“Safe deposit boxes?” she asked a young woman behind the information desk. The girl pointed to a corner in the far right.
   “Thanks,” she said, and strolled toward it. The lines in front of the tellers were four deep to her left, and to her right a hundred busy vice presidents talked on their phones. It was the largest bank in the city, and no one noticed her.
   The vault was behind a set of massive bronze doors that were polished enough to appear almost golden, no doubt to give the appearance of infinite safety and invulnerability. The doors were opened slightly to allow a select few in and out. To the left, an important-looking lady of sixty sat behind a desk with the words SAFE DEPOST BOXES across its front. Her name was Virginia Baskin.
   Virginia Baskin stared at Darby as she approached the desk. There was no smile.
   “I need access to a box,” Darby said without breathing. She hadn’t breathed in the last two and a half minutes.
   “The number, please,” Ms. Baskin said as she hit the keyboard and turned to the monitor.
   “F566.”
   She punched the number and waited for the words to flash on the screen. She frowned, and moved her face to within inches of it. Run! Darby thought. She frowned harder and scratched her chin. Run, before she picks up the phone and calls the guards. Run, before the alarms go off and my idiot cohort comes blazing through the lobby.
   Ms. Baskin withdrew her head from the monitor. “That was rented just two weeks ago,” she said almost to herself.
   “Yes,” Darby said as if she had rented it.
   “I assume you’re Mrs. Morgan,” she said, pecking on the keyboard.
   Keep assuming, baby. “Yes, Beverly Anne Morgan.”
   “And your address?”
   “891 Pembroke, Alexandria.”
   She nodded at the screen as if it could see her and give its approval. She pecked again. “Phone number?”
   “703-664-5980.”
   Ms. Baskin liked this too. So did the computer. “Who rented this box?”
   “My husband, Curtis D. Morgan.”
   “And his social security number?”
   Darby casually opened her new, rather large leather shoulder bag, and pulled out her wallet. How many wives memorized their husband’s social security number? She opened the wallet. “510-96-8686.”
   “Very well,” Ms. Baskin said properly as she left the keyboard and reached into her desk. “How long will this take?”
   “Just a minute.”
   She placed a wide card on a small clipboard on the desk, and pointed at it. “Sign here, Mrs. Morgan.”
   Darby nervously signed on the second slot. Mr. Morgan had made the first entry the day he rented the box.
   Ms. Baskin glanced at the signature while Darby held her breath.
   “Do you have your key?” she asked.
   “Of course,” Darby said with a warm smile.
   Ms. Baskin took a small box from the drawer, and walked around the desk. “Follow me.” They went through the bronze doors. The vault was as big as a branch bank in the suburbs. Designed along the lines of a mausoleum, it was a maze of hallways and small chambers. Two men in uniform walked by. They passed four identical rooms with walls lined with rows of lockboxes. The fifth room held F566, evidently, because Ms. Baskin stepped into it and opened her little black box. Darby looked nervously around and behind her.
   Virginia was all business. She walked to F566, which was shoulder-high, and stuck in the key. She rolled her eyes at Darby as if to say, “Your turn, dumbass.” Darby yanked the key from a pocket, and inserted it next to the other one. Virginia then turned both keys, and slid the box two inches from its slot. She removed the bank’s key.
   She pointed to a small booth with a folding wooden door. “Take it in there. When you finish, lock it back in place and come to my desk.” She was leaving the room as she spoke.
   “Thanks,” Darby said. She waited until Virginia was out of sight, then slid the box from the wall. It was not heavy. The front was six inches by twelve, and it was a foot and a half long. The top was open, and inside were two items—a thin, brown legal-sized envelope, and an unmarked videotape.
   She didn’t need the booth. She stuffed the envelope and videotape in her shoulder bag, and slid the box back into its slot. She left the room.
   Virginia had rounded the corner of her desk when Darby walked behind her. “I’m finished,” she said.
   “My, that was quick.”
   Damned right. Things happen fast when your nerves are popping through your skin. “I found what I needed,” she said.
   “Very well.” Ms. Baskin was suddenly a warm person."You know, that awful story in the paper last week about that lawyer. You know, the one killed by muggers not far from here. Wasn’t his name Curtis Morgan? Seems like it was Curtis Morgan. What a shame.”
   Oh, you dumb woman. “I didn’t see that,” Darby said. “I’ve been out of the country. Thanks.”
   Her step was a bit quicker the second time through the lobby. The bank was crowded, and there were no security guards in sight. Piece of cake. It was about time she pulled a job without being grabbed.
   The gunman was guarding the marble column. The revolving door spun her onto the sidewalk, and she was almost to the car before he caught her. “Get in the car!” she demanded.
   “What’d you find!” he demanded.
   “Just get outta here.” She yanked the door open, and jumped in. He started the car and sped away.
   “Talk to me,” he said.
   “I cleaned out the box,” she said. “Is anyone behind us?”
   He glanced in the mirror. “How the hell do I know? What is it?”
   She opened her purse and pulled out the envelope. She opened it. Gray slammed on the brakes and almost smashed a car in front.
   “Watch where you’re going!” she yelled.
   “Okay! Okay. What’s in the envelope!”
   “I don’t know! I haven’t read it yet, and if you get me killed, I’ll never read it.”
   The car was moving again. Gray breathed deeply. “Look, let’s stop yelling, okay? Let’s be cool.”
   “Yes. You drive, and I’ll be cool.”
   “Okay. Now. Are we cool?”
   “Yes. Just relax. And watch where you’re going. Where are you going?”
   “I don’t know. What’s in the envelope?”
   She pulled out a document of some sort. She glanced at him, and he was staring at the document. “Watch where we’re going.”
   “Just read the damned thing.”
   “It makes me carsick. I can’t read in the car.”
   “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
   “You’re yelling again.”
   He yanked the wheel to the right and pulled into another tow-away zone on E Street. Horns honked as he slammed his brakes. He glared at her.
   “Thanks,” she said, and started reading it aloud.
   It was a four-page affidavit, typed real neat and sworn to under oath before a notary public. It was dated Friday, the day before the last phone call to Grantham. Under oath, Curtis Morgan said he worked in the oil and gas section of White and Blazevich, and had since he joined the firm five years earlier. His clients were privately owned oil exploration firms from many countries, but primarily Americans. Since he joined the firm, he had worked for a client who was engaged in a huge lawsuit in south Louisiana. The client was a man named Victor Mattiece, and Mr. Mattiece, whom he’d never met but was well known to the senior partners of White and Blazevich, wanted desperately to win the lawsuit and eventually harvest millions of barrels of oil from the swamplands of Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. There were also hundreds of millions of cubic yards of natural gas. The partner supervising the case for White and Blazevich was F. Sims Wakefield, who was very close to Victor Mattiece and often visited him in the Bahamas.
   They sat in the tow-away zone with the bumper of the Pontiac protruding perilously into the right lane, and were oblivious to the cars swerving around it. She read slowly, and he sat with his eyes closed.
   Continuing, the lawsuit was very important to White and Blazevich. The firm was not directly involved in the trial and appeal, but everything crossed Wakefield’s desk. He worked on nothing but the pelican case, as it was known. He spent most of his time on the phone with either Mattiece or one of a hundred lawyers working on the case. Morgan averaged ten hours a week on the case, but always on the periphery. His billings were handed directly to Wakefield, and this was unusual because all other billings went to the oil and gas billing clerk, who turned them in to accounting. He’d heard rumors over the years, and firmly believed Mattiece was not paying White and Blazevich its standard hourly rate. He believed the firm had taken the case for a percentage of the harvest. He’d heard the figure of ten percent of the net profits from the wells. This was unheard of in the industry.
   Brakes squealed loudly, and they braced for the impact. It barely missed. “We’re about to be killed,” Darby snapped.
   Gray yanked the gearshift into Drive, and pulled the right front wheel over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Now they were out of traffic. The car was angled across a forbidden space with its front bumper on the sidewalk and its rear bumper barely out of traffic. “Keep reading,” he snapped back.
   Continuing, on or about September 28, Morgan was in Wakefield’s office. He walked in with two files and a stack of documents unrelated to the pelican case. Wakefield was on the phone. As usual, secretaries were in and out. The office was always in a state of disruption. He stood around for a few minutes waiting for Wakefield to get off the phone, but the conversation dragged on. Finally, after waiting fifteen minutes, Morgan picked up his files and documents from Wakefield’s cluttered desk, and left. He went to his office at the other end of the building, and started working at his desk. It was about two in the afternoon. As he reached for a file, he found a handwritten memo on the bottom of the stack of documents he had just brought to his office. He had inadvertently taken it from Wakefield’s desk. He immediately stood, with the intention of returning to Wakefield. Then he read it. And he read it again. He glanced at the telephone. Wakefield’s line was still busy. A copy of the memo was attached to the affidavit.
   “Read the memo,” Gray snapped.
   “I’m not through with the affidavit,” she snapped back. It would do no good to argue with her. She was the legal mind, and this was a legal document, and she would read it exactly as she pleased.
   Continuing, he was stunned by the memo. And he was immediately terrified of it. He walked out of his office and down the hall to the nearest Xerox, and copied it. He returned to his office, and placed the original memo in the same position under the files on his desk. He would swear he’d never seen it.
   The memo was two paragraphs handwritten on White and Blazevich internal stationery. It was from M. Velmano, who is Marty Velmano, a senior partner. It was dated September 28, directed to Wakefield, and read:


   Sims—
   Advise client, research is complete and the bench will sit much softer if Rosenberg is retired. The second retirement is a bit unusual. Einstein found a link to Jensen, of all people. The boy, of course, has those other problems.
   Advise further that the pelican should arrive here in four years, assuming other factors.


   There was no signature.
   Gray was chuckling and frowning at the same time. His mouth was open. She was reading faster.
   Continuing, Marty Velmano was a ruthless shark who worked eighteen hours a day, and felt useless unless someone near him was bleeding. He was the heart and soul of White and Blazevich. To the power people of Washington, he was a tough operator with plenty of money. He lunched with congressmen, and played golf with cabinet members. He did his throat cutting behind his office door.
   Einstein was the nickname for Nathaniel Jones, a demented legal genius the firm kept locked away in his own little library on the sixth floor. He read every case decided by the Supreme Court, the eleven federal appellate courts, and the supreme courts of the fifty states. Morgan had never met Einstein. Sightings were rare around the firm.
   After he copied it, he folded his copy of the memo and placed it in a desk drawer. Ten minutes later, Wakefield stormed into his office, very disturbed and pale. They scratched around Morgan’s desk, and found the memo. Wakefield was angry as hell, which was not unusual. He asked if Morgan had read this. No, he insisted. Evidently he mistakenly picked it up when he left his office, he explained. What’s the big deal? Wakefield was furious. He lectured Morgan about the sanctity of one’s desk. He was a blithering idiot, rebuking and expounding around Morgan’s office. He finally realized he was overreacting. He tried to settle down, but the impression had been made. He left with the memo.
   Morgan hid the copy in a law book in the library on the ninth floor. He was shocked at Wakefield’s paranoia and hysterics. Before he left that afternoon, he precisely arranged the articles and papers in his desk and on his shelves. The next morning, he checked them. Someone had gone through his desk during the night.
   Morgan became very careful. Two days later, he found a tiny screwdriver behind a book on his credenza. Then he found a small piece of black tape wadded up and dropped in his trash can. He assumed his office was wired and his phones were bugged. He caught suspicious looks from Wakefield. He saw Velmano in Wakefield’s office more than usual.
   Then Justices Rosenberg and Jensen were killed. There was no doubt in his mind it was the work of Mattiece and his associates. The memo did not mention Mattiece, but it referred to a “client.” Wakefield had no other clients. And no one client had as much to gain from a new Court as Mattiece.
   The last paragraph of the affidavit was frightening. On two occasions after the assassinations, Morgan knew he was being followed. He was taken off the pelican case. He was given more work, more hours, more demands. He was afraid of being killed. If they would kill two justices, they would kill a lowly associate.
   He signed it under oath before Emily Stanford, a notary public. Her address was typed under her name.
   “Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” Gray said as he opened his door and jumped out. He dodged cars and dashed across E Street. There was a pay phone outside a bakery. He punched Smith Keen’s number and looked at his rented car parked haphazardly across the street.
   “Smith, it’s Gray. Listen carefully and do as I say. I’ve got another source on the pelican brief. It’s big, Smith, and I need you and Krauthammer in Feldman’s office in fifteen minutes.”
   “What is it?”
   “Garcia left a farewell message. We have one more stop, and we’re coming in.”
   “We? The girl’s coming in?”
   “Yes. Get a TV with a VCR in the conference room. I think Garcia wants to talk to us.”
   “He left a tape?”
   “Yes. Fifteen minutes.”
   “Are you safe?”
   “I think so. I’m just nervous as hell, Smith.” He hung up and ran back to the car.

 
   Ms. Stanford owned a court reporting service on Vermont. She was dusting the bookshelves when Gray and Darby walked in. They were in a hurry.
   “Are you Emily Stanford?” he asked.
   “Yes. Why?”
   He showed her the last page of the affidavit. “Did you notarize this?”
   “Who are you?”
   “Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. Is this your signature?”
   “Yes. I notarized it.”
   Darby handed her the photograph of Garcia, now Morgan, on the sidewalk. “Is this the man who signed the affidavit?” she asked.
   “This is Curtis Morgan. Yes. That’s him.”
   “Thank you,” Gray said.
   “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Ms. Stanford asked. “I saw it in the paper.”
   “Yes, he’s dead,” Gray said. “Did you by chance read this affidavit?”
   “Oh no. I just witnessed his signature. But I knew something was wrong.”
   “Thank you, Ms. Stanford.” They left as fast as they’d come.
 
 
   The thin man hid his shiny forehead under a ragged fedora. His pants were rags and his shoes were torn, and he sat in his ancient wheelchair in front of the Post and held a sign proclaiming him to be HUNGRY AND HOMELESS. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder as if the muscles in his neck had collapsed from hunger. A paper bowl with a few dollars and coins was in his lap, but it was his money. Maybe he could do better if he was blind.
   He looked pitiful, sitting there like a vegetable, rolling his head, wearing green Kermit the Frog sunglasses. He watched every move on the street.
   He saw the car fly around the corner and park illegally. The man and the woman jumped out, and ran toward him. He had a gun under the ragged quilt, but they were moving too fast. And there were too many people on the sidewalk. They entered the Post building.
   He waited a minute, then rolled himself away.
 
 
   Smith Keen was pacing and fidgeting in front of Feldman’s office door as the secretary looked on. He saw them weaving hurriedly down the aisle between the rows of desks. Gray was leading and holding her hand. She was definitely attractive, but he would appreciate it later. They were breathless.
   “Smith Keen, this is Darby Shaw,” Gray said between breaths.
   They shook hands. “Hello,” she said, looking around at the sprawling newsroom.
   “My pleasure, Darby. From what I hear, you are a remarkable woman.”
   “Right,” Grantham said. “We can chitchat later.”
   “Follow me,” Keen said, and they were off again. “Feldman wanted to use the conference room.” They cut across the cluttered newsroom, and walked into a plush room with a long table in the center of it. It was full of men who were talking but immediately shut up when she walked in. Feldman closed the door.
   He reached for her hand. “I’m Jackson Feldman, executive editor. You must be Darby.”
   “Who else?” Gray said, still breathing hard.
   Feldman ignored him and looked around the table. He pointed. “This is Howard Krauthammer, managing editor; Ernie DeBasio, assistant managing editor/foreign; Elliot Cohen, assistant managing editor/national; and Vince Litsky, our attorney.”
   She nodded politely and forgot each name as she heard it. They were all at least fifty, all in shirtsleeves, all deeply concerned. She could feel the tension.
   “Give me the tape,” Gray said.
   She took it from her bag and handed it to him. The television and VCR were at the end of the room on a portable stand. He pushed the tape into the VCR. “We got this twenty minutes ago, so we haven’t seen it.”
   Darby sat in a chair against the wall. The men inched toward the screen and waited for an image.
   On a black screen was the date—October 12. Then Curtis Morgan was sitting at a table in a kitchen. He held a switch that evidently worked the camera.
   “My name is Curtis Morgan, and since you’re watching this, I’m probably dead.” It was a helluva first sentence. The men grimaced and inched closer.
   “Today is October 12, and I’m doing this at my house. I’m alone. My wife is at the doctor. I should be at work, but I called in sick. My wife knows nothing about any of this. I’ve told no one. Since you’re watching this, you’ve also seen this. [He holds up the affidavit.] This is an affidavit I’ve signed, and I plan to leave it with this video, probably in a safe deposit box in a bank downtown. I’ll read the affidavit, and discuss other things.”
   “We’ve got the affidavit,” Gray said quickly. He was standing against the wall next to Darby. No one looked at him. They were glued to the screen. Morgan slowly read the affidavit. His eyes darted from the pages to the camera, back and forth, back and forth.
   It took him ten minutes. Each time Darby heard the word pelican, she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. It had all come down to this. It was a bad dream. She tried to listen.
   When Morgan finished the affidavit, he laid it on the table, and looked at some notes on a legal pad. He was comfortable and relaxed. He was a handsome kid who looked younger than twenty-nine. He was at home, so there was no tie. Just a starched white button-down. White and Blazevich was not an ideal place to work, he said, but most of the four hundred lawyers were honest and probably knew nothing about Mattiece. In fact, he doubted if many besides Wakefield, Velmano, and Einstein were involved in the conspiracy. There was a partner named Jarreld Schwabe who was sinister enough to be involved, but Morgan had no proof. (Darby remembered him well.) There was an ex-secretary who’d quit abruptly a few days after the assassinations. Her name was Miriam LaRue, and she’d worked in the oil and gas section for eighteen years. She might know something. She lives in Falls Church. Another secretary whom he would not name had told him she overheard a conversation between Wakefield and Velmano, and the topic was whether he, Morgan, could be trusted. But she just heard bits and pieces. They treated him differently after the memo was found on his desk. Especially Schwabe and Wakefield. It was as if they wanted to throw him up against the wall and threaten his life if he told of the memo, but they couldn’t do it because they weren’t sure he’d seen it. And they were afraid to make a big deal out of it. But he’d seen it, and they were almost certain he’d seen it. And if they conspired to kill Rosenberg and Jensen, well, hell, he was just an associate. He could be replaced in seconds.
   Litsky the lawyer shook his head in disbelief. The numbness was wearing off, and they moved a bit in their seats.
   Morgan commuted by car, and twice he was trailed. Once during lunch, he saw a man watching him. He talked about his family for a while, and started to ramble. It was apparent he’d run out of hard news. Gray handed the affidavit and the memo to Feldman, who read it and passed it to Krauthammer, who passed it on.
   Morgan finished with a chilling farewell: “I don’t know who will see this tape. I’ll be dead, so it won’t really matter, I guess. I hope you use this to nail Mattiece and his sleazy lawyers. But if the sleazy lawyers are watching this tape, then you can all go straight to hell.”
   Gray ejected the tape. He rubbed his hands together and smiled at the group. “Well, gentlemen, did we bring you enough verification, or do you want more?”
   “I know those guys,” Litsky said, dazed. “Wakefield and I played tennis a year ago.”
   Feldman was up and walking. “How’d you find Morgan?”
   “It’s a long story,” Gray said.
   “Give me a real short version.”
   “We found a law student at Georgetown who clerked for White and Blazevich last summer. He identified a photograph of Morgan.”
   “How’d you get the photograph?” Litsky asked.
   “Don’t ask. It doesn’t go with the story.”
   “I say run the story,” Krauthammer said loudly.
   “Run it,” said Elliot Cohen.
   “How’d you learn he was dead?” Feldman asked.
   “Darby went to White and Blazevich yesterday. They broke the news.”
   “Where was the video and affidavit?”
   “In a lockbox at First Columbia. Morgan’s wife gave me the key at five this morning. I’ve done nothing wrong. The pelican brief has been verified fully by an independent source.”
   “Run it,” said Ernie DeBasio. “Run it with the biggest headline since NIXON RESIGNS.”
   Feldman stopped near Smith Keen. The two friends eyed each other carefully. “Run it,” said Keen.
   He turned to the lawyer. “Vince?”
   “There’s no question, legally. But I’d like to see the story after it’s written.”
   “How long will it take to write it?” the editor asked Gray.
   “The brief portion is already outlined. I can finish it up in an hour or so. Give me two hours on Morgan. Three at the most.”
   Feldman hadn’t smiled since he shook hands with Darby. He paced to the other side of the room, and stood in Gray’s face. “What if this tape’s a hoax?”
   “Hoax? We’re talking dead bodies, Jackson. I’ve seen the widow. She’s a real, live widow. This paper ran the story of his murder. He’s dead. Even his law firm says he’s dead. And that’s him on the tape, talking about dying. I know that’s him. And we talked to the notary public who witnessed his signature on the affidavit. She identified him.” Gray was getting louder and looking around the room. “Everything he said verifies the pelican brief. Everything. Mattiece, the lawsuit, the assassinations. Then we’ve got Darby, the author of the brief. And more dead bodies, and they’ve chased her all over the country. There are no holes, Jackson. It’s a story.”
   He finally smiled. “It’s more than a story. Have it written by two. It’s eleven now. Use this conference room and close the door.” Feldman was pacing again. “We’ll meet here at exactly two and read the draft. Not a word.”
   The men stood and filed from the room, but not before each shook hands with Darby Shaw. They were uncertain whether to say congratulations or thanks or whatever, so they just smiled and shook her hand. She kept her seat.
   When they were alone, Gray sat beside her and they held hands. The clean conference table was before them. The chairs were placed perfectly around it. The walls were white, and the room was lit by fluorescent lights and two narrow windows.
   “How do you feel?” he asked.
   “I don’t know. This is the end of the road, I guess. We made it.”
   “You don’t sound too happy.”
   “I’ve had better months. I’m happy for you.”
   He looked at her. “Why are you happy for me?”
   “You put the pieces together and it hits tomorrow. It’s got Pulitzer written all over it.”
   “I hadn’t thought about that.”
   “Liar.”
   “Okay, maybe once. But when you got off the elevator yesterday and told me Garcia was dead, I quit thinking about Pulitzers.”
   “It’s not fair. I do all the work. We used my brains and looks and legs, and you get all the glory.”
   “I’ll be glad to use your name. I’ll credit you as the author of the brief. We’ll put your picture on the front page, along with Rosenberg, Jensen, Mattiece, the President, Verheek, and—”
   “Thomas? Will his picture run with the story?”
   “It’s up to Feldman. He’ll edit this one.”
   She thought about this, and said nothing.
   “Well, Ms. Shaw, I’ve got three hours to write the biggest story of my career. A story that will shock the world. A story that could bring down a presidency. A story that will solve the assassinations. A story that will make me rich and famous.”
   “You’d better let me write it.”
   “Would you? I’m tired.”
   “Go get your notes. And some coffee.”
 
 
   They closed the door and cleared the table. A news aide rolled in a PC with a printer. They sent him after a pot of coffee. Then some fruit. They outlined the story in sections, beginning with the assassinations, then the pelican case in south Louisiana, then Mattiece and his link to the President, then the pelican brief and all the havoc it created, Callahan, Verheek, then Curtis Morgan and his muggers, then White and Blazevich and Wakefield, Velmano, and Einstein. Darby preferred to write in longhand. She scaled down the litigation and the brief, and what was known of Mattiece. Gray took the rest, and typed out rough notes on the machine.
   Darby was a model of organization, with notes neatly arranged on the table, and words carefully written on paper. He was a whirlwind of chaos—papers on the floor, talking to the computer, printing random paragraphs that were discarded by the time they were on paper. She kept telling him to be quiet. This is not a law school library, he explained. This is a newspaper. You work with a phone in each ear and someone yelling at you.
   At twelve-thirty, Smith Keen sent in food. Darby ate a cold sandwich and watched the traffic below. Gray was digging through campaign reports.
   She saw him. He was leaning on the side of a building across Fifteenth Street, and he would not have been suspicious except he had been leaning on the side of the Madison Hotel an hour earlier. He was sipping something from a tall Styrofoam cup, and watching the front entrance to the Post. He wore a black cap, denim jacket, and jeans. He was under thirty. And he just stood there staring across the street. She nibbled on her sand wich, and watched him for ten minutes. He sipped from his cup and never moved.
   “Gray, come here, please.”
   “What is it?” He walked over. She pointed to the man with the black cap.
   “Watch him carefully,” she said. “Tell me what he’s doing.”
   “He’s drinking something, probably coffee. He’s leaning on the side of that building, and he’s watching this building.”
   “What’s he wearing?”
   “Denim from head to toe, and a black cap. Looks like boots. What about it?”
   “I saw him an hour ago standing over there by the hotel. He was sort of hidden by that telephone van, but I know it was him. Now he’s over there.”
   “So?”
   “So for the past hour, at least, he’s been moving around doing nothing but watching this building.”
   Gray nodded. This was no time for a smart comment. The guy looked suspicious, and she was concerned. She’d been tracked for two weeks now, from New Orleans to New York, and now maybe to Washington, and she knew more about being followed than he did.
   “What’re you saying, Darby?”
   “Give me one good reason why this man, who obviously is not a street bum, would be doing this.”
   The man looked at his watch, and walked slowly along the sidewalk until he was gone. Darby looked at her watch.
   “It’s exactly one,” she said. “Let’s check every fifteen minutes, okay?”
   “Okay. I doubt if it’s anything,” he said, trying to be comforting. It didn’t work. She sat at the table, and looked at the notes.
   He watched her and slowly returned to the computer.
   Gray typed furiously for fifteen minutes, then walked back to the window. Darby watched him carefully. “I don’t see him,” he said.
   He did see him at one-thirty. “Darby,” he said, pointing to the spot where she’d first seen him. She looked out the window, and slowly focused on the man with the black cap. Now he had a dark green windbreaker, and he was not facing the Post. He watched his boots, and every ten seconds or so glanced at the front entrance. This made him all the more suspicious, but he was partially hidden behind a delivery truck. The Styrofoam cup was gone. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the Post, then watched the sidewalk in front of it.

   “Why do I have this knot in my stomach?” Darby said.
   “How could they follow you? It’s impossible.”
   “They knew I was in New York. That seemed impossible at the time.”
   “Maybe they’re following me. I’ve been told they were watching. That’s what the guy’s doing. Why should he know you’re here? The dude’s following me.”
   “Maybe,” she said slowly.
   “Have you seen him before?”
   “They don’t introduce themselves.”
   “Look. We’ve got thirty minutes, and they’re back in here with knives to carve up our story. Let’s finish it, then we can watch dude out there.”
   They returned to their work. At one forty-five, she stood in the window again, and the man was gone. The printer was rattling the first draft, and she began proofing.


   The editors read with their pencils. Litsky the lawyer read for sheer pleasure. He seemed to enjoy it more than the others.
   It was a long story, and Feldman was busy cutting like a surgeon. Smith Keen scribbled in the margins. Krauthammer liked what he saw.
   They read slowly in silence. Gray proofed it again. Darby was at the window. Dude was back again, now wearing a navy blazer with the jeans. It was cloudy and in the sixties, and he was sipping from the cup. He huddled over it to stay warm. He took a drink, looked at the Post, looked at the street, and back to the cup. He was in front of a different building, and at exactly two-fifteen he began looking north along Fifteenth.
   A car stopped on his side of the street. The rear door opened, and there he was. The car sped away, and he looked around. Limping ever so slightly, Stump walked casually to the man with the black cap. They spoke for seconds, then Stump walked south to the intersection of Fifteenth and L. Dude stayed in place.
   She glanced around the room. They were immersed in the story. Stump was out of sight, so she couldn’t show him to Gray, who was reading and smiling. No, they were not watching the reporter. They were waiting on the girl.
   And they had to be desperate. They were standing on the street hoping somehow a miracle would happen and the girl would emerge from the building, and they could take her out. They were scared. She was inside spilling her guts and waving copies of that damned brief. Tomorrow morning the game would be over. Somehow they had to stop her. They had their orders.
   She was in a room full of men, and suddenly she was not safe.
   Feldman finished last. He slid his copy to Gray. “Minor stuff. Should take about an hour. Let’s talk phone calls.”
   “Just three, I think,” Gray said. “The White House, FBI, and White and Blazevich.”
   “You only named Sims Wakefield at the firm. Why?” asked Krauthammer.
   “Morgan fingered him the most.”
   “But the memo is from Velmano. I think he should be named.”
   “I agree,” said Smith Keen.
   “Me too,” said DeBasio.
   “I wrote his name in,” Feldman said. “We’ll get Einstein later. Wait until four-thirty or five before you call the White House and White and Blazevich. If you do it sooner, they may go nuts and run to court.”
   “I agree,” said Litsky the lawyer. “They can’t stop it, but they can try. I’d wait until five before I called them.”
   “Okay,” Gray said. “I’ll have it reworked by three-thirty. Then I’ll call the FBI for their comment. Then the White House, then White and Blazevich.”
   Feldman was almost out the door. “We’ll meet again here at three-thirty. Stay close to your phones.”
   When the room was empty again, Darby locked the door and pointed to the window. “You’ve heard me mention Stump?”
   “Don’t tell me.”
   They scanned the street below.
   “Afraid so. He met with our little friend, then disappeared. I know it was him.”
   “I guess I’m off the hook.”
   “I guess you are. I really want to get out of here.”
   “We’ll think of something. I’ll alert our security. You want me to tell Feldman?”
   “No. Not yet.”
   “I know some cops.”
   “Great. And they can just walk up and beat the hell out of him.”
   “These cops’ll do it.”
   “They can’t bother these people. What are they doing wrong?”
   “Just planning murder.”
   “How safe are we in this building?”
   Gray thought a moment. “Let me tell Feldman. We’ll get two security guards posted by this door.”
   “Okay.”


   Feldman approved the second draft at three-thirty, and Gray was given the green light to call the FBI. Four phones were brought to the conference room, and the recorder was plugged in. Feldman, Smith Keen, and Krauthammer listened on extensions.
   Gray called Phil Norvell, a good acquaintance and sometime source, if there was such a thing within the Bureau. Norvell answered his own line.
   “Phil, Gray Grantham with the Post.”
   “I think I know who you’re with, Gray.”
   “I’ve got the recorder on.”
   “Must be serious. What’s up?”
   “We’re running a story in the morning detailing a conspiracy in the assassinations of Rosenberg and Jensen. We’re naming Victor Mattiece, an oil speculator, and two of his lawyers here in town. We also mention Verheek, not in the conspiracy, of course. We believe the FBI knew about Mattiece early on, but refused to investigate at the urging of the White House. We wanted to give you guys a chance to comment.”
   There was no response on the other end.
   “Phil, are you there?”
   “Yes. I think so.”
   “Any comment?”
   “I’m sure we will have a comment, but I’ll have to call you back.”
   “We’re going to press soon, so you need to hurry.”
   “Well, Gray, this is a shot in the ass. Could you hold it a day?”
   “No way.”
   Norvell paused. “Okay. Let me see Mr. Voyles, and I’ll call you back.”
   “Thanks.”
   “No, thank you, Gray. This is wonderful. Mr. Voyles will be thrilled.”
   “We’re waiting.” Gray punched a button and cleared the line. Keen turned off the recorder.
   They waited eight minutes, and Voyles himself was on the line. He insisted on speaking to Jackson Feldman. The recorder was back on.
   “Mr. Voyles?” Feldman said warmly. The two had met many times, so the “mister” was unnecessary.
   “Call me Denton, dammit. Look, Jackson, what’s your boy got? This is crazy. You guys are jumping off a cliff. We’ve investigated Mattiece, still investigating him, and it’s too early to move on him. Now, what’s your boy got?”
   “Does the name Darby Shaw mean anything?” Feldman grinned at her when he asked the question. She was standing against the wall.
   Voyles was slow to respond. “Yes,” he said simply.
   “My boy has the pelican brief, Denton, and I’m sitting here looking at Darby Shaw.”
   “I was afraid she was dead.”
   “No. She’s very much alive. She and Gray Grantham have confirmed from another source the facts set forth in the brief. It’s a large story, Denton.”
   Voyles sighed deeply, and threw in the towel. “We are pursuing Mattiece as a suspect,” he said.
   “The recorder’s on, Denton, be careful.”
   “Well, we need to talk. I mean, man to man. I may have some deep background for you.”
   “You’re welcome to come here.”
   “I’ll do that. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
   The editors were terribly amused at the idea of the great F. Denton Voyles hopping in his limo and rushing to the Post. They had watched him for years, and knew he was a master at cutting his losses. He hated the press, and this willingness to talk on their turf and under their gun meant only one thing—he would point the finger at someone else. And the likely target was the White House.
   Darby had no desire to meet the man. Her thoughts were on escape. She could point at the man in the black cap, but he’d been gone for thirty minutes now. And what could the FBI do? They had to catch him first, then what? Charge him with loitering and planning an ambush? Torture him and make him tell all? They probably wouldn’t believe her.
   She had no desire to deal with the FBI. She didn’t want their protection. She was about to take a trip, and no one would know where to. Maybe Gray. Maybe not.
   He punched the number for the White House, and they picked up the extensions. Keen turned on the recorder.
   “Fletcher Coal, please. This is Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and it’s very urgent.”
   He waited. “Why Coal?” Keen asked.
   “Everything has to be cleared through him,” Gray said with his hand over the receiver.
   “Says who?”
   “Says a source.”
   The secretary returned with the message that Mr. Coal was on his way. Please hold. Gray was smiling. The adrenaline was pumping.
   Finally, “Fletcher Coal.”
   “Yes, Mr. Coal. Gray Grantham at the Post. I am recording the conversation. Do you understand that?”
   “Yes.”
   “Is it true you have issued a directive to all White House personnel, except the President, to the effect that all communications with the press must first be cleared by you?”
   “Absolutely untrue. The press secretary handles those matters.”
   “I see. We’re running a story in the morning which, in summary, verifies the facts set forth in the pelican brief. Are you familiar with the pelican brief?”
   Slowly, “I am.”
   “We have confirmed that Mr. Mattiece contributed in excess of four million dollars to the President’s campaign three years ago.”
   “Four million, two hundred thousand, all through legal channels.”
   “We also believe the White House intervened and attempted to obstruct the FBI investigation into Mr. Mattiece, and we wanted your comment, if any.”
   “Is this something you believe, or is it something you intend to print?”
   “We are trying to confirm it now.”
   “And who do you think will confirm it for you?”
   “We have sources, Mr. Coal.”
   “Indeed you do. The White House emphatically denies any involvement with this investigation. The President asked to be apprised as to the status of the entire investigation after the tragic deaths of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, but there has been no direct or indirect involvement from the White House into any aspect of the investigation. You have received some bad information.”
   “Does the President consider Victor Mattiece a friend?”
   “No. They met on one occasion, and as I stated, Mr. Mattiece was a significant contributor, but he is not a friend of the President.”
   “He was the largest contributor, though, wasn’t he?”
   “I cannot confirm that.”
   “Any other comment?”
   “No. I’m sure the press secretary will address this in the morning.”
   They hung up and Keen turned off the recorder. Feldman was on his feet rubbing his hands together. “I’d give a year’s pay to be in the White House right now,” he said.
   “He’s cool, isn’t he?” Gray said with admiration.
   “Yeah, but his cool ass is now sitting deep in boiling water.”


   For a man accustomed to throwing his weight around and watching everyone flinch, it was difficult to come humbly forward with hat in hand and ask for a break. He swaggered as humbly as he could through the newsroom with K. O. Lewis and two agents in tow. He wore his customary wrinkled trench coat with the belt tied tightly around the center of his short and dumpy physique. He was not striking, but his manner and walk left no doubt he was a man accustomed to getting his way. All dressed in dark coats, they resembled a Mafia don with bodyguards. The busy newsroom grew silent as they walked quickly through it. Though not striking, F. Denton Voyles was a presence, humble or not.
   A small, tense group of editors huddled in the short hallway outside Feldman’s office. Howard Krauthammer knew Voyles, and met him as he approached. They shook hands and whispered. Feldman was on the phone to Mr. Ludwig, the publisher, who was in China. Smith Keen joined the conversation and shook hands with Voyles and Lewis. The two agents kept to themselves a few feet away.

   Feldman opened his door, looked toward the newsroom, and saw Denton Voyles. He motioned for him to come in. K. O. Lewis followed. They exchanged routine pleasantries until Smith Keen closed the door and they took a seat.
   “I take it you have solid confirmation of the pelican brief,” Voyles said.
   “We do,” Feldman answered. “Why don’t you and Mr. Lewis read a draft of the story? I think it will explain things. We’re going to press in about an hour, and the reporter, Mr. Grantham, wants you to have the opportunity to comment.”
   “I appreciate that.”
   Feldman picked up a copy of the draft and handed it to Voyles, who took it gingerly. Lewis leaned over, and they immediately started reading. “We’ll step outside,” Feldman said. “Take your time.” He and Keen left the office, and closed the door. The agents moved closer.
   Feldman and Keen walked across the newsroom to the conference door. Two large security guards stood in the hall. Gray and Darby were alone inside when they entered.
   “You need to call White and Blazevich,” Feldman said.
   “Waiting on you.”
   They picked up the extensions. Krauthammer was gone for the moment, and Keen handed his phone to Darby. Gray punched the numbers.
   “Marty Velmano, please,” Gray said. “Yes, this is Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and I need to speak to him. It’s very urgent.”
   “One moment, please,” the secretary said.
   A moment passed, and another secretary was on the phone. “Mr. Velmano’s office.”
   Gray identified himself again, and asked for her boss.
   “He’s in a meeting,” she said.
   “So am I,” Gray said. “Go to the meeting, tell him who I am, and tell him his picture will be on the front page of the Post at midnight tonight.”
   “Well, yes, sir.”
   Within seconds, Velmano said, “Yes, what’s going on?”
   Gray identified himself for the third time, and explained about the recorder.
   “I understand,” Velmano snapped.
   “We’re running a story in the morning about your client, Victor Mattiece, and his involvement in the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   “Great! We’ll sue your ass for the next twenty years. You’re out in left field, buddy. We’ll own the Post.”
   “Yes, sir. Remember, I’m recording this.”
   “Record all you want! You’ll be named as a defendant. This will be great! Victor Mattiece will own the Washington Post! This is fabulous!”
   Gray shook his head in disbelief at Darby. The editors smiled at the floor. This was about to be very funny.
   “Yes, sir. Have you heard of the pelican brief? We have a copy.”
   Dead silence. Then a distant grunt, like the last gasp of a dying dog. Then more silence.
   “Mr. Velmano. Are you there?”
   “Yes.”
   We also have a copy of a memo you sent to Sims Wakefield, dated September 28, in which you suggest your client’s position will be greatly improved if Rosenberg and Jensen are removed from the Court. We have a source that tells us this idea was researched by one called Einstein, who sits in a library on the sixth floor, I believe.”
   Silence.
   Gray continued. “We have the story ready to run, but I wanted to give you the chance to comment. Would you care to comment, Mr. Velmano?”
   “I have a headache.”
   “Okay. Anything else?”
   “Will you run the memo word for word?”
   “Yes.”
   “Will you run my picture?”
   “Yes. It’s an old one from a Senate hearing.”
   “You son of a bitch.”
   “Thank you. Anything else?”
   “I notice you’ve waited until five o’clock. An hour earlier, and we could’ve run to court and stopped this damned thing.”
   “Yes, sir. It was planned that way.”
   “You son of a bitch.”
   “Okay.”
   “You don’t mind ruining people, do you?” His voice trailed off, and he was almost pitiful. What a marvelous quote. Gray had mentioned the recorder twice, but Velmano was too shocked to remember it.
   “No, sir. Anything else?”
   “Tell Jackson Feldman the lawsuit will be filed at nine in the morning, just as soon as the courthouse opens.”
   “I’ll do that. Do you deny you wrote the memo?”
   “Of course.”
   “Do you deny the existence of the memo?”
   “It’s a fabrication.”
   “There’s no lawsuit, Mr. Velmano, and I think you know it.”
   Silence, then, “You son of a bitch.”
   The phones clicked, and they were listening to the dial tone. They smiled at each other in disbelief.
   “Don’t you want to be a journalist, Darby?” Smith Keen asked.
   “Oh, this is fun,” she said. “But I was almost mugged twice yesterday. No, thanks.”
   Feldman stood and pointed to the recorder. “I wouldn’t use any of that.”
   “But I sort of liked the part about ruining lives. And what about the lawsuit threats?” Gray asked.
   “You don’t need it, Gray. The story takes up the entire front page now. Maybe later.”
   There was a knock at the door. It was Krauthammer. “Voyles wants to see you,” he said to Feldman.
   “Bring him in here.”
   Gray stood quickly and Darby walked to the window. The sun was fading and the shadows were falling. Traffic inched along the street. There was no sign of Stump and his band of confederates, but they were there, no doubt waiting on darkness, no doubt plotting one last effort to kill her, either for prevention or revenge. Gray said he had a plan to exit the building without gunfire after the deadline. He wasn’t specific.
   Voyles entered with K. O. Lewis. Feldman introduced them to Gray Grantham, and to Darby Shaw. Voyles walked to her, smiling and looking up. “So you’re the one who started all this,” he said in an attempt at admiration. It didn’t work.
   She instantly despised him. “I think it was Mattiece,” she said coolly. He turned away and took off the trench coat.
   “Can we sit?” he asked in general.
   They sat around the table—Voyles, Lewis, Feldman, Keen, Grantham, and Krauthammer. Darby stood by the window.
   “I have some comments for the record,” Voyles announced, taking a sheet of paper from Lewis. Gray began taking notes.
   “First, we received a copy of the pelican brief two weeks ago today, and submitted it to the White House on the same day. It was personally delivered by the deputy director, K. O. Lewis, to Mr. Fletcher Coal, who received it with our daily summary to the White House. Special agent Eric East was present during the meeting. We thought it raised enough questions to be pursued, but it was not pursued for six days, until Mr. Gavin Verheek, special counsel to the director, was found murdered in New Orleans. At that time, the FBI immediately began a full-scale investigation of Victor Mattiece. Over four hundred agents from twenty-seven offices have taken part in the investigation, logging over eleven thousand hours, interviewing over six hundred people, and going to five foreign countries. The investigation is continuing in full force at this time. We believe Victor Mattiece to be the prime suspect in the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, and at this time we are attempting to locate him.”
   Voyles folded the paper and handed it back to Lewis.
   “What will you do if you find Mattiece?” Grantham asked.
   “Arrest him.”
   “Do you have a warrant?”
   “We’ll have one soon.”
   “Do you have any idea where he is?”
   “Frankly, no. We’ve been trying to locate him for a week, with no success.”
   “Did the White House interfere with your investigation of Mattiece?”
   “I’ll discuss it off the record. Agreed?”
   Gray looked at the executive editor. “Agreed,” Feldman said.
   Voyles stared at Feldman, then Keen, then Krauthammer, then Grantham. “We’re off the record, right? You cannot use this under any circumstances. Do we understand this?”
   They nodded and watched him carefully. Darby was watching too.
   Voyles looked suspiciously at Lewis. “Twelve days ago, in the Oval Office, the President of the United States asked me to ignore Victor Mattiece as a suspect. In his words, he asked me to back off.”
   “Did he give a reason?” asked Grantham.
   “The obvious. He said it would be very embarrassing and seriously damage his reelection efforts. He felt there was little merit to the pelican brief, and if it was investigated, then the press would learn of it, and he would suffer politically.”
   Krauthammer listened with his mouth open. Keen stared at the table. Feldman hung on every word.
   “Are you certain?” Gray asked.
   “I recorded the conversation. I have a tape, which I will not allow anyone to hear unless the President first denies this.”
   There was a long silence as they admired this mean little bastard and his tape recorder. A tape!
   Feldman cleared his throat. “You just saw the story. There was a delay by the FBI from the time it had the brief until it began its investigation. This must be explained in the story.”
   “You have my statement. Nothing more.”
   “Who killed Gavin Verheek?” Gray asked.
   “I will not talk about the specifics of the investigation.”
   “But do you know?”
   “We have an idea. But that’s all I’ll say.”
   Gray glanced around the table. It was obvious Voyles had nothing else to say now, and everyone relaxed at the same time. The editors savored the moment.
   Voyles loosened his tie, and almost smiled. “This is off the record, of course, but how did you guys find out about Morgan, the dead lawyer?”
   “I will not discuss the specifics of the investigation,” Gray said with a wicked grin. They all laughed.
   “What do you do now?” Krauthammer asked Voyles.
   “There’ll be a grand jury by noon tomorrow. Quick indictments. We’ll try to find Mattiece, but it’ll be difficult. We have no idea where he is. He’s spent most of the past five years in the Bahamas, but owns homes in Mexico, Panama, and Paraguay.” Voyles glanced at Darby for the second time. She was leaning against the wall by the window, hearing it all.
   “What time does the first edition come off the press?” Voyles asked.
   “They roll off all night, starting at ten-thirty,” said Keen.
   “Which edition will this story run in?”
   “Late City, a few minutes before midnight. It’s the largest edition.”
   “Will it have Coal’s picture on the front?”
   Keen looked at Krauthammer, who looked at Feldman. “I guess it should. We’ll quote you as saying the brief was personally delivered to Fletcher Coal, who we’ll also quote as saying Mattiece gave the President four point two million. Yes, I think Mr. Coal should have his face on the front, along with everyone else.”
   “I think so too,” Voyles said. “If I have a man here at midnight, can I pick up a few copies of it?”
   “Certainly,” Feldman said. “Why?”
   “Because I want to personally deliver it to Coal. I want to knock on his door at midnight, see him in his pajamas, and flash the paper in his face. Then I want to tell him I’ll be back with a grand jury subpoena, and shortly after that I’ll be back with an indictment. And shortly after that, I’ll be back with the handcuffs.”
   He said this with such pleasure it was frightening.
   “I’m glad you don’t carry a grudge,” Gray said. Only Smith Keen thought it was funny.
   “Do you think he’ll be indicted?” Krauthammer asked innocently.
   Voyles glanced at Darby again. “He’ll take the fall for the President. He’d volunteer for a firing squad to save his boss.”
   Feldman checked his watch and pushed away from the table.
   “Could I ask a favor?” Voyles asked.
   “Certainly. What?”
   “I’d like to spend a few minutes alone with Ms. Shaw. That is, if she doesn’t mind.”
   Everyone looked at Darby, who shrugged her approval. The editors and K. O. Lewis stood in unison and filed out of the room. Darby took Gray’s hand and asked him to stay. They sat opposite Voyles at the table.
   “I wanted to talk in private,” Voyles said, looking at Gray.
   “He stays,” she said. “It’s off the record.”
   “Very well.”
   She beat him to the punch. “If you plan to interrogate me, I won’t talk without an attorney present.”
   He was shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I was just wondering what’s next for you.”
   “Why should I tell you?”
   “Because we can help.”
   “Who killed Gavin?”
   Voyles hesitated. “Off the record.”

   “Off the record,” said Gray.
   “I’ll tell you who we think killed him, but first tell me how much you talked to him before he died.”
   “We talked several times over the weekend. We were supposed to meet last Monday, and leave New Orleans.”
   “When did you last talk to him?”
   “Sunday night.”
   “And where was he?”
   “In his room at the Hilton.”
   Voyles breathed deeply, and looked at the ceiling. “And you discussed with him the meeting on Monday?”
   “Yes.”
   “Had you met him before?”
   “No.”
   “The man who killed him was the same man you were holding hands with when he lost his brains.”
   She was afraid to ask. Gray did it for her. “Who was that?”
   “The great Khamel.”
   She choked and covered her eyes, and tried to say something. But it wouldn’t work.
   “This is rather confusing,” Gray said, straining to be rational.
   “Rather, yes. The man who killed Khamel is a contract operative hired independently by the CIA. He was on the scene when Callahan was killed, and I think he made contact with Darby.”
   “Rupert,” she said quietly.
   “That’s not his real name, of course, but Rupert’ll do. He’s probably got twenty names. If it’s who I think it is, he’s a British chap who’s very reliable.”
   “Do you have any idea how confusing this is?” she asked.
   “I can imagine.”
   “Why was Rupert in New Orleans? Why was he following her?” Gray asked.
   “It’s a very long story, and I don’t know all of it. I try to keep my distance from the CIA, believe me. I have enough to worry about. It goes back to Mattiece. A few years ago, he needed some money to move along his grand scheme. So he sold a piece of it to the Libyan government. I’m not sure if it was legal, but enter the CIA. Evidently they watched Mattiece and the Libyans with a great deal of interest, and when the litigation sprang up, the CIA monitored it. I don’t think they suspected Mattiece in the Supreme Court killings, but Bob Gminski was handed a copy of your little brief just a few hours after we delivered a copy to the White House. Fletcher Coal gave it to him. I have no idea who Gminski told of the brief, but the wrong words hit the wrong ears, and twenty-four hours later, Mr. Callahan is dead. And you, my dear, were very lucky.”
   “Then why don’t I feel lucky?” she said.
   “That doesn’t explain Rupert,” Gray said.
   “I don’t know this for a fact, but I suspect Gminski immediately sent Rupert to follow Darby. I think the brief initially scared Gminski more than the rest of us. He probably sent Rupert to trail her, in part to watch, and in part to protect. Then the car exploded, and suddenly Mr. Mattiece just confirmed the brief. Why else would you kill Callahan and Darby? I have reason to believe there were dozens of CIA people in New Orleans hours after the car exploded.”
   “But why?” Gray asked.
   “The brief had been legitimized, and Mattiece was killing people. Most of his business is in New Orleans. And I think the CIA was very concerned about Darby. Lucky for her. They came through when it counted.”
   “If the CIA moved so fast, why didn’t you?” she asked.
   “Fair question. We didn’t think that much of the brief, and we didn’t know half as much as the CIA. I swear, it seemed like such a long shot, and we had a dozen other suspects. We underestimated it. Plain and simple. Plus, the President asked us to back off, and it was easy to do because I’d never heard of Mattiece. Had no reason to. Then my friend Gavin got himself killed, and I sent in the troops.”
   “Why would Coal give the brief to Gminski?” Gray asked.
   “It scared him. And, truthfully, that’s one reason we sent it over. Gminski is, well, he’s Gminski, and he sometimes does things his way without regard for little obstacles like laws and such. Coal wanted the brief checked out, and he figured Gminski would do it quickly and quietly.”
   “So Gminski didn’t level with Coal.”
   “He hates Coal, which is perfectly understandable. Gminski dealt with the President, and, no, he didn’t level with him. It all happened so fast. Remember, Gminski, Coal, the President, and I first saw the brief just two weeks ago today. Gminski was probably waiting to tell the President some of the story, but just hadn’t got the chance.”
   Darby pushed her chair away, and walked back to the window. It was dark now, and the traffic was still slow and heavy. It was nice to have these mysteries revealed to her, but they created more mysteries. She just wanted to leave. She was tired of running and being chased; tired of playing reporter with Gray; tired of wondering who did what and why; tired of the guilt for writing the damned thing; tired of buying a new toothbrush every three days. She longed for a small house on a deserted stretch of beach with no phones and no people, especially ones hiding behind vehicles and buildings. She wanted to sleep for three days without nightmares and without seeing shadows. It was time to go.
   Gray watched her carefully. “She was followed to New York, then here,” he said to Voyles. “Who is it?”
   “Are you positive?” Voyles asked.
   “They were on the street all day watching the building,” Darby said, nodding to the window.
   “We’ve watched them,” Gray said. “They’re out there.”
   Voyles seemed skeptical. “Have you seen them before?” he asked Darby.
   “One of them. He watched Thomas’ memorial service in New Orleans. He chased me through the French Quarter. He almost found me in Manhattan, and I saw him chatting with another fella about five hours ago. I know it’s him.”
   “Who is it?” Gray asked Voyles again.
   “I don’t think CIA would chase you.”
   “Oh, he chased me.”
   “Do you see them now?”
   “No. They disappeared two hours ago. But they’re out there.”
   Voyles stood and stretched his thick arms. He walked slowly around the table, unwrapping a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”
   “Yes, I mind,” she said without looking at him. He laid it on the table.
   “We can help,” he said.
   “I don’t want your help,” she said to the window.
   “What do you want?”
   “I want to leave the country, but when I do, I want to make damned sure no one follows. Not you, not them, not Rupert nor any of his pals.”
   “You’ll have to come back and testify before the grand jury.”
   “Only if they can find me. I’m going to a place where subpoenas are frowned upon.”
   “What about the trial? You’ll be needed at trial.”
   “That’s at least a year from now. I’ll think about it then.”
   Voyles placed the cigar in his mouth, but did not light it. He paced and analyzed better with one between his teeth. “I’ll make you a deal.”
   “I’m not in the mood for deals.” She was leaning against the wall now, looking at him and looking at Gray.
   “It’s a good one. I’ve got planes and helicopters and plenty of men who carry guns and are not the least bit afraid of those boys out there playing hide-and-seek. First, we’ll get you out of the building, and no one will know it. Second, we’ll put you on my plane and fly you anywhere you want. Third, you can disappear from there. You have my word we will not follow. But, and fourth, you allow me to contact you through Mr. Grantham here if, and only if, it becomes urgently necessary.”
   She was looking at Gray as the offer was made, and it was obvious he liked the deal. She kept a poker face, but, damn, it sounded good. If she had trusted Gavin after the first phone call, he would be alive and she would never have held hands with Khamel. If she’d simply left New Orleans with him when he suggested, he would not have been murdered. She’d thought about this every five minutes for the past seven days.
   This thing was bigger than she was. There comes a time when you give up and start trusting people. She didn’t like this man, but for the past ten minutes he had been remarkably honest with her.
   “Is it your plane and your pilots?”
   “Yes.”
   “Where is it?”
   “Andrews.”
   “Let’s do it like this. I get on the plane, and it’s headed for Denver. And no one is on it but me, Gray, and the pilots. And thirty minutes after we take off, I instruct the pilot to go to, let’s say, Chicago. Can he do that?”
   “He has to file a flight plan before he leaves.”
   “I know. But you’re the director of the FBI, and you can pull some strings.”
   “Okay. What happens when you get to Chicago?”
   “I get off the plane alone, and it returns to Andrews with Gray.”
   “And what do you do in Chicago?”
   “I get lost in a busy airport, and catch the first flight out.”
   “That’ll work, but you have my word we won’t follow.”
   “I know. Forgive me for being so cautious.”
   “It’s a deal. When do you wish to leave?”
   She looked at Gray. “When?”
   “It’ll take me an hour to revise it again, and add Mr. Voyles’ comments.”
   “An hour,” she said to Voyles.
   “I’ll wait.”
   “Could we talk in private?” she said to Voyles while nodding at Gray.
   “Certainly.” He grabbed his trench coat, and stopped at the door. He smiled at her. “You’re a helluva lady, Ms. Shaw. Your brains and guts are bringing down one of the sickest men in this country. I admire you. And I promise I’ll always level with you.”
   He stuck the cigar in the middle of his chubby smile and left the room.
   They watched the door close. “Do you think I’ll be safe?” she asked.
   “Yes. I think he’s sincere. Plus, he has men with guns who can get you out of here. It’s okay, Darby.”
   “You can leave with me, can’t you?”
   “Sure.”
   She walked to him and put her arms around his waist. He held her tightly, and closed his eyes.


   At seven, the editors gathered around the table for the last time Tuesday night. They quickly read the section Gray added to include Voyles’ comments. Feldman walked in late with an enormous smile.
   “You will not believe this,” he said. “I’ve had two phone calls. Ludwig called from China. The President found him there and begged him to hold the story for twenty-four hours. Ludwig said the man was near tears. Ludwig, being the gentleman, listened respectfully, and politely declined. The second call was from Judge Roland, an old friend of mine. Seems as though the boys at White and Blazevich called him away from the dinner table and requested permission to file an injunction tonight with an immediate hearing. Judge Roland listened quite disrespectfully, and impolitely declined.”
   “Let’s run this baby!” Krauthammer yelled.


   The takeoff was smooth and the jet was headed due west, supposedly for Denver. It was adequate but not luxurious, but then it was owned by the taxpayers and held by a man who cared nothing for the finer things. No good whiskey, Gray determined as he opened the cabinets. Voyles was an abstainer, and at the moment this really irritated Gray since he was a guest and dying of thirst. He found two semichilled Sprites in the refrigerator, and handed one to Darby. She popped the top of the can.
   The jet appeared to be level. The copilot appeared in the door of their cabin. He was polite and introduced himself.
   “We were told that we would have a new destination shortly after takeoff.”
   “That’s correct,” Darby said.
   “Fine. Uh, we’ll need to know something in about ten minutes.”
   “Okay.”
   “Is there any liquor on this thing?” Gray asked.
   “Sorry.” The copilot smiled, and returned to the cockpit.
   Darby and her long legs consumed most of the small sofa, but he was determined to join her. He lifted her feet and sat at the end of it. They were in his lap. Red toenails. He rubbed her ankles and thought only of this first major event—the holding of the feet. It was terribly intimate for him, but didn’t seem to faze her. She was smiling a little now, unwinding. It was over.
   “Were you scared?” he asked.
   “Yes. And you?”

   “Yes, but I felt safe. I mean, it’s hard to feel vulnerable with six armed buddies using their bodies as shields. It’s hard to feel watched in the rear of a van with no windows.”
   “Voyles loved it, didn’t he?”
   “He was like Napoleon, making plans and directing troops. It’s a big moment for him. He’ll take a shot in the morning, but it’ll bounce off. The only person who can fire him is the President, and I’d say Voyles has control of him at the moment.”
   “And the murders are solved. He has to feel good about that.”
   “I think we’ve added ten years to his career. What have we done!”
   “I think he’s cute,” Darby said. “I didn’t like him at first, but he sort of grows on you. And he’s human. When he mentioned Verheek, I saw a trace of water in his eyes.”
   “A real sweetheart. I’m sure Fletcher Coal will be delighted to see this cute little man in a few hours.”
   Her feet were long and thin. Perfect, really. He rubbed along the top of them, and felt like a sophomore moving up from the knee on the second date. They were pale, and needed sun, and he knew that in a few short days they would be brown with sand permanently stuck between the toes. He had not been invited to visit later, and this was disturbing. He had no idea where she was going, and this was intentional. He was not certain she knew her destination.
   The foot play reminded her of Thomas. He’d get half drunk and smear polish around the nails. With the jet humming and shaking softly, he was suddenly many miles removed from her. He’d been dead for two weeks, but it seemed much longer. There’d been so many changes. It was better this way. If she was at Tulane, walking by his office, seeing his classroom, talking to the other professors, staring at his apartment from the street, it would be awfully painful. The little reminders are nice for the long run, but during the mourning they get in the way.
   She was a different person now, with a different life in a different place.
   And a different man was rubbing her feet. He was an ass at first, cocky and abrasive, a typical reporter. But he was thawing rapidly, and under the jaded layer she was finding a warm man who obviously liked her very much.
   “Tomorrow’s a big day for you,” she said.
   He took a sip of straight Sprite. He would pay an outrageous sum of money for a ice-cold imported beer in a green bottle. “Big day,” he said, admiring the toes. It would be more than a big day, but he felt the need to understate it. At this moment, she had his attention, not the chaos of tomorrow.
   “What’ll happen?” she asked.
   “I’ll probably go back to the office and wait for it to hit. Smith Keen said he would be there all night. A lot of people will be in early. We’ll gather in the conference room, and they’ll bring more televisions. We’ll spend the morning watching it break. It’ll be great fun listening to the official White House response. White and Blazevich will say something. Who knows about Mattiece. Chief Runyan will have a comment. Voyles will be very visible. The lawyers will assemble grand juries. And the politicians will be delirious. They’ll hold press conferences all day on Capitol Hill. It will be a rather significant news day. I hate you’ll miss it.”
   She gave a little sarcastic snort. “What’s your next story?”
   “Probably Voyles and his tape. You have to anticipate a White House denial of any interference, and if the ink gets too hot for Voyles, he’ll attack with a vengeance. I’d like to have the tape.”
   “And after that?”
   “Depends on a lot of unknowns. After six o’clock in the morning, the competition gets much stiffer. There’ll be a million rumors and a thousand stories, but every paper in the country will be wedging in.”
   “But you’ll be the star,” she said with admiration, not sarcasm.
   “Yeah, I’ll get my fifteen minutes.”
   The copilot knocked on the door and opened it. He looked at Darby.
   “Atlanta,” she said, and he closed the door.
   “Why Atlanta?” Gray asked.
   “You ever changed planes at Atlanta?”
   “Sure.”
   “You ever got lost changing planes at Atlanta?”
   “I think so.”
   “I rest my case. It’s huge and wonderfully busy.”
   He emptied the can and set it on the floor. “Where to from there?” He knew he shouldn’t ask because she hadn’t volunteered. But he wanted to know.
   “I’ll catch a quick flight somewhere. I’ll do my four-airports-in-one-night routine. It’s probably unnecessary, but I’ll feel safer. I’ll eventually land somewhere in the Caribbean.”
   Somewhere in the Caribbean. That narrowed it to a thousand islands. Why was she so vague? Did she not trust him? He was sitting here playing with her feet and she wouldn’t tell him where she was going.
   “What do I tell Voyles?” he asked.
   “I’ll call you when I get there. Or I might drop you a line.”
   Great! They could be pen pals. He could send her his stories and she could send postcards from the beach.
   “Will you hide from me?” he asked, looking at her.
   “I don’t know where I’m going, Gray. I won’t know until I get there.”
   “But you’ll call?”
   “Eventually, yes. I promise.”


   By 11 P.M., only five lawyers remained in the offices of White and Blazevich, and they were in Marty Velmano’s on the tenth floor. Velmano, Sims Wakefield, Jarreld Schwabe, Nathaniel (Einstein) Jones, and a retired partner named Frank Cortz. Two bottles of Scotch sat on the edge of Velmano’s desk. One was empty, the other almost there. Einstein sat alone in one corner, mumbling to himself. He had wild, curly gray hair and a pointed nose, and indeed looked crazy. Especially now. Sims Wakefield and Jarreld Schwabe sat in front of the desk with ties off and sleeves rolled up.
   Cortz finished a phone chat with an aide to Victor Mattiece. He handed the phone to Velmano, who placed it on the desk.
   “That was Strider,” Cortz reported. “They’re in Cairo in the penthouse suite of some hotel. Mattiece will not talk to us. Strider says he’s over the edge, acting very bizarre. He’s locked himself in a room, and, needless to say, he ain’t coming to this side of the ocean. Strider says they’ve told the boys with the guns to get out of town immediately. The chase is off. The fat lady is singing.”
   “So what’re we supposed to do?” asked Wakefield.
   “We’re on our own,” said Cortz. “Mattiece has washed his hands of us.”
   They spoke quietly and deliberately. The screaming ended hours ago. Wakefield blamed Velmano for the memo. Velmano blamed Cortz for bringing in a sleazy client like Mattiece in the first place. That was twelve years ago, Cortz screamed back, and we’ve enjoyed his fees ever since. Schwabe blamed Velmano and Wakefield for being so careless with the memo. They dragged Morgan through the mud again and again. It had to be him. Einstein sat in the corner and watched them. But that was all behind them now.
   “Grantham mentioned only me and Sims,” Velmano said. “The rest of you guys may be safe.”
   “Why don’t you and Sims skip the country?” Schwabe said.
   “I’ll be in New York at 6 A.M.” Velmano said. “Then to Europe for a month on the trains.”
   “I can’t run,” Wakefield said. “I’ve got a wife and six kids.”
   They’d heard him whine about his six kids for five hours now. As if they didn’t have families. Velmano was divorced, and his two children were grown. They could handle it. And he could handle it. It was time to retire anyway. He had plenty of money stashed away, and he loved Europe, especially Spain, and so it was adios for him. He sort of pitied Wakefield, who was only forty-two and didn’t have a lot of money. He earned well, but his wife was a spendthrift who had a penchant for babies. Wakefield was unbalanced at the moment.
   “I don’t know what I’ll do,” Wakefield said for the thirtieth time. “I just don’t know.”
   Schwabe tried to be a bit helpful. “I think you should go home and tell your wife. I don’t have one, but if I did I’d try to brace her for it.”
   “I can’t do that,” Wakefield said pitifully.
   “Sure you can. You can tell her now, or wait six hours and she’ll see your picture on the front page. You have to go tell her, Sims.”
   “I can’t do that.” He was almost in tears again.
   Schwabe looked at Velmano and Cortz.
   “What about my children?” he asked again. “My oldest son is thirteen.” He rubbed his eyes.
   “Come on, Sims. Get a grip,” Cortz said.
   Einstein stood and walked to the door. “I’ll be at my place in Florida. Don’t call unless it’s urgent.” He opened the door and slammed it behind him.
   Wakefield stood weakly and started for the door.
   “Where are you going, Sims?” asked Schwabe.
   “To my office.”
   “What for?”
   “I need to lie down. I’m okay.”
   “Let me drive you home,” Schwabe said. They watched him carefully. He was opening the door.
   “I’m fine,” he said, and he sounded stronger. He closed it when he left.
   “You think he’s okay?” Schwabe asked Velmano. “He worries me.”
   “I wouldn’t say he’s okay,” Velmano said. “We’ve all had better days. Why don’t you go check on him in a few minutes?”
   “I’ll do that,” Schwabe said.
   Wakefield walked deliberately to the stairway and down one flight to the ninth floor. He picked up speed as he approached his office. He was crying when he locked the door behind him.
   Do it quick! Forget the note. If you write it, you’ll talk yourself out of it. There’s a million in life insurance. He opened a desk drawer. Don’t think about the kids. It would be the same if he died in a plane crash. He pulled the .38 from under a file. Do it quick! Don’t look at their pictures on the wall.
   Maybe they’ll understand one day. He stuck it deep in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.


   The limo stopped abruptly in front of the two-story home in Dumbarton Oaks, in upper Georgetown. It blocked the street and that was fine because it was twenty minutes after midnight, and there was no traffic. Voyles and two agents jumped from the rear of the car, and walked quickly to the front door. Voyles held a newspaper. He banged the door with his fist.
   Coal was not asleep. He was sitting in the dark in the den in his pajamas and bathrobe, so Voyles was quite pleased when he opened his door.
   “Nice pajamas,” Voyles said, admiring his pants.
   Coal stepped onto the tiny concrete porch. The two agents were watching from the narrow sidewalk. “What the hell do you want?” he asked slowly.
   “Just brought you this,” Voyles said, sticking the paper in his face. “Gotta a nice picture of you right next to the President hugging Mattiece. I know how much you like newspapers, so I thought I’d bring you one.”
   “Your face’ll be in it tomorrow,” Coal said as if he’d already written the story.
   Voyles threw the paper at his feet, and started walking off. “I got some tapes, Coal. You start lying, and I’ll jerk your pants off in public.”
   Coal stared at him, but said nothing.
   Voyles was near the street. “I’ll be back in two days with a grand jury subpoena,” he yelled. “I’ll come about two in the morning and serve it myself.” He was at the car. “Next I’ll bring an indictment. Of course, by then your ass’ll be history and the President’ll have a new bunch of idiots telling him what to do.” He disappeared into the limo, and it sped away.
   Coal picked up the paper, and went inside.


   Gray and Smith Keen sat alone in the conference room, reading the words in print. He was many years beyond the excitement of seeing his stories on the front page, but this one brought a rush with it. There had been none bigger. The faces were lined neatly across the top—Mattiece hugging the President, Coal talking importantly on the phone in an official White House photo, Velmano sitting before a Senate subcommittee, Wakefield cropped from a bar convention picture, Verheek smiling at the camera in an FBI release, Callahan from the yearbook, and Morgan in a photo taken from the video. Mrs. Morgan had consented. Paypur, the night police reporter, had told them about Wakefield an hour earlier. Gray was depressed about it. But he wouldn’t blame himself.
   They began drifting in around 3 A.M. Krauthammer brought a dozen doughnuts, and promptly ate four of them while he admired the front page. Ernie DeBasio was next. Said he hadn’t slept any. Feldman arrived fresh and hyper. By four-thirty, the room was full and four televisions were going. CNN got it first, and within minutes the networks were live from the White House, which had no comment at the moment but Zikman would say something at seven.
   With the exception of Wakefield’s death, there was nothing new initially. The networks bounced back and forth between the White House, the Supreme Court, and the news desks.
   They waited at the Hoover Building, which was very quiet at the moment. They flashed the photos from the papers. They couldn’t find Velmano. They speculated about Mattiece. CNN showed live footage of the Morgan house in Alexandria, but Morgan’s father-in-law kept the cameras off the property. NBC had a reporter standing in front of the building where White and Blazevich had offices, but he had nothing new. And though she wasn’t quoted in the story, there was no secret about the identity of the author of the brief. There was much speculation about Darby Shaw.
   At seven, the room was packed and silent. The four screens were identical as Zikman walked nervously to the podium in the White House press room. He was tired and haggard. He read a short statement in which the White House admitted receiving the campaign money from a number of channels controlled by Victor Mattiece, but he emphatically denied any of the money was dirty. The President had met Mr. Mattiece only once, and that was when he was the Vice President. He had not spoken to the man since being elected President, and certainly did not consider him a friend, in spite of the money. The campaign had received over fifty million, and the President handled none of it. He had a committee for that. No one in the White House had attempted to interfere with the investigation of Victor Mattiece as a suspect, and any allegations to the contrary were flat wrong. Based on their limited knowledge, Mr. Mattiece no longer lived in this country. The President welcomes a full investigation into the allegations contained in the Post story, and if Mr. Mattiece was the perpetrator of these heinous crimes, then he must be brought to justice. This was simply a statement for the time being. A full press conference would follow. Zikman darted from the podium.

   It was a weak performance by a troubled press secretary, and Gray was relieved. He suddenly found himself crowded, and needed fresh air. He found Smith Keen outside the door.
   “Let’s go eat breakfast,” he whispered.
   “Sure.”
   “I need to run by my apartment too, if you don’t mind. I haven’t seen it in four days.”
   They flagged a cab on Fifteenth, and enjoyed the crisp autumn air rushing in the open windows.
   “Where’s the girl?” Keen asked.
   “I have no idea. I last saw her in Atlanta, about nine hours ago. She said she was headed for the Caribbean.”
   Keen was grinning. “I assume you’ll want a long vacation soon.”
   “How’d you guess?”
   “There’s a lot of work to be done, Gray. Right now we’re in the middle of the explosion, and the pieces start falling to earth very soon. You’re the man of the hour, but you must keep pushing. You must pick up the pieces.”
   “I know my job, Smith.”
   “Yeah, but you’ve got this faraway look in your eyes. It worries me.”
   “You’re an editor. You get paid for worrying.”
   They stopped at the intersection at Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House sat majestically before them. It was almost November, and the wind blew leaves across the lawn.


   After eight days in the sun, the skin was brown enough and the hair was returning to its natural color. Maybe she hadn’t ruined it. She walked miles up and down the beaches and ate nothing but broiled fish and island fruit. She slept a lot the first few days, then got tired of it.
   She had spent the first night in San Juan, where she found a travel agent who claimed to be an expert on the Virgin Islands. The lady found a small room in a guest house in downtown Charlotte Amalie, on the island of St. Thomas. Darby wanted crowds and lots of traffic on narrow streets, at least for a couple of days. Charlotte Amalie was perfect. The guest house was on a hillside, four blocks away from the harbor, and her tiny room was on the third floor. There were no shutters or curtains on the cracked window, and the sun woke her the first morning, a sensuous wake-up call that summoned her to the window and displayed for her the majesty of the harbor. It was breathtaking. A dozen cruise ships of all sizes sat perfectly still in the shimmering water. They stretched in a careless formation almost to the horizon. In the foreground, near the pier, a hundred sailboats dotted the harbor and seemed to keep the bulky tourist ships at bay. The water under the sailboats was a clear, soft blue, and as smooth as glass. It gently curled around Hassel Island, and grew darker until it was indigo and then violet. as it touched the horizon. A perfect row of cumulus clouds marked the line where the water met the sky.
   Her watch was in a bag, and she had no plans to wear it for at least six months. But she glanced at her wrist anyway. The window opened with a strain, and the sounds of the shopping district echoed through the streets. The warmth filtered in like a sauna.
   She stood in the small window for an hour that first morning on the island, and watched the harbor come to life. There was no hurry. It woke gently as the big ships inched through the water, and soft voices came from the decks of the sailboats. The first person she saw on a boat jumped into the water for a morning swim.
   She could grow accustomed to this. Her room was small but clean. There was no air conditioner, but the fan worked fine and it was not unpleasant. The water ran most of the time. She decided to stay here a couple of days, maybe a week. The building was one of dozens packed tightly together along streets that ran down to the harbor. For the moment, she liked the safety of crowds and streets. She could walk and find whatever she needed. St. Thomas was known for its shopping, and she cherished the idea of buying clothes she could keep.
   There were fancier rooms, but this would do for now. When she left San Juan, she vowed to stop looking over her shoulder. She’d seen the paper in Miami, and she’d watched the frenzy on a television in the airport, and she knew Mattiece had disappeared. If they were stalking now, it was simply revenge. And if they found her after the crisscrossing journey she had taken, then they were not human, and she would never lose them.
   They weren’t back there, and she believed this. She stayed close to the small room for two days, never venturing far. The shopping district was a short walk away. Only four blocks long and two blocks deep, it was a maze of hundreds of small and unique stores selling everything. The sidewalks and alleys were crammed with Americans from the big ships. She was just another tourist with a wide straw hat and colorful shorts.
   She bought her first novel in a year and a half, and read it in two days while lying on the small bed under the gentle rush from the ceiling fan. She vowed to read nothing about the law until she was fifty. At least once an hour, she walked to the open window and studied the harbor. Once she counted twenty cruise ships waiting to dock.
   The room served its purpose. She spent time with Thomas, and cried, and was determined to do it for the last time. She wanted to leave the guilt and pain in this tiny corner of Charlotte Amalie, and exit with the good memories and a clean conscience. It was not as difficult as she tried to make it, and by the third day there were no more tears. She’d thrown the paperback only once.
   On the fourth morning, she packed her new bags and took a ferry to Cruz Bay, twenty minutes away on the island of St. John. She took a taxi along the North Shore Road. The windows were down and the wind blew across the backseat. The music was a rhythmic mixture of blues and reggae. The cab-driver tapped the wheel and sang along. She tapped her foot and closed her eyes to the breeze. It was intoxicating.
   He left the road at Maho Bay, and drove slowly toward the water. She’d picked this spot from a hundred islands because it was undeveloped. Only a handful of beach houses and cottages were permitted in this bay. The driver stopped on a narrow, tree-lined road, and she paid him.
   The house was almost at the point where the mountain met the sea. The architecture was pure Caribbean—white wood frame under a red tile roof—and built barely on the incline to provide for the view. She walked down a short trail from the road, and up the steps to the house. It was a single story with two bedrooms and a porch facing the water. It cost two thousand a week, and she had it for a month.
   She placed her bags on the floor of the den, and walked to her porch. The beach started thirty feet below her. The waves rolled silently to the shore. Two sailboats sat motionless in the bay, which was secluded by mountains on three sides. A rubber raft full of kids splashing moved aimlessly between the boats.
   The nearest dwelling was down the beach. She could barely see its roof above the trees. A few bodies relaxed in the sand. She quickly changed into a tiny bikini, and walked to the water.


   It was almost dark when the taxi finally stopped at the trail. He got out, paid the driver, and looked at the lights as the cab drove in front of him and disappeared. He had one bag, and he eased along the trail to the house, which was unlocked. The lights were on. He found her on the porch, sipping a frozen drink and looking like a native with bronze skin.
   She was waiting on him, and this was so damned important. He didn’t want to be treated like a houseguest. Her face smiled instantly, and she set her drink on the table.
   They kissed on the porch for a long minute. “You’re late,” she said as they held each other.
   “This was not the easiest place to find,” Gray said. He was rubbing her back, which was bare down to the waist where a long skirt began and covered most of the legs. He would see them later.
   “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, looking at the bay.
   “It’s magnificent,” he said. He stood behind her as they watched a sailboat drift toward the sea. He held her shoulders. “You’re gorgeous.”
   “Let’s go for a walk.”
   He changed quickly into a pair of shorts, and found her waiting by the water. They held hands and walked slowly.
   “Those legs need work,” she said.
   “Rather pale, aren’t they?” he said.
   Yes, she thought, they were pale, but they weren’t bad. Not bad at all. The stomach was flat. A week on the beach with her, and he’d look like a lifeguard. They splashed water with their feet.
   “You left early,” she said.
   “I got tired of it. I’ve written a story a day since the big one, yet they want more. Keen wanted this, and Feldman wanted that, and I was working eighteen hours a day. Yesterday I said good-bye.”
   “I haven’t seen a paper in a week,” she said.
   “Coal quit. They’ve set him up to take the fall, but indictments look doubtful. I don’t think the President did much, really. He’s just dumb and can’t help it. You read about Wakefield?”
   “Yes.”
   “Velmano, Schwabe, and Einstein have been indicted, but they can’t find Velmano. Mattiece, of course, has been indicted, along with four of his people. There’ll be more indictments later. It dawned on me a few days ago that there was no big cover-up at the White House, so I lost steam. I think it killed his reelection, but he’s not a felon. The city’s a circus.”
   They walked in silence as it grew darker. She’d heard enough of this, and he was sick of it too. There was half a moon, and it reflected on the still water. She put her arm around his waist, and he pulled her closer. They were in the sand, away from the water. The house was a half a mile behind them.
   “I’ve missed you,” she said softly.
   He breathed deeply but said nothing.
   “How long will you stay?” she asked.
   “I don’t know. A couple of weeks. Maybe a year. It’s up to you.”
   “How about a month?”
   “I can do a month.”
   She smiled at him, and his knees were weak. She looked at the bay, at the moon’s reflection in the center of it as the sailboat crawled by. “Let’s take it a month at a time, okay Gray?”
   “Perfect.”

The Summons

John Grisham

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39

John Grisham
The Summons

Chapter 1

   It came by mail, regular postage, the old-fashioned way since the Judge was almost eighty and distrusted modern devices. Forget e-mail and even faxes. He didn’t use an answering machine and had never been fond of the telephone. He pecked out his letters with both index fingers, one feeble key at a time, hunched over his old Underwood manual on a rolltop desk under the portrait of Nathan Bedford Forrest. The Judge’s grandfather had fought with Forrest at Shiloh and throughout the Deep South, and to him no figure in history was more revered. For thirty-two years, the Judge had quietly refused to hold court on July 13, Forrest’s birthday.
   It came with another letter, a magazine, and two invoices, and was routinely placed in the law school mailbox of Professor Ray Atlee. He recognized it immediately since such envelopes had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. It was from his lather, a man he too called the Judge.
   Professor Atlee studied the envelope, uncertain whether he should open it right there or wait a moment. Good news or bad, he never knew with the Judge, though the old man was dying and good news had been rare. It was thin and appeared to contain only one sheet of paper; nothing unusual about that. The Judge was frugal with the written word, though he’d once been known for his windy lectures from the bench.
   It was a business letter, that much was certain. The Judge was not one for small talk, hated gossip and idle chitchat, whether written or spoken. Ice tea with him on the porch would be a refighting of the Civil War, probably at Shiloh, where he would once again lay all blame for the Confederate defeat at the shiny, untouched boots of General Pierre G. T. Beauregard, a man he would hate even in heaven, if by chance they met there.
   He’d be dead soon. Seventy-nine years old with cancer in his stomach. He was overweight, a diabetic, a heavy pipe smoker, had a bad heart that had survived three attacks, and a host of lesser ailments that had tormented him for twenty years and were now finally closing in for the kill. The pain was constant. During their last phone call three weeks earlier, a call initiated by Ray because the Judge thought long distance was a rip-off, the old man sounded weak and strained. They had talked for less than two minutes.
   The return address was gold-embossed: Chancellor Reuben V Atlee, 25th Chancery District, Ford County Courthouse, Clanton, Mississippi. Ray slid the envelope into the magazine and began walking. Judge Atlee no longer held the office of chancellor. The voters had retired him nine years earlier, a bitter defeat from which he would never recover. Thirty-two years of diligent service to his people, and they tossed him out in favor of a younger man with radio and television ads. The Judge had refused to campaign. He claimed he had too much work to do, and, more important, the people knew him well and if they wanted to reelect him then they would do so. His strategy had seemed arrogant to many. He carried Ford County but got shellacked in the other five.
   It took three years to get him out of the courthouse. His office on the second floor had survived a fire and had missed two renovations. The Judge had not allowed them to touch it with paint or hammers. When the county supervisors finally convinced him that he had to leave or be evicted, he boxed up three decades’ worth of useless files and notes and dusty old books and took them home and stacked them in his study. When the study was full, he lined them down the hallways into the dining room and even the foyer.
   Ray nodded to a student who was seated in the hall. Outside his office, he spoke to a colleague. Inside, he locked the door behind him and placed the mail in the center of his desk. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the door, stepped over a stack of thick law books he’d been stepping over for half a year, and then to himself uttered his daily vow to organize the place.
   The room was twelve by fifteen, with a small desk and a small sofa, both covered with enough work to make Ray seem like a very busy man. He was not. For the spring semester he was teaching one section of antitrust. And he was supposed to be writing a book, another drab, tedious volume on monopolies that would be read by no one but would add handsomely to his pedigree. He had tenure, but like all serious professors he was ruled by the “publish or perish” dictum of academic life.
   He sat at his desk and shoved papers out of the way.
   The envelope was addressed to Professor N. Ray Atlee, University of Virginia School of Law, Charlottesville, Virginia. The e’s and o’s were smudged together. A new ribbon had been needed for a decade. The Judge didn’t believe in zip codes either.
   The N was for Nathan, after the general, but few people knew it. One of their uglier fights had been over the son’s decision to drop Nathan altogether and plow through life simply as Ray.
   The Judge’s letters were always sent to the law school, never to his son’s apartment in downtown Charlottesville. The Judge liked titles and important addresses, and he wanted folks in Clanton, even the postal workers, to know that his son was a professor of law. It was unnecessary. Ray had been teaching (and writing) for thirteen years, and those who mattered in Ford County knew it.
   He opened the envelope and unfolded a single sheet of paper. It too was grandly embossed with the Judge’s name and former title and address, again minus the zip code. The old man probably had an unlimited supply of the stationery.
   It was addressed to both Ray and his younger brother, Forrest, the only two offspring of a bad marriage that had ended in 1969 with the death of their mother. As always, the message was brief:


   Please make arrangements to appear in my study on Sunday, May 7, at 5 P.M., to discuss the administration of my estate.
   Sincerely,

Reuben V Atlee

   The distinctive signature had shrunk and looked unsteady. For years it had been emblazoned across orders and decrees that had changed countless lives. Decrees of divorce, child custody, termination of parental rights, adoptions. Orders settling will contests, election contests, land disputes, annexation fights. The Judge’s autograph had been authoritative and well known; now it was the vaguely familiar scrawl of a very sick old man.
   Sick or not, though, Ray knew that he would be present in his father’s study at the appointed time. He had just been summoned, and as irritating as it was, he had no doubt that he and his brother would drag themselves before His Honor for one more lecture. It was typical of the Judge to pick a day that was convenient for him without consulting anybody else.
   It was the nature of the Judge, and perhaps most judges for that matter, to set dates for hearings and deadlines with little regard for the convenience of others. Such heavy-handedness was learned and even required when dealing with crowded dockets, reluctant litigants, busy lawyers, lazy lawyers. But the Judge had run his family in pretty much the same manner as he’d run his courtroom, and that was the principal reason Ray Atlee was teaching law in Virginia and not practicing it in Mississippi.
   He read the summons again, then put it away, on top of the pile of current matters to deal with. He walked to the window and looked out at the courtyard where everything was in bloom. He wasn’t angry or bitter, just frustrated that his father could once again dictate so much. But the old man was dying, he told himself. Give him a break. There wouldn’t be many more trips home.
   The Judge’s estate was cloaked with mystery. The principal asset was the house—an antebellum hand-me-down from the same Atlee who’d fought with General Forrest. On a shady street in old Atlanta it would be worth over a million dollars, but not in Clanton. It sat in the middle of five neglected acres three blocks off the town square. The floors sagged, the roof leaked, paint had not touched the walls in Ray’s lifetime. He and his brother could sell it for perhaps a hundred thousand dollars, but the buyer would need twice that to make it livable. Neither would ever live there; in fact, Forrest had not set foot in the house in many years.
   The house was called Maple Run, as if it were some grand estate with a staff and a social calendar. The last worker had been Irene the maid. She’d died four years earlier and since then no one had vacuumed the floors or touched the furniture with polish. The Judge paid a local felon twenty dollars a week to cut the grass, and he did so with great reluctance. Eighty dollars a month was robbery, in his learned opinion.
   When Ray was a child, his mother referred to their home as Maple Run. They never had dinners at their home, but rather at Maple Run. Their address was not the Atlees on Fourth Street, but instead it was Maple Run on Fourth Street. Few other folks in Clan-ton had names for their homes.
   She died from an aneurysm and they laid her on a table in the front parlor. For two days the town stopped by and paraded across the front porch, through the foyer, through the parlor for last respects, then to the dining room for punch and cookies. Ray and Forrest hid in the attic and cursed their father for tolerating such a spectacle. That was their mother lying down there, a pretty young woman now pale and stiff in an open coffin.
   Forrest had always called it Maple Ruin. The red and yellow maples that once lined the street had died of some unknown disease. Their rotted stumps had never been cleared. Four huge oaks shaded the front lawn. They shed leaves by the ton, far too many for anyone to rake and gather. And at least twice a year the oaks would lose a branch that would fall and crash somewhere onto the house, where it might or might not get removed. The house stood there year after year, decade after decade, taking punches but never falling.
   It was still a handsome house, a Georgian with columns, once a monument to those who’d built it, and now a sad reminder of a declining family. Ray wanted nothing to do with it. For him the house was filled with unpleasant memories and each trip back depressed him. He certainly couldn’t afford the financial black hole of maintaining an estate that ought to be bulldozed. Forrest would burn it before he owned it.
   The Judge, however, wanted Ray to take the house and keep it in the family. This had been discussed in vague terms over the past few years. Ray had never mustered the courage to ask, “What family?” He had no children. There was an ex-wife but no prospect of a current one. Same for Forrest, except he had a dizzying collection of ex-girlfriends and a current housing arrangement with Ellie, a three-hundred-pound painter and potter twelve years his senior.
   It was a biological miracle that Forrest had produced no children, but so far none had been discovered.
   The Atlee bloodline was thinning to a sad and inevitable halt, which didn’t bother Ray at all. He was living life for himself, not for the benefit of his father or the family’s glorious past. He returned to Clanton only for funerals.
   The Judge’s other assets had never been discussed. The Atlee family had once been wealthy, but long before Ray. There had been land and cotton and slaves and railroads and banks and politics, the usual Confederate portfolio of holdings that, in terms of cash, meant nothing in the late twentieth century. It did, however, bestow upon the Atlees the status of “family money.”
   By the time Ray was ten he knew his family had money. His father was a judge and his home had a name, and in rural Mississippi this meant he was indeed a rich kid. Before she died his mother did her best to convince Ray and Forrest that they were better than most folks. They lived in a mansion. They were Presbyterians. They vacationed in Florida, every third year. They occasionally went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis for dinner. Their clothes were nicer.
   Then Ray was accepted at Stanford. His bubble burst when the Judge said bluntly, “I can’t afford it.”
   “What do you mean?” Ray had asked.
   “I mean what I said. I can’t afford Stanford.”
   “But I don’t understand.”
   “Then I’ll make it plain. Go to any college you want. But if you go to Sewanee, then I’ll pay for it.”
   Ray went to Sewanee, without the baggage of family money, and was supported by his father, who provided an allowance that barely covered tuition, books, board, and fraternity dues. Law school was at Tulane, where Ray survived by waiting tables at an oyster bar in the French Quarter.
   For thirty-two years, the Judge had earned a chancellor’s salary, which was among the lowest in the country. While at Tulane Ray read a report on judicial compensation, and he was saddened to learn that Mississippi judges were earning fifty-two thousand dollars a year when the national average was ninety-five thousand.
   The Judge lived alone, spent little on the house, had no bad habits except for his pipe, and he preferred cheap tobacco. He drove an old Lincoln, ate bad food but lots of it, and wore the same black suits he’d been wearing since the fifties. His vice was charity. He saved his money, then he gave it away.
   No one knew how much money the Judge donated annually.
   An automatic ten percent went to the Presbyterian Church. Sewanee got two thousand dollars a year, same for the Sons of Confederate Veterans. Those three gifts were carved in granite. The rest were not.
   Judge Atlee gave to anyone who would ask. A crippled child in need of crutches. An all-star team traveling to a state tournament. A drive by the Rotary Club to vaccinate babies in the Congo. A shelter for stray dogs and cats in Ford County. A new roof for Clanton’s only museum.
   The list was endless, and all that was necessary to receive a check was to write a short letter and ask for it. Judge Atlee always sent money and had been doing so ever since Ray and Forrest left home.
   Ray could see him now, lost in the clutter and dust of his roll-top, pecking out short notes on his Underwood and sticking them in his chancellor’s envelopes with scarcely readable checks drawn on the First National Bank of Clanton—fifty dollars here, a hundred dollars there, a little for everyone until it was all gone.
   The estate would not be complicated because there would be so little to inventory. The ancient law books, threadbare furniture, painful family photos and mementos, long forgotten files and papers—all a bunch of rubbish that would make an impressive bonfire. He and Forrest would sell the house for whatever it might bring and be quite happy to salvage anything from the last of the Atlee family money.
   He should call Forrest, but those calls were always easy to put off. Forrest was a different set of issues and problems, much more complicated than a dying, reclusive old father hell-bent on giving away his money. Forrest was a living, walking disaster, a boy of thirty-six whose mind had been deadened by every legal and illegal substance known to American culture.
   What a family, Ray mumbled to himself.
   He posted a cancellation for his eleven o’clock class, and went for therapy.

Chapter 2

   Spring in the Piedmont, calm clear skies, the foothills growing greener by the day, the Shenandoah Valley changing as the farmers crossed and recrossed their perfect rows. Rain was forecast for tomorrow, though no forecast could be trusted in central Virginia.
   With almost three hundred hours under his belt, Ray began each day with an eye on the sky as he jogged five miles. The running he could do come rain or shine, the flying he could not. He had promised himself (and his insurance company) that he would not fly at night and would not venture into clouds. Ninety-five percent of all small plane crashes happened either in weather or in darkness, and after nearly three years of flying Ray was still determined to be a coward. “There are old pilots and bold pilots,” the adage went, “but no old bold pilots.” He believed it, and with conviction.
   Besides, central Virginia was too beautiful to buzz over in clouds. He waited for perfect weather—no wind to push him around and make landings complicated, no haze to dim the horizon and get him lost, no threat of storms or moisture. Clear skies during his jog usually determined the rest of his day. He could move lunch up or back, cancel a class, postpone his research to a rainy day, or a rainy week for that matter. The right forecast, and Ray was off to the airport.
   It was north of town, a fifteen-minute drive from the law school. At Docker’s Flight School he was given the normal rude welcome by Dick Docker, Charlie Yates, and Fog Newton, the three retired Marine pilots who owned the place and had trained most of the private aviators in the area. They held court each day in the Cockpit, a row of old theater chairs in the front office of the flight school, and from there they drank coffee by the gallon and told flying tales and lies that grew by the hour. Each customer and student got the same load of verbal abuse, like it or not, take it or leave it, they didn’t care. They were drawing nice pensions.
   The sight of Ray prompted the latest round of lawyer jokes, none of which were particularly funny, all of which drew howls at the punch lines.
   “No wonder you don’t have any students,” Ray said as he did the paperwork.
   “Where you going?” demanded Docker.
   “Just punching a few holes in the sky.”
   “We’ll alert air traffic control.”
   “You’re much too busy for that.”
   Ten minutes of insults and rental forms, and Ray was free to go. For eighty bucks an hour he could rent a Cessna that would take him a mile above the earth, away from people, phones, traffic, students, research, and, on this day, even farther from his dying father, his crazy brother, and the inevitable mess facing him back home.
   There were tie-downs for thirty light aircraft at the general aviation ramp. Most were small Cessnas with high wings and fixed landing gears, still the safest airplanes ever built. But there were some fancier rigs. Next to his rented Cessna was a Beech Bonanza, a single-engine, two-hundred-horsepower beauty that Ray could handle in a month with a little training. It flew almost seventy knots faster than the Cessna, with enough gadgets and avionics to make any pilot drool. Even worse, the Bonanza was for sale—$450,000—off the charts, of course, but not that far off. The owner built shopping centers and wanted a King Air, according to the latest analysis from the Cockpit.
   Ray stepped away from the Bonanza and concentrated on the little Cessna sitting next to it. Like all new pilots, he carefully inspected his plane with a checklist. Fog Newton, his instructor, had begun each lesson with a gruesome tale of fire and death caused by pilots too hurried or lazy to use checklists.
   When he was certain all outside parts and surfaces were perfect, he opened the door and strapped himself inside. The engine started smoothly, the radios sparked to life. He finished a pre-takeoff list and called the tower. A commuter flight was ahead of him, and ten minutes after he locked his doors he was cleared for takeoff. He lifted off smoothly and turned west, toward the Shenandoah Valley.
   At four thousand feet, he crossed Afton Mountain, not far below him. A few seconds of mountain turbulence bounced the Cessna, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. When he was past the foothills and over the farmlands, the air became still and quiet. Visibility was officially twenty miles, though at this altitude he could see much farther. No ceiling, not a cloud anywhere. At five thousand feet, the peaks of West Virginia rose slowly on the horizon. Ray completed an in-flight checklist, leaned his fuel mixture for normal cruise, and relaxed for the first time since taxiing into position for takeoff.
   Radio chatter disappeared, and it wouldn’t pick up again until he switched to the Roanoke tower, forty miles to the south. He decided to avoid Roanoke and stay in uncontrolled airspace.
   Ray knew from personal experience that psychiatrists worked for two hundred dollars an hour in the Charlottesville area. Flying was a bargain, and much more effective, though it was a very fine shrink who’d suggested he pick up a new hobby, and quickly. He was seeing the fellow because he had to see someone. Exactly a month after the former Mrs. Atlee filed for divorce, quit her job, and walked out of their townhouse with only her clothes and jewelry, all done with ruthless efficiency in less than six hours, Ray left the psychiatrist for the last time, drove to the airport, stumbled into the Cockpit, and took his first insult from either Dick Docker or Fog Newton, he couldn’t remember which.
   The insult felt good, someone cared. More followed, and Ray, wounded and confused as he was, had found a home. For three years now he had crossed the clear, solitary skies of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley, soothing his anger, shedding a few tears, hashing out his troubled life to an empty seat beside him. She’s gone, the empty seat kept saying.
   Some. women leave. and come back eventually. Others leave and endure a painful reconsideration. Still others leave with such boldness they never look back. Vicki’s departure from his life was so well planned and her execution of it was so cold-blooded that Ray’s lawyer’s first comment was, “Give it up, pal.”
   She’d found a better deal, like an athlete swapping teams at the trading deadline. Here’s the new uniform, smile for the cameras, forget the old arena. While Ray was at work one fine morning, she left in a limousine. Behind it was a van with her things. Twenty minutes later, she walked into her new place, a mansion on a horse farm east of town where Lew the Liquidator was waiting with open arms and a prenuptial agreement. Lew was a corporate vulture whose raids had netted him a half a billion or so, according to Ray’s research, and at the age of sixty-four he’d cashed in his chips, left Wall Street, and for some reason picked Charlottesville as his new nest.
   Somewhere along the way he’d bumped into Vicki, offered her a deal, gotten her pregnant with the children Ray was supposed to father, and now with a trophy wife and another family he wanted to be taken seriously as the new Big Fish.
   Enough of this, Ray said aloud. He talked loudly at five thousand feet, and no one talked back.
   He was assuming, and hoping, that Forrest was clean and sober, though such assumptions were usually wrong and such hopes were often misguided. After twenty years of rehab and relapse, it was doubtful if his brother would ever overcome his addictions. And Ray was certain that Forrest would be broke, a condition that went hand in hand with his habits. And being broke, he’d be looking for money, as in his father’s estate.
   What money the Judge had not given away to charities and sick children, he had poured down the black hole of Forrest’s detoxification. So much money had been wasted there, along with so many years, that the Judge, as only he could do, had basically excommunicated Forrest from their father-son relationship. For thirty-two years he had terminated marriages, taken children away from parents, given children to foster homes, sent mentally ill people away forever, ordered delinquent fathers to jail—all manner of drastic and far-reaching decrees that were accomplished merely by signing his name. When he first went on the bench, his authority had been granted by the State of Mississippi, but late in his career he took his orders only from God.
   If anyone could expel a son, it was Chancellor Reuben Y Atlee.
   Forrest pretended to be unbothered by his banishment. He fancied himself as a free spirit and claimed he had not set foot inside the house at Maple Run in nine years. He had visited the Judge once in the hospital, after a heart attack when the doctors rounded up the family. Surprisingly, he’d been sober then. “Fifty-two days, Bro,” he’d whispered proudly to Ray as they huddled in the ICU corridor. He was a walking scoreboard when rehab was working.
   If the Judge had plans to include Forrest in his estate, no one would have been more surprised than Forrest. But with the chance that money or assets were about to change hands, Forrest would be there looking for crumbs and leftovers.
   Over the New River Gorge near Beckley, West Virginia, Ray turned around and headed back. Though flying cost less than professional therapy, it wasn’t cheap. The meter was ticking. If he won the lottery, he would buy the Bonanza and fly everywhere. He was due a sabbatical in a couple of years, a respite from the rigors of academic life. He’d be expected to finish his eight-hundred-page brick on monopolies, and there was an even chance that that might happen. His dream, though, was to lease a Bonanza and disappear into the skies.
   Twelve miles west of the airport, he called the tower and was directed to enter the traffic pattern. The wind was light and variable. the landing would be a cinch. On final approach, with the runway a mile away and fifteen hundred feet down, and Ray and his lit-de Cessna gliding at a perfect descent, another pilot came on the radio. He checked in with the controller as “Challenger-two-four-four-delta-mike,” and he was fifteen miles to the north. The tower cleared him to land, number two behind Cessna traffic.
   Ray pushed aside thoughts of the other aircraft long enough to make a textbook landing, then turned off the runway and began taxiing to the ramp.
   A Challenger is a Canadian-built private jet that seats eight to fifteen, depending on the configuration. It will fly from New York to Paris, nonstop, in splendid style, with its own flight attendant serving drinks and meals. A new one sells for somewhere around twenty-five million dollars, depending on the endless list of options.
   The 244DM was owned by Lew the Liquidator, who’d pinched it out of one of the many hapless companies he’d raided and fleeced. Ray watched it land behind him, and for a second he hoped it would crash and burn right there on the runway, so he could enjoy the show. It did not, and as it sped along the taxiway toward the private terminal, Ray was suddenly in a tight spot.
   He’d seen Vicki twice in the years since their divorce, and he certainly didn’t want to see her now, not with him in a twenty-year-old Cessna while she bounded down the stairway of her gold-plated jet. Maybe she wasn’t on board. Maybe it was just Lew Rodowski returning from yet another raid.
   Ray cut the fuel mixture, the engine died, and as the Challenger moved closer to him he began to sink as low as possible in his captain’s seat.
   By the time it rolled to a stop, less than a hundred feet from where Ray was hiding, a shiny black Suburban had wheeled out onto the ramp, a little too fast, lights on, as if royalty had arrived in Charlottesville. Two young men in matching green shirts and khaki shorts jumped out, ready to receive the Liquidator and whoever else might be on board. The Challenger’s door opened, the steps came down, and Ray, peeking above his instrument deck with a complete view, watched with fascination as one of the pilots came down first, carrying two large shopping bags.
   Then Vicki, with the twins. They were two years old now, Simmons and Ripley, poor children given genderless last names as first names because their mother was an idiot and their father had already sired nine others before them and probably didn’t care what they were called. They were boys, Ray knew that much for sure because he’d watched the vitals in the local paper—births, deaths, burglaries, etc. They were born at Martha Jefferson Hospital seven weeks and three days after the Atlees’ no-fault divorce became final, and seven weeks and two days after a very pregnant Vicki married Lew Rodowski, his fourth trip down the aisle, or whatever they used that day at the horse farm.
   Clutching the boys’ hands, Vicki carefully descended the steps. A half a billion dollars was looking good on her—tight designer jeans on her long legs, legs that had become noticeably thinner since she had joined the jet set. In fact, Vicki appeared to be superbly starved—bone-thin arms, small flat ass, gaunt cheeks. He couldn’t see her eyes because they were well hidden behind black wraparounds, the latest style from either Hollywood or Paris, take your pick.
   The Liquidator had not been starving. He waited impatiently behind his current wife and current litter. He claimed he ran marathons, but then so little of what he said in print turned out to be true. He was stocky, with a thick belly. Half his hair was gone and the other half was gray with age. She was forty-one and could pass for thirty. He was sixty-four and looked seventy, or at least Ray thought so, with great satisfaction.
   They finally made it into the Suburban while the two pilots and two drivers loaded and reloaded luggage and large bags from Saks and Bergdorf. Just a quick shopping jaunt up to Manhattan, forty-five minutes away on your Challenger.
   The Suburban sped off, the show was over, and Ray sat up in the Cessna.
   If he hadn’t hated her so much, he would have sat there a long time reliving their marriage.
   There had been no warnings, no fights, no change in temperature. She’d simply stumbled upon a better deal.
   He opened the door so he could breathe and realized his collar was wet with sweat. He wiped his eyebrows and got out of the plane.
   For the first time in memory, he wished he’d stayed away from the airport.