have his Ph. D. in seven months. Don't you think he's overkill for a seven-year-old kid?"
"Zach's IQ is one-sixty-five."
"I'll give you Curtis' number."
They entered an expansive office, exactly the kind of office Andy would have expected of a billionaire. He went over to the back wall of windows that offered an incredible view of Lake Austin. Russell sat behind a desk and slumped in the chair. Three weeks and he had given six million dollars to six different women. Russell Reeves was making amends big time. But it wasn't making him happy.
"They're not exactly living happily ever after," Andy said. "Your old girlfriends."
"No."
"What's going on, Russell?"
"With what?"
"These women. You have a sick kid, they have sick kids. Why is that?"
"Like I said, Andy. Bad luck."
"Six out of six… what are the odds?"
"One in a million. Those are the odds of Zach getting Ph-positive ALL, his type of leukemia. When it comes to disease, Andy, odds don't matter. And it's six out of seventeen women, not six out of six. We haven't found them all yet."
That was true.
"Actually, it's six out of all their children-sixteen so far, maybe thirty or forty when we find all the women."
That was also true.
"But still, Russell, why do I think there's something you're not telling me?"
"Why would I hide something from you? You're my lawyer. You have to keep my secrets."
He paused.
"Look, Andy, I know this is a tough job, seeing those sick children. You're not around a sick kid every day like I am. But we're helping them, and that's what's important. Still, if this job is too tough for you, I'll find someone else."
Andy stared out the window and thought of all those women and sick kids whose lives had been made better by Russell Reeves. No matter what his rich client wasn't telling him-and he was pretty sure his rich client wasn't telling him something-the bottom line was that they were helping those women and those kids. That was important. That was a good thing. Andy Prescott couldn't help his father, but he could help these kids.
"I'll do it."
"Thanks, Andy. Who's next?"
"Hollis said he's having trouble with the seventh woman."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Finding her."
"He can't find her?"
"Apparently not."
"Go see him. McCloskey. Pay him whatever it takes, Andy, but I want these women found."
Russell walked Andy to the front door where Darrell was waiting in the limo. Andy got in, and Darrell drove through the gates and toward town. Andy looked down the list at the seventh woman's name, the woman Hollis could not find.
"Where are you, Frankie Doyle?"
Karen James craved a cigarette, but she was determined to quit.
She steered the old Toyota into the carpool lane at the elementary school and stopped. When the car ahead inched forward, she inched forward. Kids were emerging from the school, running down the walkway-their oversized backpacks made them look like little mountain climbers-and jumping into their parents' cars.
She didn't see Jessie.
Karen glanced around at the other drivers: mothers, grandmothers, a few fathers, and a handful of Mexican nannies, even in this small town. They were driving cars and SUVs and pickups; high-end, low-end, and barely running. The public school took all comers regardless of class, race, ethnicity, citizenship, or length of residency in the school district. Which was good; they had moved into town only two months ago, right before school had started.
Where was Jessie?
Karen had arrived at the pickup point, but her daughter had not yet appeared. The carpool traffic monitor-the P.E. teacher who looked like she could bench press the Toyota-stuck her head in the open passenger window and told her to pull around to the side parking lot. Karen steered out of the drive-through lane in front of the school and turned into the parking lot, but she had to wait for a black van with darkened windows to exit. She glanced at the driver, and he glanced at her. She felt a sudden chill.
Where was Jessie?
Her mind began conjuring up possibilities and dark images soon followed; she got out of the car. She watched the black van drive off, then she went into the school. Her pace increased without conscious thought as she walked down the corridor to Jessie's third-grade room. Ms. Nash, her teacher, was marking papers at her desk. She was alone.
"Excuse me."
Ms. Nash looked up. "Oh, hi, Karen."
"Where's Jessie?"
"Why, she's gone."
"She didn't come outside to carpool."
"She didn't?"
"No."
"Well, then-"
Karen was already hurrying down the hall and checking each room. Ms. Nash caught up with her at the principal's office.
"Karen, I'm sure she's here somewhere."
The principal walked out of her office.
"Is there a problem?"
"We can't find Jessie," Ms. Nash said.
"I'll call the police."
"No!" Karen said.
"Jessie left with the other kids," Ms. Nash said. "Karen says she didn't come out for carpool."
"Let's check the rooms."
They searched every room on the west corridor. No Jessie. They went down to the gym; kids were playing volleyball and basketball. But not Jessie. They walked into the locker rooms.
"Jessie! Jessie!"
Principal Stephens' expression showed her fear: a child lost on her watch.
"I'd better call the police."
"Let's check the east corridor," Karen said.
They hurried out of the gym and down the east corridor. Jessie wasn't in the science lab or the library or the art room. Karen's mind was on the verge of full-scale panic when she spotted a head of red hair in the music room.
"Jessie!"
Her eight-year-old daughter swiveled around on the bench in front of the piano. She smiled.
"Hi, Mom."
Jessie eyes moved to her teacher and the principal standing behind Karen; the smiled dropped off her face.
"Uh-oh. I didn't tell anyone where I'd be. I'm sorry."
"We've been looking all over school for you."
"I just wanted to practice a little."
Karen took a deep breath and turned to the others.
"I'm sorry."
They nodded and patted her shoulder. They were mothers, too. After they had left, Jessie said, "Am I in trouble?"
"No, honey. Let's go home."
God, she needed a cigarette.
Texas Custom Boots on South Lamar Boulevard in Austin shares a small space with a taxidermy shop; in one stop, you can get your custom boots fitted and your dead buck stuffed. Paul Prescott was standing in his white socks on a sheet of thick paper while the boot maker wrote down his exact desires-toe, heel, puller, collar bands, cross-stitch design, leather, and color-and then traced his feet and took meticulous measurements.
"Black elk," Andy said. "They'll be soft but sturdy."
"Like your mother."
Jean Prescott, Ph. D., smiled like a smitten teenager. His father was good, Andy had to give him that. Paul Prescott had that twinkle in his blue eyes that appealed to women of all ages; perhaps that was why his wife and son had accompanied him to so many honky-tonks. One day eight or nine years back when they were down at the creek, Andy had joked about the groupies who had hung out at the bars; his father had said, "Andy, you're old enough to know the truth about your old man. I'm a drunk, but I'm a faithful drunk. To Jose Cuervo and your mother. I never betrayed her love."
And Jean Prescott had stood by her man.
She had driven him into town that afternoon for his monthly transplant evaluation. He met with doctors (hepatologist, hematologist, cardiologist, gastroenterologist, and psychiatrist), a social worker (to ensure a reliable post-transplant caregiver was still available), and the financial representative (to confirm he still had insurance and could pay for the surgery and the expensive post-transplant drug regimen), and underwent the regular battery of tests to continue his place on the waiting list. And the team verified that he remained stone sober; one drop of alcohol, and Paul Prescott would be kicked off the list and left to die like road kill.
The boot maker finished his measurements, Andy paid half of the $1,500 price of the boots as a down payment pending delivery in seven or eight months, and they went outside. It was after six.
"How about dinner at Threadgill's?" Andy said. "I'm buying."
Andy expected his father to decline; he no longer liked to be seen in public because his skin was now a shade of orange. But his father surprised him.
"Hell, don't see how I can turn down a chicken-fried steak at Threadgill's. Only way I'm gonna get meat."
Andy stowed the bike in the back of his mother's 1989 Volvo station wagon (she was terribly proud of the odometer that registered over 300,000 miles) and got into the back seat. They drove the short distance over to the restaurant on Riverside, located just down from where the Armadillo had stood.
"Breaks my heart," his father said, "every time I see that office building where the Armadillo used to be. Those were good times. Best times were opening for Willie."
"How old is Willie now? Ninety?"
His father chuckled, a sound Andy enjoyed.
"He's damn sure lived ninety years, but he just turned seventy-five back in April."
Willie Nelson was a poet, a singer, a songwriter, and a Texas icon who lived on a ranch just outside of Austin.
"He's still singing around town."
"Willie will sing and write his songs till the day he dies. That's what he is. That's what we all are-Willie, Billy Joe, Jerry Jeff, Kris-singers and songwriters." He paused and pulled out his little notebook and pen. "Singers and songwriters. Might be able to use that."
The Prescott men ordered the world-famous chicken-fried steak, Threadgill's specialty. Andy's mother ordered a salad.
"How's the loft?" she asked.
"Sweet."
"And your girlfriend?"
"The blonde or the brunette?"
His father leaned back and laughed. "Listen to him now. Two months ago he's dating Curtis and Dave, now he's got to beat the gals off with a stick."
"The blonde."
"Where'd you see us?"
"Whole Foods. She doesn't wear a lot of clothes."
"Would you cover up that body?"
"Hell, son," his father said, "you'd better eat two of those steaks. You need the protein." He drank his iced tea and said, "Reeves, he changed your life."
"For the better."
"Andy…"
"Yeah?"
"Don't get too comfortable with that new life."
"Are you still working on those SoCo developments?" his mother said.
"Renovations. I got three approved by the residents. Construction's already started on those. I've been traveling, so the others are on hold."
"Whereabouts?" his father said.
"Houston, Dallas, New Orleans, Seattle, Miami, Chicago."
"For Reeves?"
Andy nodded.
"Real-estate deals?"
"Not exactly."
"What exactly?"
"Dad, I can't say. It's confidential. But it's all good."
"If you say so." He grunted. "Damn, I'd love a cold beer with this steak."
" 'I'm looking for a friend. You cannot be a liar and must have a job.' "
Curtis looked up from the personal ad.
"That seems a little harsh."
Andy paid Ronda for another round of Coronas for the table. His folks had dropped him off at Guero's on their way back to Wimberley, Natalie had paroled Tres for the night, Curtis was reading personal ads aloud, and Dave was standing by the front door of Guero's waiting for his date to arrive. He appeared as nervous as a lawyer taking a polygraph.
"I can't believe someone answered his ad," Tres said.
"Gives me hope," Curtis said.
"Curtis," Tres said, "you'd do better looking for a date on Mensa-dot-com."
"Dave's wearing cowboy boots," Andy said, "to look taller. Still doesn't look six-two."
"He'd have to stand on a chair to look six-two."
Curtis turned to the next ad. "This girl says 'I strive to find justice and equality in life.' "
"And she's seeking casual sex?"
"How'd you know?"
Tres turned to Andy. "You've been gone a lot. Reeves?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"All over the country."
"What for?"
"Confidential. He swore me to secrecy."
"You're not in over your head, are you, Andy?"
"Nothing like that. Actually, I'm playing Robin Hood."
"She's here," Curtis said.
They all turned to the front door. A very attractive blonde-she wasn't Suzie or Bobbi, but then Dave wasn't Russell Reeves' lawyer-had just walked up to Dave. They exchanged a few words, then she kissed him on the cheek.
"Wow," Curtis said.
Curtis Baxter had never been kissed by a female unrelated by blood.
Dave and the blonde went inside and were seated at one of the tables in the first room where the bar was located. From their position on the front porch, they had a clear view of Dave and his date through the window. Ronda took their orders then returned with margaritas. They talked and laughed and ate Mexican food. Dave paid the mariachis to sing at their table.
"She's eating fajitas," Curtis said. "Beef."
"So?"
"So he's got a chance. She's a carnivore, too."
"She looks like she's having fun," Tres said.
"Wow," Curtis said again.
Dave and the girl had another round of margaritas, then Dave stood and walked through the double doors into the main dining room. She smiled and gave him a little finger wave.
"Restroom," Curtis said. "Margaritas go right through him."
The restrooms were at the rear of the restaurant. As soon as Dave disappeared from sight, the smile disappeared from the blonde's face. She pulled out her cell phone. She said something into the phone, stood, and downed her margarita then grabbed her purse and walked outside. Fast. She almost ran past them on the porch and down the sidewalk past the Oak Garden where Los Flames were playing. A car pulled up on Congress; she dove in and drove off.
"Aw, man."
They turned and looked back inside through the window. Dave had returned to their table; he was glancing around with a confused expression. He looked over at them; Andy waved him out. Dave came over.
"Did she go to the restroom?"
Tres and Curtis averted their eyes from this train wreck. That left Andy to deliver the bad news.
"She bailed."
"She left?"
Andy nodded. Dave's body deflated like a popped balloon. He fell into a chair.
"I thought we were having fun."
Andy waved an empty beer bottle at Ronda. Another round for the table. Curtis gave Dave a buddy pat.
"Sucks, dude."
Dave shook his head.
"Man, she smelled great."