“You should get a calling plan. Hang on,” she said, and then the phone clattered as it struck a hard surface and bounced. A minute later a gruff male voice picked up.
“Yeah? What’s this about?”
“Jack Brody?”
“You got him. Now answer my question.”
Drake went through his introduction and began his interrogative. At the first question, he got what he was looking for. A hesitation. An instant too long to be innocent.
“Patricia? Mmm, no, can’t say as that rings any bells. Where was she from?”
“Idaho.”
“Idaho? Son, Texas is a long way from Idaho. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“You’re sure you never heard of her? The estate’s rather significant.”
“Story of my life. You got the wrong Jack, Jack. Good hunting,” he said, and hung up.
Bingo.
Drake had been doing skip-tracing long enough to recognize the subtle tells. This was his Jack. Drake checked the address on his computer screen and executed a Google Earth search to find the nearest airport to Flatonia, Texas.
Which was Austin.
Fifteen minutes later he’d packed an overnight bag, stuffed all his money in his pockets, and called the airline to book a flight departing in three hours, which he could just make out of San Jose if traffic wasn’t bad. He took the stairs to the parking area two at a time, energized in spite of his lack of sleep. As he started the car and let it warm up, he called Harry.
“New Start Bail Bonds,” Betty answered, her voice perennially cheerful.
“Betty. It’s Drake. Harry there?”
“He just got in. Hang on a moment, mmkay?”
Harry’s voice came on the line after a brief pause. “What — are you in jail?”
“No. I’m taking your advice. Heading out of town for a few days.”
“Wow. Look at you. Where you going?”
“Texas. I’ve never been there.”
“Why Texas?”
“Looking up old friends around Austin. Taking some time off. Wasn’t that what you advised?”
“Yeah. Have a good time.”
“I will. And I wanted to ask you straight. Will there be a job for me whenever I decide to return to lovely Menlo Park?”
The extended silence on the line said everything.
“Look, kid…”
“No problem, Harry. We had a good run, didn’t we?”
“Sure. Sure we did. Hey, when you get back, I’ll buy you a beer. We can talk about it. That’s all I can promise. I gotta see what happens in the meantime.”
“Yeah. Absolutely. Hopefully you don’t get sanctioned or investigated or anything.”
“Too late. They’re already nosing around.”
“I’m sorry, Harry. Really.”
“Goes with the territory. Safe travels, okay? Have a couple for me.”
“You bet.”
The freeway flowed like cold molasses, cars creeping forward in fits and starts. Drake was reminded of his lowly position in the food chain as Teslas and Mercedes sedans battled for advantage in the migration south, the late rush hour the province of the wealthy and privileged making their way from multimillion dollar estates in Palo Alto and Atherton, long after their underlings had migrated lemminglike in pursuit of their daily bread. A neon billboard announcing a sporting event at a corporate-named stadium caught his eye, and he wondered absently whether there had ever been a time when things had just been things, and not advertising opportunities.
He parked at a discount lot and rode the shuttle bus to the terminal. After being frisked, X-rayed, and eyed suspiciously, he was on the plane, waiting to take off, his seatmate a hirsute woman of generous proportions who was reading a romance novel with all the intensity of a mullah studying scripture.
Then the engines kicked in with a roar and he was pressed back into his seat as the plane leapt forward, rocketing down the strip of black and vibrating like it was going to come apart before hurtling into the cloudy sky.
Sasha and Vadim sauntered down the concrete path toward their destination. The grounds of the complex were deserted, everyone at work or at school. When they arrived at the unassuming door, they knocked and affected pleasant expressions. Nobody answered. They tried again, and when their second attempt met with silent indifference, Vadim blocked the exterior patio with his bulk while Sasha went to work on the lock. They were in thirty seconds later, and after a quick glance through the condo, Vadim shook his head — their target wasn’t there.
“Search it,” he growled in Russian.
Sasha took the bedroom while Vadim went through the living area, but neither found anything.
“We missed him,” Sasha said, his voice quiet but intense. He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then snorted in disgust. “This place is a right dump. Are you sure this is our boy?”
“You saw the contact information. It’s him all right. What kind of a name is Drake, anyway?”
Sasha removed a soda, eyed the ingredients, then put it back. Vadim raised one eyebrow and pointed at the computer. He moved to it and sat down, and then opened the Internet browser with a black-gloved hand.
Ten minutes later they left the apartment as silently as they’d entered, their pace unhurried, to any observers two gentlemen without a care in the world, their suits out of place for the casual chic of the area, but not so much as to draw close scrutiny.
Chapter Eight
Drake’s first impression of Texas was that it was cold. This surprised him, given how warm it was in California in April. For whatever reason, he’d always thought of Texas as arid and hot and dusty, but what greeted him as he drove south from Austin was a lush, green, and freezing landscape, a cold snap having hit several days before. His coat was barely adequate for the unexpected chill, and he found himself muttering soft encouragement to the rental car heater as he rolled onto the highway leading to Flatonia, which as far as he could tell was population close to nothing, its industry largely agricultural, judging by the endless fields of crops he passed on the way.
He hadn’t developed a real plan for confronting Jack, but he didn’t think he would need one. Drake didn’t understand why Jack was denying knowledge of his father and Patricia, but the answer might provide further insights into what he was getting himself into. Not that he was necessarily doing anything but following up on some loose ends, learning about his family tree, he told himself.
After a late lunch at a highway fast-food restaurant, he drove the remaining few miles to Flatonia, which was even more underwhelming than he’d expected, little more than a forlorn two-block strip of brick buildings with garish façades fronting on the old Highway 90. Drake pulled past the pharmacy and the hardware store and the florist, feeling like he’d traveled through a wormhole and wound up in the 1930s, so quaint and quiet was the main drag.
He continued south and, after a series of turns, found himself at a rusting iron gate at the end of a gravel road. A faded placard that had seen better days announced the property as the Buckeye Ranch, and an imposing padlock secured the barrier in place. A “No Trespassing” sign with the outline of a rifle beneath the lettering trembled in the light breeze, which smelled like wet dirt and hay as it blew through his open window.
He parked in front of the gate and stepped out of the car. At the barbed-wire fence that ran along the front of the property, he stood and gazed across the field at three buildings several hundred yards away: a barn, a garage, and the main house, all painted with discount earth tones and in serious need of a touch-up.