Chapter 34

   Wednesday morning. Tarry Ross climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the Phoenix Park Hotel. He paused on the landing outside the hall door and caught his breath. Sweat beaded across his eyebrows. He removed the dark sunglasses and wiped his face with the sleeve of his overcoat. Nausea hit below the belt, and he leaned on the stair rail. He dropped his empty briefcase on the concrete and sat on the bottom step. His hands shook like severe palsy, and he wanted to cry. He clutched his stomach and tried not to vomit.
   The nausea passed, and he breathed again. Be brave, man, be brave. There’s two hundred thousand waiting down the hall. If you got guts, you can go in there and get it. You can walk out with it, but you must have courage. He breathed deeper, and his hands settled down. Guts, man, guts.
   The weak knees wobbled, but he made it to the door. Down the hall, past the rooms. Eighth door on the right. He held his breath, and knocked.
   Seconds passed. He watched the dark hall through the dark glasses and could see nothing. “Yeah,” a voice inside said, inches away.
   “It’s Alfred.” Ridiculous name, he thought. Where’d it come from?
   The door cracked, and a face appeared behind the little chain. The door closed, then opened wide. Alfred walked in.
   “Good morning, Alfred,” Vinnie Cozzo said warmly. “Would you like coffee?”
   “I didn’t come here for coffee,” Alfred snapped. He placed the briefcase on the bed and stared at Cozzo.
   “You’re always so nervous, Alfred. Why don’t you relax. There’s no way you can get caught.”
   “Shut up, Cozzo. Where’s the money?”
   Vinnie pointed to a leather handbag. He stopped smiling. “Talk to me, Alfred.”
   The nausea hit again, but he kept his feet. He stared at them. His heart beat like pistons. “Okay, your man, McDeere, has been paid a million bucks already. Another million is on the way. He’s delivered one load of Bendini documents and claims to have ten thousand more.” A sharp pain hit his groin, and he sat on the edge of the bed. He removed his glasses.
   “Keep talking,” Cozzo demanded.
   “McDeere’s talked to our people many times in the last six months. He’ll testify at the trials, then hit the road as a protected witness. He and his wife.”
   “Where are the other documents?”
   “Dammit, I don’t know. He won’t tell. But they’re ready to be delivered. I want my money, Cozzo.”
   Vinnie threw the handbag on the bed. Alfred opened it and the briefcase. He attacked the stacks of bills, his hands shaking violently.
   “Two hundred thousand?” he asked desperately.
   Vinnie smiled. “That was the deal, Alfred. I got another job for you in a couple of weeks.”
   “No way, Cozzo. I can’t take any more of this.” He slammed the briefcase shut and ran to the door. He stopped and tried to calm himself. “What will you do with McDeere?” he asked, staring at the door.
   “What do you think, Alfred?”
   He bit his lip, clenched the briefcase and walked from the room. Vinnie smiled and locked the door. He pulled a card from his pocket and placed a call to the Chicago home of Mr. Lou Lazarov.
   Tarry Ross walked in panic down the hall. He could see little from behind the glasses. Seven doors down, almost to the elevator, a huge hand reached from the darkness and pulled him into a room. The hand slapped him hard, and another fist landed in his stomach. Another fist to the nose. He was on the floor, dazed and bleeding. The briefcase was emptied on the bed.
   He was thrown into a chair, and the lights came on. Three FBI agents, his comrades, glared at him. Director Voyles walked up to him, shaking his head in disbelief. The agent with the huge, efficient hands stood nearby, within striking distance. Another agent was counting money.
   Voyles leaned into his face. “You’re a traitor, Ross. The lowest form of scum. I can’t believe it.”
   Ross bit his lip and began sobbing.
   “Who is it?” Voyles asked intently.
   The crying was louder. No answer.
   Voyles swung wildly and slapped Ross’s left temple. He shrieked in pain. “Who is it, Ross? Talk to me.”
   “Vinnie Cozzo,” he blurted between sobs.
   “I know it’s Cozzo! Dammit! I know that! But what did you tell him?”
   Tears ran from his eyes and blood poured from his nose. His body shook and gyrated pitifully. No answer.
   Voyles slapped him again, and again. “Tell me, you little sonofabitch. Tell me what Cozzo wants.” He slapped him again.
   Ross doubled over and dropped his head on his knees. The crying softened.
   “Two hundred thousand dollars,” an agent said.
   Voyles dropped to one knee and almost whispered to Ross. “Is it McDeere, Ross? Please, oh please, tell me it’s not McDeere. Tell me, Tarry, tell me it’s not McDeere.”
   Tarry stuck his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. The blood dripped neatly into one little puddle on the carpet. Gut check, Tarry. You don’t get to keep your money. You’re on the way to jail. You’re a disgrace, Tarry. You’re a slimy little scuzzball of a chicken, and it’s over. What could possibly be gained by keeping secrets? Gut check, Tarry.
   Voyles was pleading softly. Sinners, won’t you come? “Please say it ain’t McDeere, Tarry, please tell me it ain’t.”
   Tarry sat straight and wiped his eyes with his fingers. He breathed deeply. Cleared his throat. He bit his lip, looked squarely at Voyles and nodded.


* * *

   DeVasher had no time for the elevator. He ran down the stairs to the fourth floor, to the corner, a power one, and barged into Locke’s office. Half the partners were there. Locke, Lambert, Milligan, McKnight, Dunbar, Denton, Lawson, Banahan, Kruger, Welch and Shottz. The other half had been summoned.
   A quiet panic filled the room. DeVasher sat at the head of the conference table, and they gathered around.
   “Okay, boys. It’s not time to haul ass and head for Brazil. Not yet, anyway. We confirmed this morning that he has talked extensively to the Fibbies, that they have paid him a million cash, that they have promised another million, that he has certain documents that are believed to be fatal. This came straight from the FBI. Lazarov and a small army are flying into Memphis as we speak. It appears as though the damage has not been done. Yet. According to our source—a very high-ranking Fibbie—McDeere has over ten thousand documents in his possession, and he is ready to deliver. But he has only delivered a few so far. We think. Evidently, we have caught this thing in time. If we can prevent further damage, we should be okay. I say this, even though they have some documents. Obviously, they don’t have much or they would’ve been here with search warrants.”
   DeVasher was onstage. He enjoyed this immensely. He spoke with a patronizing smile and looked at each of the worried faces. “Now, where is McDeere?”
   Milligan spoke. “In his office. I just talked to him. He suspects nothing.”
   “Wonderful. He’s scheduled to leave in three hours for Grand Cayman. Correct, Lambert?”
   “That’s correct. Around noon.”
   “Boy, the plane will never make it. The pilot will land in New Orleans for an errand, then he’ll take off for the island. About thirty minutes over the Gulf, the little blip will disappear from radar, forever. Debris will scatter over a thirty-square-mile area, and no bodies will ever be found. It’s sad, but necessary.”
   “The Lear?” asked Denton.
   “Yes, son, the Lear. We’ll buy you another toy.”
   “We’re assuming a lot, DeVasher,” Locke said. “We’re assuming the documents already in their possession are harmless. Four days ago you thought McDeere had copied some of Avery’s secret files. What gives?”
   “They studied the files in Chicago. Yeah, they’re full of incriminating evidence, but not enough to move with. They couldn’t get the first conviction. You guys know the damning materials are on the island. And, of course, in the basement. No one can penetrate the basement. We checked the files in the condo. Everything looked in order.”
   Locke was not satisfied. “Then where did the ten thousand come from?”
   “You’re assuming he has ten thousand. I rather doubt it. Keep in mind, he’s trying to collect another one million bucks before he takes off. He’s probably lying to them and snooping around for more documents. If he had ten thousand, why wouldn’t the Fibbies have them by now?”
   “Then what’s to fear?” asked Lambert.
   “The fear is the unknown, Ollie. We don’t know what he’s got, except that he’s got a million bucks. He’s no dummy, and he just might stumble across something if left alone. We cannot allow that to happen. Lazarov, you see, said to blow his ass outta the air. Quote unquote.”
   “There’s no way a rookie associate could find and copy that many incriminating records,” Kruger said boldly, and looked around the group for approval. Several nodded at him with intense frowns.
   “Why is Lazarov coming?” asked Dunbar, the real estate man. He said “Lazarov” as if Charles Manson was coming to dinner.
   “That’s a stupid question,” DeVasher snapped, and looked around for the idiot. “First, we’ve got to take care of McDeere and hope the damage is minimal. Then we’ll take a long look at this unit and make whatever changes are necessary.”
   Locke stood and glared at Oliver Lambert. “Make sure McDeere’s on that plane.”


* * *

   Tarrance, Acklin and Laney sat in stunned silence and listened to the speaker phone on the desk. It was Voyles in Washington, explaining exactly what had happened. He would leave for Memphis within the hour. He was almost desperate.
   “You gotta bring him in, Tarrance. And quick. Cozzo doesn’t know that we know about Tarry Ross, but Ross told him McDeere was on the verge of delivering the records. They could take him out at any time. You’ve got to get him. Now! Do you know where he is?”
   “He’s at the office,” Tarrance said.
   “Okay. Fine. Bring him in. I’ll be there in two hours. I wanna talk to him. Goodbye.”
   Tarrance punched the phone, then dialed the number.
   “Who are you calling?” Acklin asked.
   “Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Attorneys-at-law.”
   “Are you crazy, Wayne?” Laney asked.
   “Just listen.”
   The receptionist answered the phone. “Mitch McDeere, please,” Tarrance said.
   “One moment, please,” she said. Then the secretary: “Mr. McDeere’s office.”
   “I need to speak to Mitchell McDeere.”
   “I’m sorry, sir. He’s in a meeting.”
   “Listen, young lady, this is Judge Henry Hugo, and he was supposed to be in my courtroom fifteen minutes ago. We’re waiting for him. It’s an emergency.”
   “Well, I see nothing on his calendar for this morning.”
   “Do you schedule his appointments?”
   “Well, yes, sir.”
   “Then it’s your fault. Now get him on the phone.”
   Nina ran across the hall and into his office. “Mitch, there’s a Judge Hugo on the phone. Says you’re supposed to be in court right now. You’d better talk to him.”
   Mitch jumped to his feet and grabbed the phone. He was pale. “Yes,” he said.
   “Mr. McDeere,” Tarrance said. “Judge Hugo. You’re late for my court. Get over here.”
   “Yes, Judge.” He grabbed his coat and briefcase and frowned at Nina.
   “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not on your calendar.”
   Mitch raced down the hall, down the stairs, past the receptionist and out the front door. He ran north on Front Street to Union and darted through the lobby of the Cotton Exchange Building. On Union, he turned east and ran toward the Mid-America Mall.
   The sight of a well-dressed young man with a briefcase running like a scared dog may be a common sight in some cities, but not in Memphis. People noticed.
   He hid behind a fruit stand and caught his breath. He saw no one running behind him. He ate an apple. If it came to a footrace, he hoped Two-Ton Tony was chasing him.
   He had never been particularly impressed with Wayne Tarrance. The Korean shoe store was a fiasco. The chicken place on Grand Cayman was equally dumb. His notebook on the Moroltos would bore a Cub Scout. But his idea about a Mayday code, a “don’t ask questions, just run for your life” alert, was a brilliant idea. For a month, Mitch knew if Judge Hugo called, he had to hit the door on a dead run. Something bad had gone wrong, and the boys on the fifth floor were moving in. Where was Abby? he thought.
   A few pedestrians walked in pairs along Union. He wanted a crowded sidewalk, but there was none. He stared at the corner of Front and Union and saw nothing suspicious. Two blocks east, he casually entered the lobby of the Peabody and looked for a phone. On the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, he found a neglected one in a short hallway near the men’s room. He dialed the Memphis office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
   “Wayne Tarrance, please. It’s an emergency. This is Mitch McDeere.”
   Tarrance was on the phone in seconds. “Mitch, where are you?”
   “Okay, Tarrance, what’s going on?”
   “Where are you?”
   “I’m out of the building, Judge Hugo. I’m safe for now. What’s happened?”
   “Mitch, you’ve gotta come in.”
   “I don’t have to do a damned thing, Tarrance. And I won’t, until you talk to me.”
   “Well, we’ve, uh, we’ve had a slight problem. There’s been a small leak. You need—”
   “Leak, Tarrance? Did you say leak? There’s no such thing as a small leak. Talk to me, Tarrance, before I hang up this phone and disappear. You’re tracing this call, aren’t you, Tarrance? I’m hanging up.”
   “No! Listen, Mitch. They know. They know we’ve been talking, and they know about the money and the files.”
   There was a long pause. “A small leak, Tarrance. Sounds like the dam burst. Tell me about this leak, and quick.”
   “God this hurts. Mitch, I want you to know how much this hurts. Voyles is devastated. One of our senior men sold the information. We caught him this morning at a hotel in Washington. They paid him two hundred thousand for the story on you. We’re in shock, Mitch.”
   “Oh, I’m touched. I’m truly concerned over your shock and pain, Tarrance. I guess now you want me to run down there to your office so we can all sit around and console each other.”
   “Voyles will be there by noon, Mitch. He’s flying in with his top people. He wants to meet with you. We’ll get you out of town.”
   “Right. You want me to rush into your arms for protection. You’re an idiot, Tarrance. Voyles is an idiot. You’re all idiots. And I’m a fool for trusting you. Are you tracing this call, Tarrance?”
   “No!”
   “You’re lying. I’m hanging up, Tarrance. Sit tight and I’ll call you in thirty minutes from another phone.”
   “No! Mitch, listen. You’re dead if you don’t come in.”
   “Goodbye, Wayne. Sit by the phone.”
   Mitch dropped the receiver and looked around. He walked to a marble column and peeked at the lobby below. The ducks were swimming around the fountain. The bar was deserted. A table was surrounded with rich old ladies sipping their tea and gossiping. A solitary guest was registering.
   Suddenly, the Nordic stepped from behind a potted tree and stared at him. “Up there!” he yelled across the lobby to an accomplice. They watched him intently and glanced at the stairway under him. The bartender looked up at Mitch, then at the Nordic and his friend. The old ladies stared in silence.
   “Call the police!” Mitch yelled as he backed away from the railing. Both men sprang across the lobby and hit the stairs. Mitch waited five seconds, and returned to the railing. The bartender had not moved. The ladies were frozen.
   There were heavy noises on the stairs. Mitch sat on the railing, dropped his briefcase, swung his legs over, paused, then jumped twenty feet onto the carpet of the lobby. He fell like a rock, but landed squarely on both feet. Pain shot through his ankles and hips. The football knee buckled, but did not collapse.
   Behind him, next to the elevators, was a small haberdashery with windows full of ties and Ralph Lauren’s latest. He limped into it. A kid of no more than nineteen waited eagerly behind the counter. There were no customers. An outside door opened onto Union.
   “Is that door locked?” Mitch asked calmly.
   “Yes, sir.”
   “You wanna make a thousand dollars cash? Nothing illegal.” Mitch quickly peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the counter.
   “Uh, sure. I guess.”
   “Nothing illegal, okay? I swear. I wouldn’t get you in trouble. Unlock that door, and when two men come running in here in about twenty seconds, tell them I ran through that door and jumped in a cab.”
   The kid smiled even brighter and raked up the money. “Sure. No problem.”
   “Where’s the dressing room?”
   “Yes, sir, over there next to the closet.”
   “Unlock the door,” Mitch said as he slid into the dressing room and sat down. He rubbed his knees and ankles.
   The clerk was straightening ties when the Nordic and his partner ran through the door from the lobby. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.
   “Did you see a man running through here, medium build, dark gray suit, red tie?”
   “Yes, sir. He just ran through there, through that door, and jumped in a cab.”
   “A cab! Damn!” The door opened and closed, and the store was silent. The kid walked to a shoe rack near the closet. “They’re gone, sir.”
   Mitch was rubbing his knees. “Good. Go to the door and watch for two minutes. Let me know if you see them.”
   Two minutes later, he was back. “They’re gone.”
   Mitch kept his seat and smiled at the door. “Great. I want one of those kelly-green sport coats, forty-four long, and a pair of white buckskins, ten D. Bring them here, would you? And keep watching.”
   “Yes, sir.” He whistled around the store as he collected the coat and shoes, then slid them under the door. Mitch yanked off his tie and changed quickly. He sat down.
   “How much do I owe you?” Mitch asked from the room.
   “Well, let’s see. How about five hundred?”
   “Fine. Call me a cab, and let me know when it’s outside.”
   Tarrance walked three miles around his desk. The call was traced to the Peabody, but Laney arrived too late. He was back now, sitting nervously with Acklin. Forty minutes after the first call, the secretary’s voice blasted through the intercom. “Mr. Tarrance. It’s McDeere.”
   Tarrance lunged at the phone. “Where are you?”
   “In town. But not for long.”
   “Look, Mitch, you won’t last two days on your own. They’ll fly in enough thugs to start another war. You’ve got to let us help you.”
   “I don’t know, Tarrance. For some strange reason I just don’t trust you boys right now. I can’t imagine why. Just a bad feeling.”
   “Please, Mitch. Don’t make this mistake.”
   “I guess you want me to believe you boys can protect me for the rest of my life. Sorta funny, isn’t it, Tarrance? I cut a deal with the FBI, and I almost get gunned in my own office. That’s real protection.”
   Tarrance breathed deeply into the phone. There was a long pause. “What about the documents? We’ve paid you a million for them.”
   “You’re cracking up, Tarrance. You paid me a million for my clean files. You got them, and I got the million. Of course, that was just part of the deal. Protection was also a part of it.”
   “Give us the damned files, Mitch. They’re hidden somewhere close to us, you told me that. Take off if you want to, but leave the files.”
   “Won’t work, Tarrance. Right now I can disappear, and the Moroltos may or may not come after me. If you don’t get the files, you don’t get the indictments. If the Moroltos don’t get indicted, maybe, if I’m lucky, one day they’ll just forget about me. I gave them a real scare, but no permanent damage. Hell, they may even hire me back one of these days.”
   “You don’t really believe that. They’ll chase you until they find you. If we don’t get the records, we’ll be chasing too. It’s that simple, Mitch.”
   “Then I’ll put my money on the Moroltos. If you guys find me first, there’ll be a leak. Just a small one.”
   “You’re outta your mind, Mitch. If you think you can take your million and ride into the sunset, you’re a fool. They’ll have goons on camels riding the deserts looking for you. Don’t do it, Mitch.”
   “Goodbye, Wayne. Ray sends his regards.”
   The line was dead. Tarrance grabbed the phone and threw it against the wall.
   Mitch glanced at the clock on the airport wall. He punched in another call. Tammy answered.
   “Hello, sweetheart. Hate to wake you.”
   “Don’t worry, the couch kept me awake. What’s up?”
   “Major trouble. Get a pencil and listen very carefully. I don’t have a second to waste. I’m running, and they’re right behind me.”
   “Fire away.”
   “First, call Abby at her parents’. Tell her to drop everything and get out of town. She doesn’t have time to kiss her mother goodbye or to pack any clothes. Tell her to drop the phone, get in her car and drive away. And don’t look back. She takes Interstate 64 to Huntington, West Virginia, and goes to the airport. She flies from Huntington to Mobile. In Mobile, she rents a car and drives east on Interstate 10 to Gulf Shores, then east on Highway 182 to Perdido Beach. She checks in at the Perdido Beach Hilton under the name of Rachel James. And she waits. Got that?”
   “Yeah.”
   “Second. I need you to get on a plane and fly to Memphis. I called Doc, and the passports, etc., are not ready. I cussed him, but to no avail. He promised to work all night and have them ready in the morning. I will not be here in the morning, but you will. Get the documents.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Third. Get on a plane and get back to the apartment in Nashville. Sit by the phone. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the phone.”
   “Got it.”
   “Fourth. Call Abanks.”
   “Okay. What are your travel plans?”
   “I’m coming to Nashville, but I’m not sure when I’ll be there. I gotta go. Listen, Tammy, tell Abby she could be dead within the hour if she doesn’t run. So run, dammit, run!”
   “Okay, boss..”
   He walked quickly to Gate 22 and boarded the 10:04 Delta flight to Cincinnati. He clutched a magazine full of one-way tickets, all bought with MasterCard. One to Tulsa on American Flight 233, leaving at 10:14, and purchased in the name of Mitch McDeere; one to Chicago on Northwest Flight 861, leaving at 10:15, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; one to Dallas on United Flight 562, leaving at 10:30, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; and one to Atlanta on Delta Flight 790, leaving at 11:10, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere.
   The ticket to Cincinnati had been bought with cash, in the name of Sam Fortune.


* * *

   Lazarov entered the power office on the fourth floor and every head bowed. DeVasher faced him like a scared, whipped child. The partners studied their shoelaces and held their bowels.
   “We can’t find him,” DeVasher said.
   Lazarov was not one to scream and cuss. He took great pride in being cool under pressure. “You mean he just got up and walked out of here?” he asked coolly.
   There was no answer. None was needed.
   “All right, DeVasher, this is the plan. Send every man you’ve got to the airport. Check with every airline. Where’s his car?”
   “In the parking lot.”
   “That’s great. He left here on foot. He walked out of your little fortress on foot. Joey’ll love this. Check with every rental-car company. Now, how many honorable partners do we have here.”
   “Sixteen present.”
   “Divide them up in pairs and send them to the airports in Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Atlanta, Chicago, L.A., San Francisco and New York. Roam the concourses of these airports. Live in these airports. Eat in these airports. Watch the international flights in these airports. We’ll send reinforcements tomorrow. You honorable esquires know him well, so go find him. It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose? It’ll keep you counselors busy. And I hate to tell you boys, but these hours are not billable. Now, where’s his wife?”
   “Danesboro, Kentucky. At her parents’.”
   “Go get her. Don’t hurt her, just bring her in.”
   “Do we start shredding?” DeVasher asked.
   “We’ll wait twenty-four hours. Send someone to Grand Cayman and destroy those records. Now hurry, DeVasher.”
   The power office emptied.


* * *

   Voyles stomped around Tarrance’s desk and barked commands. A dozen lieutenants scribbled as he yelled. “Cover the airport. Check every airline. Notify every office in every major city. Contact customs. Do we have a picture of him?”
   “We can’t find one, sir.”
   “Find one, and find it quick. It needs to be in every FBI and customs office by tonight. He’s on the run. Son-of-a-bitch!”

Chapter 35

   The bus left Birmingham shortly before 2 P.M., Wednesday. Ray sat in the rear and studied every person who climbed in and found a seat. He looked sporty. He had taken a cab to a mall in Birmingham and in thirty minutes had purchased a new pair of faded Levi’s, a plaid short-sleeved golf shirt and a pair of red-and-white Reeboks. He had also eaten a pizza and received a severe Marine-style haircut. He wore aviator sunshades and an Auburn cap.
   A short, fat, dark-skinned lady sat next to him.
   He smiled at her. “De donde es usted?” he asked. Where are you from?
   Her face broke into unrestrained delight. A wide smile revealed few teeth. “Mexico,” she said proudly. “Habla espanol?” she asked eagerly.
   “Si.”
   For two hours, they jabbered in Spanish as the bus rolled along to Montgomery. She had to repeat occasionally, but he surprised himself. He was eight years out of practice and a little rusty.
   Behind the bus, Special Agents Jenkins and Jones followed in a Dodge Aries. Jenkins drove while Jones slept. The trip had become boring ten minutes out of Knoxville. Just routine surveillance, they were told. If you lose him, no big deal. But try not to lose him.
   The flight from Huntington to Atlanta was two hours away, and Abby sat in a secluded corner of a dark lounge watching. Just watching. In the chair next to her was a carry-on bag. Contrary to her urgent instructions, she had packed a toothbrush, makeup and a few clothes. She had also written a note to her parents, giving a brief story about how she had to run to Memphis, needed to see Mitch, everything’s fine, don’t worry, hugs and kisses, love, Abby. She ignored the coffee and watched the arriving and departing.
   She did not know if he was dead or alive. Tammy said he was scared, but very much in control. As always. She said he was flying to Nashville, and she, Tammy, was flying to Memphis. Confusing, but she was certain he knew what he was doing. Get to Perdido Beach and wait.
   Abby had never heard of Perdido Beach. And she was certain he’d never been there either.
   The lounge was nerve-racking. Every ten minutes a drunk businessman would venture over and throw something suggestive at her. Get lost, she said a dozen times.
   After two hours, they boarded. Abby was stuck in the aisle seat. She buckled her belt and relaxed. And then she saw her.
   She was a striking blonde with high cheekbones and a firm jaw that was almost unfeminine, yet strong and attractive. Abby had seen the partial face before. Partial, because the eyes were covered, as before. She looked at Abby and glanced away as she passed and went to her seat somewhere in the rear.
   The Shipwreck Bar! The blonde in the Shipwreck Bar. The blonde who was eavesdropping on her and Mitch and Abanks. They had found her. And if they had found her, where was her husband? What had they done to him? She thought of the two-hour drive from Danesboro to Huntington, through the winding mountain roads. She had driven like a maniac. They could not have followed her.
   They taxied from the terminal and minutes later lifted off for Atlanta.
   For a second time in three weeks, Abby watched dusk from the inside of a 727 at the airport in Atlanta. She and the blonde. They were on the ground for thirty minutes and then left for Mobile.


* * *

   From Cincinnati, Mitch flew to Nashville. He arrived at 6 P.M., Wednesday, long after the banks had closed. He found a U-Haul truck rental place in the phone book and flagged a cab.
   He rented one of the smaller models, a sixteen-footer. He paid cash, but was forced to use his driver’s license and a credit card for a deposit. If DeVasher could track him to a U-Haul place in Nashville, so be it. He bought twenty cardboard packing boxes and left for the apartment.
   He had not eaten since Tuesday night, but he was in luck. Tammy had left a bag of microwave popcorn and two beers. He ate like a pig. At eight, he made his first call to the Perdido Beach Hilton. He asked for Lee Stevens. He had not arrived, she said. He stretched out on the den floor and thought of a hundred things that could happen to Abby. She could be dead in Kentucky and he wouldn’t know. He couldn’t call.
   The couch had not been folded, and the cheap sheets hung off the end and fell to the floor. Tammy was not much for housework. He looked at the small, temporary bed and thought of Abby. Only five nights ago, they had tried to kill each other on the bed. Hopefully, she was on the plane. Alone.
   In the bedroom, he sat on the unopened Sony box and marveled at the roomful of documents. Across the carpet she had built perfect columns of paper, all painstakingly divided into Cayman banks and Cayman companies. On top of each stack was a yellow legal pad, with the company name followed by pages of dates and entries. And names!
   Even Tarrance could follow the paper trail. A grand jury would eat it up. The U.S. Attorney would call press conferences. And the trial juries would convict, and convict and convict.


* * *

   Special Agent Jenkins yawned into the telephone receiver and punched the numbers to the Memphis office. He had not slept in twenty-four hours. Jones was snoring in the car.
   “FBI,” a male voice said.
   “Yeah, who’s there?” Jenkins asked. Just a routine check-in.
   “Acklin.”
   “Hey, Rick. This is Jenkins. We’ve—”
   “Jenkins! Where have you been? Hold on!”
   Jenkins quit yawning and looked around the bus terminal. An angry voice yelled into the earpiece.
   “Jenkins! Where are you?” It was Wayne Tarrance.
   “We’re at the bus station in Mobile. We’ve lost him.”
   “You what? How could you lose him?”
   Jenkins was suddenly alert and leaning into the phone. “Wait a minute, Wayne. Our instructions were to follow him for eight hours to see where he went. Routine, you said.”
   “I can’t believe you lost him.”
   “Wayne, we weren’t told to follow him for the rest of his life. Eight hours, Wayne. We’ve followed for twenty hours, and he’s disappeared. What’s the big deal?”
   “Why haven’t you called in before now?”
   “We called in twice. In Birmingham and Montgomery. Line was busy both times. What’s going on, Wayne?”
   “Just a minute.”
   Jenkins grabbed the phone tighter and waited. Another voice: “Hello, Jenkins?”
   “Yes.”
   “Director Voyles here. What the hell happened?”
   Jenkins held his breath and looked wildly around the terminal. “Sir, we lost him. We followed him for twenty hours, and when he got off the bus here in Mobile, we lost him in the crowd.”
   “That’s great, son. How long ago?”
   “Twenty minutes.”
   “All right, listen. We desperately need to find him. His brother has taken our money and disappeared. Call the locals there in Mobile. Tell them who you are, and that an escaped murderer is on the loose in town. They’ve probably got Ray McDeere’s name and picture stuck to the walls. His mother lives in Panama City Beach, so alert every local between there and Mobile. I’m sending in our troops.”
   “Okay. I’m sorry, sir. We weren’t told to trail” him forever.”
   “We’ll discuss it later.”


* * *

   At ten, Mitch called the Perdido Beach Hilton for the second time. He asked for Rachel James. No arrival. He asked for Lee Stevens. One moment, she said. Mitch sat on the floor and waited intently. The line to the room was ringing. After a dozen rings, someone picked up.
   “Yeah.” It was quick.
   “Lee?” Mitch asked.
   A pause. “Yeah.”
   “This is Mitch. Congratulations.”
   Ray fell on the bed and closed his eyes. “It was so easy, Mitch. How’d you do it?”
   “I’ll tell you when we have time. Right now, there are a bunch of folks trying to kill me. And Abby. We’re on the run.
   “Who, Mitch?”
   “It would take ten hours to tell the first chapter. We’ll do it later. Write this number down. 615-889-4380.”
   “That’s not Memphis.”
   “No, it’s Nashville. I’m in an apartment that’s serving as mission control. Memorize that number. If I’m not here, the phone will be answered by a girl named Tammy.”
   “Tammy?”
   “It’s a long story. Just do as I say. Sometime tonight, Abby will check in there under the name of Rachel James. She’ll be in a rented car.”
   “She’s coming here!”
   “Just listen, Ray. The cannibals are chasing us, but we’re a step ahead of them.”
   “Ahead of who?”
   “The Mafia. And the FBI.”
   “Is that all?”
   “Probably. Now listen to me. There is a slight chance Abby is being followed. You’ve got to find her, watch her and make damned sure no one is behind her.”
   “And if they are?”
   “Call me, and we’ll talk about it.”
   “No problem.”
   “Don’t use the phone except to call this number. And we can’t talk much.”
   “I’ve got a bunch of questions, little brother.”
   “And I’ve got the answers, but not now. Take care of my wife and call me when she gets there.”
   “Will do. And, Mitch, thanks.”
   “Adios.”


* * *

   An hour later Abby turned off Highway 182 onto the winding driveway to the Hilton. She parked the four-door Cutlass with Alabama tags and walked nervously under the sprawling veranda to the front doors. She stopped for a second, looked behind her at the driveway and went inside.
   Two minutes later, a yellow cab from Mobile stopped under the veranda, behind the shuttle vans. Ray watched the cab. A woman was in the back seat leaning forward and talking to the driver. They waited a minute. She pulled money from her purse and paid him. She got out and waited until the cab drove away. The woman was a blonde, and that was the first thing he noticed. Very shapely, with tight black corduroy pants. And black sunglasses, which seemed odd to him because it was pushing midnight. She walked suspiciously to the front doors, waited a minute, then went in. He watched her carefully. He moved toward the lobby.
   The blonde approached the only clerk behind the registration desk. “A single room, please,” he heard her say.
   The clerk slid a registration form across the counter. The blonde wrote her name and asked, “That lady who just checked in before me, what’s her name? I think she’s an old friend.”
   The clerk nipped through the registration cards. “Rachel James.”
   “Yeah, that’s her. Where’s she from?”
   “It’s a Memphis address,” the clerk said.
   “What’s her room number? I’d like to say hello.”
   “I can’t give room numbers,” the clerk said.
   The blonde quickly pulled two twenties from her purse and slid them across the counter. “I just want to say hello.”
   The clerk took the money. “Room 622.”
   The woman paid in cash. “Where are the phones?”
   “Around the corner,” the clerk said. Ray slid around the corner and found four pay phones. He grabbed a middle one and began talking to himself.
   The blonde took a phone on the end and turned her back to him. She spoke softly. He could hear only pieces.
   “… checked in … Room 622… Mobile… some help … I can’t … an hour?… yes… hurry…”
   She hung up, and he talked louder into his dead phone.
   Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The blonde jumped from the bed, grabbed her .45 and stuck it in the corduroys under the shirt. She ignored the safety chain and cracked the door.
   It burst open and knocked her against the wall. Ray lunged at her, grabbed the gun and pinned her to the floor. With her face in the carpet, he stuck the barrel of the .45 in her ear. “If you make a sound, I’ll kill you!”
   She stopped struggling and closed her eyes. No response.
   “Who are you?” Ray demanded. He pushed the barrel deeper into her ear. Again, no response.
   “Not a move, not a sound. Okay? I’d love to blow your head off.”
   He relaxed, still sitting on her back, and ripped open her flight bag. He dumped its contents on the floor and found a pair of clean tennis socks. “Open your mouth,” he demanded.
   She did not move. The barrel returned to her ear, and she slowly opened her mouth. Ray crammed the socks in between her teeth, then tightly blindfolded her with the silk nightshirt. He bound her feet and hands with panty hose, then ripped the bedsheets into long strips. The woman did not move. When he finished the binding and gagging, she resembled a mummy. He slid her under the bed.
   The purse contained six hundred dollars in cash and a wallet with an Illinois driver’s license. Karen Adair from Chicago. Date of birth: March 4, 1962. He took the wallet and gun.


* * *

   The phone rang at 1 A.M., and Mitch was not asleep. He was in bank records up to his waist. Fascinating bank records. Highly incriminating.
   “Hello,” he answered cautiously.
   “Is this mission control?” The voice was in the vicinity of a loud jukebox.
   “Where are you, Ray?”
   “A joint called the Floribama lounge. Right on the state line.”
   “Where’s Abby?”
   “She’s in the car. She’s fine.”
   Mitch breathed easier and grinned into the phone. He listened.
   “We had to leave the hotel. A woman followed Abby in—same woman you saw in some bar in the Caymans. Abby is trying to explain everything. The woman followed her all day and showed up at the hotel. I took care of her, and we disappeared.”
   “You took care of her?”
   “Yeah, she wouldn’t talk, but she’s out of the way for a short time.”
   “Abby’s fine?”
   “Yeah. We’re both dead tired. Exactly what do you have in mind?”
   “You’re about three hours away from Panama City Beach. I know you’re dead tired, but you need to get away from there. Get to Panama City Beach, ditch the car and get two rooms at the Holiday Inn. Call me when you check in.”
   “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
   “Trust me, Ray.”
   “I do, but I’m beginning to wish I was back in prison.”
   “You can’t go back, Ray. We either disappear or we’re dead.”

Chapter 36

   The cab stopped at a red light in downtown Nashville, and Mitch hopped out on stiff and aching legs. He limped through the busy intersection dodging the morning traffic.
   The Southeastern Bank Building was a thirty-story glass cylinder, designed along the same lines as a tennis-ball can. The tint was dark, almost black. It stood prominently away from the street corner amidst a maze of sidewalks and fountains and manicured greenery.
   Mitch entered the revolving doors with a swarm of employees rushing to work. In the marble-laden atrium he found the directory and rode the escalators to the third floor. He opened a heavy glass door and walked into a large circular office. A striking woman of forty or so watched him from behind the glass desk. She offered no smile.
   “Mr. Mason Laycook, please,” he said.
   She pointed. “Have a seat.”
   Mr. Laycook wasted no time. He appeared from around a corner and was as sour as his secretary. “May I help you?” he asked through his nose.
   Mitch stood. “Yes, I need to wire a little money.”
   “Yes. Do you have an account at Southeastern?”
   “Yes.”
   “And your name?”
   “It’s a numbered account.” In other words, you don’t get a name, Mr. Laycook. You don’t need a name.
   “Very well. Follow me.” His office had no windows, no view. A row of keyboards and monitors sat on the credenza behind his glass desk. Mitch sat down.
   “The account number, please.”
   It came from memory. “214-31-35.”
   Laycook pecked at his keyboard and watched a monitor. “That’s a Code Three account, opened by a T. Hemphill, with access only by her and a certain male meeting the following physical requirements: approximately six feet tall, one seventy-five to one eighty-five, blue eyes, brown hair, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. You fit that description, sir.” Laycook studied the screen. “And the last four digits of your Social Security number are?”
   “8585.”
   “Very well. You are accessed. Now what can I do for you?”
   “I want to wire in some funds from a bank in Grand Cayman.”
   Laycook frowned and took a pencil from his pocket. “Which bank in Grand Cayman?”
   “Royal Bank of Montreal.”
   “What type of account?”
   “It’s a numbered account.”
   “I presume you have the number?”
   “499DFH2122.”
   Laycook wrote the number and stood. “I’ll be just a moment.” He left the room.
   Ten minutes passed. Mitch tapped his bruised feet and looked at the monitors across the desk.
   Laycook returned with his supervisor, Mr. Nokes, a vice president of something. Nokes introduced himself from behind the desk. Both men appeared nervous. They stared downward at Mitch.
   Nokes did the talking. He held a small sheet of computer paper. “Sir, that is a restricted account. You must have certain information before we can start the wire.”
   Mitch nodded confidently.
   “The dates and amounts of the last three deposits, sir?” They watched him intently, knowing he would fail.
   Again, it came from memory. No notes. “February third of this year, six and a half million. December fourteenth, last year, nine point two million. And October eighth, last year, eleven million.”
   Laycook and Nokes gaped at the small printout. Nokes managed a tiny professional smile. “Very well. You are cleared to the Pen number.”
   Laycook stood ready with his pencil.
   “Sir, what is your Pen number?” Nokes asked.
   Mitch smiled and recrossed his damaged legs. “72083.”
   “And the terms of the wire?”
   “Ten million dollars wired immediately into this bank, account 214-31-35. I’ll wait.”
   “It’s not necessary to wait, sir.”
   “I’ll wait. When the wire is complete, I’ve got a few more for you.”
   “We’ll be a moment. Would you like some coffee?”
   “No. Thanks. Do you have a newspaper?”
   “Certainly,” Laycook said. “On the table there.”
   They scurried from the office, and Mitch’s pulse began its descent. He opened the Nashville Tennessean and scanned three sections before he found a brief paragraph about the escape at Brushy Mountain. No picture. Few details. They were safe at the Holiday Inn on the Miracle Strip in Panama City Beach, Florida.
   Their trail was clear, so far. He thought. He hoped.
   Laycook returned alone. He was friendly now. A real backslapper. “Wire’s complete. The money is here. Now what can we do for you?”
   “I want to wire it out. Most of it, anyway.”
   “How many transfers?”
   “Three.”
   “Give me the first one.”
   “A million dollars to the Coast National Bank in Pensa-cola, to a numbered account, accessible to only one person, a white female, approximately fifty years of age. I will provide her with the Pen number.”
   “Is this an existing account?”
   “No. I want you to open it with the wire.”
   “Very well. The second transfer?”
   “One million dollars to the Dane County Bank in Danesboro, Kentucky, to any account in the name of Harold or Maxine Sutherland, or both. It’s a small bank, but it has a correspondent relationship with United Kentucky in Louisville.”
   “Very well. The third transfer?”
   “Seven million to the Deutschebank in Zurich. Account number 772-03BL-600. The remainder of the money stays here.”
   “This will take about an hour,” Laycook said as he wrote.
   “I’ll call you in an hour to confirm.”
   “Very well.”
   “Thank you, Mr. Laycook.”
   Each step was painful, but the pain was not felt. He moved in a controlled jog down the escalators and out of the building.
   On the top floor of the Royal Bank of Montreal, Grand Cayman branch, a secretary from Wire Transfers slid a computer printout under the very pointed and proper nose of Randolph Osgood. She had circled an unusual transfer of ten million. Unusual because the money in this account did not normally return to the United States and unusual because it went to a bank they had, never dealt with. Osgood studied the printout and called Memphis. Mr. Tolar was on leave of absence, the secretary informed him. Then Nathan Locke? he asked. Mr. Locke is out of town. Victor Milligan? Mr. Milligan is away also.
   Osgood placed the printout in the pile of things to do tomorrow.


* * *

   Along the Emerald Coast of Florida and Alabama, from the outskirts of Mobile east through Pensacola, Fort Walton Beach, Destin and Panama City, the warm spring night had been peaceful. Only one violent crime along the coast. A young woman was robbed, beaten and raped in her room at the Perdido Beach Hilton. Her boyfriend, a tall blond-headed man with strong Nordic features, had found her bound and gagged in her room. His name was Rimmer, Aaron Rimmer, and he was from Memphis.
   The real excitement of the night was a massive manhunt in the Mobile area for the escaped murderer, Ray McDeere. He had been seen arriving at the bus station after dark. His mug shot was on the front page of the morning paper, and before ten, three witnesses had come forth and reported sightings. His movements were traced across Mobile Bay to Foley, Alabama, then to Gulf Shores.
   Since the Hilton is only ten miles from Gulf Shores along Highway 182, and since the only known escaped murderer was in the vicinity when the only violent crime occurred, the conclusion was quick and inescapable. The hotel’s night clerk made a probable ID of Ray McDeere, and the records reflected that he checked in around nine-thirty as a Mr. Lee
   Stevens. And he paid cash. Later, the victim checked in and was attacked. The victim also identified Mr. Ray McDeere. The night clerk remembered that the victim asked about a Rachel James, who checked in five minutes before the victim and paid cash. Rachel James vanished sometime during the night without bothering to check out. Likewise for Ray McDeere, alias Lee Stevens. A parking-lot attendant made a probable ID of McDeere and said he got in a white four-door Cutlass with a woman between midnight and one. Said she was driving and appeared to be in a hurry. Said they went east on 182.
   Calling from his room on the sixth floor of the Hilton, Aaron Rimmer anonymously told a Baldwin County sheriff’s deputy to check the car rental companies in Mobile. Check them for an Abby McDeere. That’s your white Cutlass, he told him.
   From Mobile to Miami, the search began for the Cutlass rented from Avis by Abby McDeere. The sheriffs investigator promised to keep the victim’s boyfriend, Aaron Rimmer, posted on all developments.
   Mr. Rimmer would wait at the Hilton. He shared a room with Tony Verkler. Next door was his boss, DeVasher. Fourteen of his friends sat in their rooms on the seventh floor and waited.
   It took seventeen trips from the apartment to the U-Haul, but by noon the Bendini Papers were ready for shipment. Mitch rested his swollen legs. He sat on the couch and wrote instructions to Tammy. He detailed the transactions at the bank and told her to wait a week before contacting his mother. She would soon be a millionaire.
   He set the telephone in his lap and prepared himself for an unpleasant task. He called the Dane County Bank and asked for Harold Sutherland. It was an emergency, he said.
   “Hello,” his father-in-law answered angrily.
   “Mr. Sutherland, this is Mitch. Have you—”
   “Where’s my daughter? Is she okay?”
   “Yes. She’s fine. She’s with me. We’ll be leaving the country for a few days. Maybe weeks. Maybe months.”
   “I see,” he replied slowly. “And where might you be going?”
   “Not sure. We’ll just knock around for a while.”
   “Is something wrong, Mitch?”
   “Yes, sir. Something is very wrong, but I can’t explain now. Maybe one of these days. Watch the newspapers closely. You’ll see a major story out of Memphis within two weeks.”
   “Are you in danger?”
   “Sort of. Have you received any unusual wire transfers this morning?”
   “As a matter of fact we have. Somebody parked a million bucks here about an hour ago.”
   “That somebody was me, and the money is yours.”
   There was a very long pause. “Mitch, I think I deserve an explanation.”
   “Yes, sir, you do. But I can’t give you one. If we make it safely out of the country, you’ll be notified in a week or so. Enjoy the money. Gotta run.”
   Mitch waited a minute and called Room 1028 at the Holiday Inn, Panama City Beach.
   “Hello.” It was Abby.
   “Hi, babe. How are you?”
   “Terrible, Mitch. Ray’s picture is on the cover of every newspaper down here. At first it was the escape and the fact that someone saw him in Mobile. Now the TV news is claiming he is the prime suspect in a rape last night.”
   “What? Where?”
   “At the Perdido Beach Hilton. Ray caught that blonde following me into the hotel. He jumped her in her room and tied her up. Nothing serious. He took her gun and her money, and now she’s claiming she was beaten and raped by Ray McDeere. Every cop in Florida is looking for the car I rented last night in Mobile.”
   “Where’s the car?”
   “We left it about a mile west of here at a big condo development. I’m so scared, Mitch.”
   “Where’s Ray?”
   “He’s lying on the beach trying to sunburn his face. The picture in the paper is an old one. He’s got long hair and looks real pale. It’s not a good picture. Now he’s got a crew cut and he’s trying to turn pink. I think it will help.”
   “Are both rooms in your name?”
   “Rachel James.”
   “Listen, Abby. Forget Rachel and Lee and Ray and Abby. Wait until almost dark, then leave the rooms. Just walk away. About a half a mile east is a small motel called the Blue Tide. You and Ray enjoy a little walk on the beach until you find it. You go to the desk and get two rooms next to each other. Pay in cash. Tell them your name is Jackie Nagel. Got that? Jackie Nagel. Use that name, because when I get there I’ll ask for it.”
   “What if they don’t have two rooms next to each other?”
   “Okay, if anything goes wrong, two doors down is another dump called the Seaside. Check in there. Same name. I’m leaving here now, say one o’clock, and I should be there in ten hours.”
   “What if they find the car?”
   “They’ll find it, and they’ll throw a blanket over Panama City Beach. You’ve got to be careful. After dark, try to sneak into a drugstore and buy some hair dye. Cut your hair extremely short and dye it blond.”
   “Blond!”
   “Or red. I don’t give a damn. But change it. Tell Ray not to leave his room. Do not take any chances.”
   “He’s got a gun, Mitch.”
   “Tell him I said not to use it. There will be a thousand cops around there, probably tonight. He can’t win a gunfight.”
   “I love you, Mitch. I’m so scared.”
   “It’s okay to be scared, babe. Just keep thinking. They don’t know where you are, and they can’t catch you if you move. I’ll be there by midnight.”


* * *

   Lamar Quin, Wally Hudson and Kendall Mahan sat in the conference room on the third floor and contemplated their next move. As senior associates, they knew about the fifth floor and the basement, about Mr. Lazarov and Mr. Morolto, about Hodge and Kozinski. They knew that when one joined, one did not leave.
   They told their stories about the Day. They compared it to the day they learned the sad truth about Santa Claus. A sad and frightening day, when Nathan Locke talked to them in his office and told them about their biggest client. And then he introduced them to DeVasher. They were employees of the Morolto family, and they were expected to work hard, spend their handsome paychecks and remain very quiet about it. All three did. There had been thoughts of leaving, but never serious plans. They were family men. In time, it sort of went away. There were so many clean clients to work for. So much hard, legitimate work.
   The partners handled most of the dirty work, but growing seniority had brought increasing involvement in the conspiracy. They would never be caught, the partners assured them. They were too smart. They had too much money. It was a perfect cover. Of particular concern at the conference table was the fact that the partners had skipped town. There was not a single partner in Memphis. Even Avery Tolar had disappeared. He had walked out of the hospital.
   They talked about Mitch. He was out there somewhere, scared and running for his life. If DeVasher caught him, he was dead and they would bury him like Hodge and Kozinski. But if the feds caught him, they got the records, and they got The Firm, which, of course, included the three of them.
   What if, they speculated, no one caught him? What if he made it, just vanished? Along with his documents, of course. What if he and Abby were now somewhere on a beach, drinking rum and counting their money? They liked this thought and talked about it for a while.
   Finally, they decided to wait until tomorrow. If Mitch was gunned down somewhere, they would stay in Memphis. If he was never found, they would stay in Memphis. If the feds caught him, they would hit the road, Jack.
   Run, Mitch, run!


* * *

   The rooms at the Blue Tide Motel were narrow and tacky. The carpet was twenty years old and badly worn. The bedspreads had cigarette burns. But luxury was unimportant.
   After dark Thursday, Ray stood behind Abby with a pair of scissors and snipped delicately around her ears. Two towels under the chair were covered with her dark hair. She watched him carefully in the mirror next to the antique color television—and was free with her instructions. It was a boyish cut, well above the ears, with bangs. He stepped back and admired his work.
   “Not bad,” he said.
   She smiled and brushed hair from her arms. “I guess I need to color it now,” she said sadly. She walked to the tiny, bathroom and closed the door.
   She emerged an hour later as a blonde. A yellowish blonde. Ray was asleep on the bedspread. She knelt on the dirty carpet and scooped up the hair.
   She picked it from the floor and filled a plastic garbage bag. The empty dye bottle and the applicator were thrown in with the hair, and she tied the bag. There was a knock at the door.
   Abby froze, and listened. The curtains were pulled tightly. She slapped Ray’s feet. Another knock. Ray jumped from the bed and grabbed the gun.
   “Who is it?” she whispered loudly at the window.
   “Sam Fortune,” he whispered back.
   Ray unlocked the door, and Mitch stepped in. He grabbed Abby and bear-hugged Ray. The door was locked, the lights turned off, and they sat on the bed in the darkness. He held Abby tightly. With so much to say, the three said nothing.
   A tiny, weak ray of light from the outside filtered under the curtains and, as minutes passed, gradually lit the dresser and television. No one spoke. There were no sounds from the Blue Tide. The parking lot was virtually empty.
   “I can almost explain why I’m here,” Ray finally said, “but I’m not sure why you’re here.”
   “We’ve got to forget why we’re here,” Mitch said, “and concentrate on leaving here. All together. All safe.”
   “Abby’s told me everything,” Ray said.
   “I don’t know everything,” she said. “I don’t know who’s chasing us.”
   “I’m assuming they’re all out there,” Mitch said. “DeVasher and his gang are nearby. Pensacola, I would guess. It’s the nearest airport of any size. Tarrance is somewhere along the coast directing his boys in their all-out search for Ray McDeere, the rapist. And his accomplice, Abby McDeere.”
   “What happens next?” Abby asked.
   “They’ll find the car, if they haven’t already done so. That will pinpoint Panama City Beach. The paper said the search extended from Mobile to Miami, so now they’re spread out. When they find the car, they zero in here. Now, there’s a thousand cheap motels just like this one along the Strip. For twelve miles, nothing but motels, condos and T-shirt shops. That’s a lot of people, a lot of tourists with shorts and sandals, and tomorrow we’ll be tourists too, shorts, sandals, the whole bit. I figure even if they have a hundred men after us, we’ve got two or three days.”
   “Once they decide we’re here, what happens?” she asked.
   “You and Ray could have simply abandoned the car and taken off in another one. They can’t be certain we’re on the Strip, but they’ll start looking here. But they’re not the Gestapo. They can’t crash a door and search without probable cause.”
   “DeVasher can,” Ray said.
   “Yeah, but there’s a million doors around here. They’ll set up roadblocks and watch every store and restaurant. They’ll talk to every hotel clerk, show them Ray’s mug shot. They’ll swarm like ants for a few days, and with luck, they’ll miss us.”
   “What are you driving, Mitch?” Ray asked.
   “A U-Haul.”
   “I don’t understand why we don’t get in the U-Haul, right now, and haul ass. I mean, the car is sitting a mile down the road, just waiting to be found, and we know they’re coming. I say we haul it.”
   “Listen, Ray. They might be setting roadblocks right now. Trust me. Did I get you out of prison? Come on.”
   A siren went screaming past on the Strip. They froze, and listened to it fade away.
   “Okay, gang,” Mitch said, “we’re moving out. I don’t like this place. The parking lot is empty and too close to the highway. I’ve parked the U-Haul three doors down at the elegant Sea Gull’s Rest Motel. I’ve got two lovely rooms there. The roaches are much smaller. We’re taking a quiet stroll on the beach. Then we get to unpack the truck. Sound exciting?”

Chapter 37

   Joey Morolto and his squad of storm troopers landed at the Pensacola airport in a chartered DC-9 before sunrise Friday. Lazarov waited with two limos and eight rented vans. He briefed Joey on the past twenty-four hours as the convoy left Pensacola and traveled east on Highway 98. After an hour of briefing, they arrived at a twelve-floor condo called the Sandpiper, in the middle of the Strip at Destin. An hour from Panama City Beach. The penthouse on the top floor had been procured by Lazarov for only four thousand dollars a week. Off-season rates. The remainder of the twelfth floor and all of the eleventh had been leased, for the goons.
   Mr. Morolto snapped orders like an agitated drill sergeant. A command post was set up in the great room of the penthouse, overlooking the calm emerald water. Nothing suited him. He wanted breakfast, and Lazarov sent two vans to a Delchamps supermarket nearby. He wanted McDeere, and Lazarov asked him to be patient.
   By daybreak, the troops had settled into their condos. They waited.
   Three miles away along the beach, and within view of the Sandpiper, F. Denton Voyles and Wayne Tarrance sat on the balcony of an eighth-floor room at the Sandestin Hilton. They drank coffee, watched the sun rise gently on the horizon and talked strategy. The night had not gone well. The car had not been found. No sign of Mitch. With sixty FBI agents and hundreds of locals scouring the coast, they should have at least found the car. With each passing hour, the McDeeres were farther away.
   In a file by a coffee table inside were the warrants. For Ray McDeere, the warrant read: escape, unlawful flight, robbery and rape. Abby’s sin was merely being an accomplice. The charges for Mitch required more creativity. Obstruction of justice and a nebulous racketeering charge. And of course the old standby, mail fraud. Tarrance was not sure where the mail fraud fit, but he worked for the FBI and had never seen a case that did not include mail fraud.
   The warrants were issued and ready and had been fully discussed with dozens of reporters from newspapers and television stations throughout the Southeast. Trained to maintain a stone face and loathe the press, Tarrance was having a delightful time with the reporters.
   Publicity was needed. Publicity was critical. The authorities must find the McDeeres before the Mob did.
   Rick Acklin ran through the room to the balcony. “They’ve found the car!”
   Tarrance and Voyles jumped to their feet. “Where?”
   “Panama City Beach. In the parking lot of a high rise.”
   “Call our men in, every one of them!” Voyles yelled. “Stop searching everywhere. I want every agent in Panama City Beach. We’ll turn the place inside out. Get all the locals you can. Tell them to set up roadblocks on every highway and gravel road in and out of there. Dust the car for prints. What’s the town look like?”
   “Similar to Destin. A twelve-mile strip along the beach with hotels, motels, condos, the works,” Acklin answered.
   “Start our men door to door at the hotels. Is her composite ready?”
   “Should be,” Acklin said.
   “Get her composite, Mitch’s composite, Ray’s composite and Ray’s mug shot in the hands of every agent and cop. I want people walking up and down the Strip waving those damn composites.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “How far away is Panama City Beach?”
   “About fifty minutes due east.”
   “Get my car.”


* * *

   The phone woke Aaron Rimmer in his room at the Perdido Beach Hilton. It was the investigator with the Baldwin County Sheriff’s Department. They found the car, Mr. Rimmer, he said, in Panama City Beach. Just a few minutes ago. About a mile from the Holiday Inn. On Highway 98. Sorry again about the girl, he said. Hope she’s doing better, he said.
   Mr. Rimmer said thanks, and immediately called Lazarov at the Sandpiper. Ten minutes later, he and his roommate, Tony, and DeVasher and fourteen others were speeding east. Panama City Beach was three hours away.
   In Destin, Lazarov mobilized the storm troopers. They moved out quickly, piled into the vans and headed east. The blitzkrieg had begun.
   It took only a matter of minutes for the U-Haul to become a hot item. The assistant manager of the rental company in Nashville was a guy named Billy Weaver. He opened the office early Friday morning, fixed his coffee and scanned the paper. On the bottom half of the front page, Billy read with interest the story about Ray McDeere and the search along the coast. And then Abby was mentioned. Then the escapee’s brother, Mitch McDeere, was mentioned. The name rang a bell.
   Billy opened a drawer and flipped through the records of outstanding rentals. Sure enough, a man named McDeere had rented a sixteen-footer late Wednesday night. M. Y. McDeere, said the signature, but the driver’s license read Mitchell Y. From Memphis.
   Being a patriot and honest taxpayer, Billy called his cousin at Metro Police. The cousin called the Nashville FBI office, and fifteen minutes later, the U-Haul was a hot item.
   Tarrance took the call on the radio while Acklin drove. Voyles was in the back seat. A U-Haul? Why would he need a U-Haul? He left Memphis without his car, clothes, shoes or toothbrush. He left the dog unfed. He took nothing with him, so why the U-Haul?
   The Bendini records, of course. Either he left Nashville with the records in the truck or he was in the truck en route to get them. But why Nashville?


* * *

   Mitch was up with the sun. He took one long, lustful look at his wife with the cute blond hair and forgot about sex. It could wait. He let her sleep. He walked around the stacks of boxes in the small room and went to the bathroom. He showered quickly and slipped on a gray sweat suit he’d bought at a Wal-Mart in Montgomery. He eased along the beach for a half mile until he found a convenience store. He bought a sackful of Cokes, pastries and chips, sunglasses, caps and three newspapers.
   Ray was waiting by the U-Haul when he returned. They spread the papers on Ray’s bed. It was worse than they expected. Mobile, Pensacola and Montgomery had frontpage stories with composites of Ray and Mitch, along with the mug shot again. Abby’s composite had not been released, according to the Pensacola paper.
   As composites go, they were close here and there and badly off in other areas. But it was hard to be objective.
   Hell, Mitch was staring at his own composite and trying to give an unbiased opinion about how close it was. The stories were full of all sorts of wild statements from one Wayne Tarrance, special agent, FBI. Tarrance said Mitchell McDeere had been spotted in the Gulf Shores—Pensacola area; that he and Ray both were known to be heavily armed and extremely dangerous; that they had vowed not to be taken alive; that reward money was being gathered; that if anyone saw a man who faintly resembled either of the McDeere brothers, please call the local police.
   They ate pastries and decided the composites were not close. The mug shot was even comical. They eased next door and woke Abby. They began unpacking the Bendini Papers and assembling the video camera.
   At nine, Mitch called Tammy, collect. She had the new IDs and passports. He instructed her to Federal Express them to Sam Fortune, front desk, Sea Gull’s Rest Motel, 16694 Highway 98, West Panama City Beach, Florida. She read to him the front-page story about himself and his small gang. No composites.
   He told her to ship the passports, then leave Nashville. Drive four hours to Knoxville, check into a big motel and call him at Room 39, Sea Gull’s Rest. He gave her the number.


* * *

   Two FBI agents knocked on the door of the old ragged trailer at 486 San Luis. Mr. Ainsworth came to the door in his underwear. They flashed their badges.
   “So whatta you want with me?” he growled.
   An agent handed him the morning paper. “Do you know those two men?”
   He studied the paper. “I guess they’re my wife’s boys. Never met them.”
   “And your wife’s name is?”
   “Eva Ainsworth.”
   “Where is she?”
   Mr. Ainsworth was scanning the paper. “At work. At the Waffle Hut. Say they’re around here, huh?”
   “Yes, sir. You haven’t seen them?”
   “Hell no. But I’ll get my gun.”
   “Has your wife seen them?”
   “Not to my knowledge.”
   “Thanks, Mr. Ainsworth. We’ve got orders to set up watch here in the street, but we won’t bother you.”
   “Good. These boys are crazy. I’ve always said that.”
   A mile away, another pair of agents parked discreetly next to a Waffle Hut and set up watch.
   By noon, all highways and county roads into the coast around Panama City Beach were blocked. Along the Strip, cops stopped traffic every four miles. They walked from one T-shirt shop to the next, handing out composites. They posted them on the bulletin boards in Shoney’s, Pizza Hut, Taco Bell and a dozen more fast-food places. They told the cashiers and waitresses to keep their eyes open for the McDeeres. Very dangerous people.


* * *

   Lazarov and his men camped at the Best Western, two miles west of the Sea Gull’s Rest. He rented a large conference room and set up command. Four of his troops were dispatched to raid a T-shirt shop, and they returned with all sorts of tourist clothes and straw hats and caps. He rented two Ford Escorts and equipped them with police scanners. They patrolled the Strip and listened to the endless squawking. They immediately caught the search for the U-Haul and joined in. DeVasher strategically spread the rented vans along the Strip. They sat innocently in large parking lots and waited with their radios.
   Around two, Lazarov received an emergency call from an employee on the fifth floor of the Bendini Building. Two things. First, an employee snooping around the Caymans had found an old locksmith who, after being paid, recalled making eleven keys around midnight of April 1. Eleven keys, on two rings. Said the woman, a very attractive American, a brunette with nice legs, had paid cash and was in a hurry. Said the keys had been easy, except for the Mercedes key. He wasn’t sure about that one. Second, a banker from Grand Cayman called. Thursday at 9:33 A.M., ten million dollars had been wired from the Royal Bank of Montreal to the Southeastern Bank in Nashville.
   Between four and four-thirty, the police scanners went wild. The squawking was nonstop. A clerk at the Holiday Inn made a probable ID of Abby, as the woman who paid cash for two rooms at 4:17 A.M., Thursday. She paid for three nights, but had not been seen since the rooms were cleaned around one on Thursday. Evidently, neither room had been slept in Thursday night. She had not checked out, and the rooms were paid for through noon Saturday. The clerk saw no sign of a male accomplice. The Holiday Inn was swamped with cops and FBI agents and Morolto thugs for an hour. Tarrance himself interrogated the clerk.
   They were there! Somewhere in Panama City Beach. Ray and Abby were confirmed. It was suspected Mitch was with them, but it was unconfirmed. Until 4:58, Friday afternoon.
   The bombshell. A county deputy pulled into a cheap motel and noticed the gray-and-white hood of a truck. He walked between two buildings and smiled at the small U-Haul truck hidden neatly between a row of two-story rooms and a large garbage Dumpster. He wrote down all the numbers on the truck and called it in.
   It hit! In five minutes the motel was surrounded. The owner charged from the front office and demanded an explanation. He looked at the composites and shook his head. Five FBI badges napped in his face, and he became cooperative.
   Accompanied by a dozen agents, he took the keys and went door to door. Forty-eight doors.
   Only seven were occupied. The owner explained as he unlocked doors that it was a slow time of the year at the Beachcomber Inn. All of the smaller motels struggle until Memorial Day, he explained.
   Even the Sea Gull’s Rest, four miles to the west, was struggling.


* * *

   Andy Patrick received his first felony conviction at the age of nineteen and served four months for bad checks. Branded as a felon, he found honest work impossible, and for the next twenty years worked unsuccessfully as a small-time criminal. He drifted across the country shoplifting, writing bad checks and breaking into houses here and there. A small, frail nonviolent man, he was severely beaten by a fat, arrogant county deputy in Texas when he was twenty-seven. He lost an eye and lost all respect for the law.
   Six months earlier, he landed in Panama City Beach and found an honest job paying four bucks an hour working the night shift at the front and only desk of the Sea Gull’s Rest Motel. Around nine, Friday night, he was watching TV when a fat, arrogant county deputy swaggered through the door.
   “Got a manhunt going on,” he announced, and laid copies of the composites and mug shot on the dirty counter. “Looking for these folks. We think they’re around here.”
   Andy studied the composites. The one of Mitchell Y. McDeere looked pretty familiar. The wheels in his smalltime felonious brain began to churn.
   With his one good eye, he looked at the fat, arrogant county deputy and said, “Ain’t seen them. But I’ll keep an eye out.”
   “They’re dangerous,” the deputy said.
   You’re the dangerous one, Andy thought.
   “Post these up on the wall there,” the deputy instructed.
   Do you own this damned place? Andy thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized to post anything on the walls.”
   The deputy froze, cocked his head sideways and glared at Andy through thick sunglasses. “Listen, Peewee, I authorized it.”
   “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t post anything on the walls unless my boss tells me to.”
   “And where is your boss?”
   “I don’t know. Probably in a bar somewhere.”
   The deputy carefully picked up the composites, walked behind the counter and tacked them on the bulletin board. When he finished, he glared down at Andy and said, “I’ll come back in a coupla hours. If you remove these, I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
   Andy did not flinch. “Won’t stick. They got me for that one time in Kansas, so I know all about it.”
   The deputy’s fat cheeks turned red and he gritted his teeth. “You’re a little smart-ass, aren’t you?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “You take these down and I promise you you’ll go to jail for something.”
   “I’ve been there before, and it ain’t no big deal.”


* * *

   Red lights and sirens screamed by the Strip a few feet away, and the deputy turned and watched the excitement. He mumbled something and swaggered out the door. Andy threw the composites in the garbage. He watched the squad cars dodge each other on the Strip for a few minutes, then walked through the parking lot to the rear building. He knocked on the door of Room 38.
   He waited and knocked again.
   “Who is it?” a woman asked.
   “The manager,” Andy replied, proud of his title. The door opened, and the man who favored the composite of Mitchell Y. McDeere slid out.
   “Yes, sir,” he said. “What’s going on?”
   He was nervous, Andy could tell. “Cops just came by, know what I mean?”
   “What do they want?” he asked innocently.
   Your ass, Andy thought. “Just asking questions and showing pictures. I looked at the pictures, you know?”
   “Uh-huh,” he said.
   “Pretty good pictures,” Andy said.
   Mr. McDeere stared at Andy real hard.
   Andy said, “Cop said one of them escaped from prison. Know what I mean? I been in prison, and I think everybody ought to escape. You know?”
   Mr. McDeere smiled, a rather nervous smile. “What’s your name?” he asked.
   “Andy.”
   “I’ve got a deal for you, Andy. I’ll give you a thousand bucks now, and tomorrow, if you’re still unable to recognize anybody, I’ll give you another thousand bucks. Same for the next day.”
   A wonderful deal, thought Andy, but if he could afford a thousand bucks a day, certainly he could afford five thousand a day. It was the opportunity of his career.
   “Nope,” Andy said firmly. “Five thousand a day.”
   Mr. McDeere never hesitated. “It’s a deal. Let me get the money.” He went in the room and returned with a stack of bills.
   “Five thousand a day, Andy, that’s our deal?”
   Andy took the money and glanced around. He would count it later. “I guess you want me to keep the maids away?” Andy asked.
   “Great idea. That would be nice.”
   “Another five thousand,” Andy said.
   Mr. McDeere sort of hesitated. “Okay, I’ve got another deal. Tomorrow morning, a Fed Ex package will arrive at the desk for Sam Fortune. You bring it to me, and keep the maids away, and I’ll give you another five thousand.”
   “Won’t work. I do the night shift.”
   “Okay, Andy. What if you worked all weekend, around the clock, kept the maids away and delivered my package? Can you do that?”
   “Sure. My boss is a drunk. He’d love for me to work all weekend.”
   “How much money, Andy?”
   Go for it, Andy thought. “Another twenty thousand.”
   Mr. McDeere smiled. “You got it.”
   Andy grinned and stuck the money in his pocket. He walked away without saying a word, and Mitch retreated to Room 38.
   “Who was it?” Ray snapped.
   Mitch smiled as he glanced between the blinds and the windows.
   “I knew we would have to have a lucky break to pull this off. And I think we just found it.”

Chapter 38

   Mr. Morolto wore a black suit and a red tie and sat at the head of the plastic-coated executive conference table in the Dunes Room of the Best Western on the Strip. The twenty chairs around the table were packed with his best and brightest men. Around the four walls stood more of his trusted troops. Though they were thick-necked killers who did their deeds efficiently and without remorse, they looked like clowns in their colorful shirts and wild shorts and amazing potpourri of straw hats. He would have smiled at their silliness, but the urgency of the moment prevented smiling. He was listening.
   On his immediate right was Lou Lazarov, and on his immediate left was DeVasher, and every ear in the small room listened as the two played tag team back and forth across the table.
   “They’re here. I know they’re here,” DeVasher said dramatically, slapping both palms on the table with each syllable. The man had rhythm.
   Lazarov’s turn: “I agree. They’re here. Two came in a car, one came in a truck. We’ve found both vehicles abandoned, covered with fingerprints. Yes, they’re here.”
   DeVasher: “But why Panama City Beach? It makes no sense.”
   Lazarov: “For one, he’s been here before. Came here Christmas, remember? He’s familiar with this place, so he figures with all these cheap motels on the beach it’s a great place to hide for a while. Not a bad idea, really. But he’s had some bad luck. For a man on the run, he’s carrying too much baggage, like a brother who everybody wants. And a wife. And a truckload of documents, we presume. Typical schoolboy mentality. If I gotta run, I’m taking everybody who loves me. Then his brother rapes a girl, they think, and suddenly every cop in Alabama and Florida is looking for them. Some pretty bad luck, really.”
   “What about his mother?” Mr. Morolto asked.
   Lazarov and DeVasher nodded at the great man and acknowledged this very intelligent question.
   Lazarov: “No, purely coincidental. She’s a very simple woman who serves waffles and knows nothing. We’ve watched her since we got here.”
   DeVasher: “I agree. There’s been no contact.”
   Morolto nodded intelligently and lit a cigarette.
   Lazarov: “So if they’re here, and we know they’re here, then the feds and the cops also know they’re here. We’ve got sixty people here, and they got hundreds. Odds are on them.”
   “You’re sure they’re all three together?” Mr. Morolto asked.
   DeVasher: “Absolutely. We know the woman and the convict checked in the same night at Perdido, that they left and three hours later she checked in here at the Holiday Inn and paid cash for two rooms and that she rented the car and his fingerprints were on it. No doubt. We know Mitch rented a U-Haul Wednesday in Nashville, that he wired ten million bucks of our money into a bank in Nashville Thursday morning and then evidently hauled ass. The U-Haul was found here four hours ago. Yes, sir, they are together.”
   Lazarov: “If he left Nashville immediately after the money was wired, he would have arrived here around dark. The U-Haul was found empty, so they had to unload it somewhere around here, then hide it. That was probably sometime late last night, Thursday. Now, you gotta figure they need to sleep sometime. I figure they stayed here last night with plans of moving on today. But they woke up this morning and their faces were in the paper, cops running around bumping into each other, and suddenly the roads were blocked. So they’re trapped here.”
   DeVasher: “To get out, they’ve got to borrow, rent or steal a car. No rental records anywhere around here. She rented a car in Mobile in her name. Mitch rented a U-Haul in Nashville in his name. Real proper ID. So you gotta figure they ain’t that damned smart after all.”
   Lazarov: “Evidently they don’t have fake IDs. If they rented a car around here for the escape, the rental records would be in the real name. No such records exist.”
   Mr. Morolto waved his hand in frustration. “All right, all right. So they’re here. You guys are geniuses. I’m so proud of you. Now what?”
   DeVasher’s turn: “The Fibbies are in the way. They’re in control of the search, and we can’t do nothing but sit and watch.”
   Lazarov: “I’ve called Memphis. Every senior associate in is on the way down here. They know McDeere and his wife real well, so we’ll put them on the beach and in restaurants and hotels. Maybe they’ll see something.”
   DeVasher: “I figure they’re in one of the little motels. They can give fake names, pay in cash and nobody’ll be suspicious. Fewer people too. Less likelihood of being seen. They checked in at the Holiday Inn but didn’t stay long. I bet they moved on down the Strip.”
   Lazarov: “First, we’ll get rid of the feds and the cops. They don’t know it yet, but they’re about to move their show on down the road. Then, early in the morning, we start door to door at the small motels. Most of these dumps have less than fifty rooms. I figure two of our men can search one in thirty minutes. I know it’ll be slow, but we can’t just sit here. Maybe when the cops pull out, the McDeeres will breathe a little and make a mistake.”
   “You mean you want our men to start searching hotel rooms?” Mr. Morolto asked.
   DeVasher: “There’s no way we can hit every door, but we gotta try.”
   Mr. Morolto stood and glanced around the room. “So what about the water?” he asked in the direction of Lazarov and DeVasher.
   They stared at each other, thoroughly confused by the question.
   “The water!” Mr. Morolto screamed. “What about the water?”
   All eyes shot desperately around the table and quickly landed upon Lazarov. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m confused.”
   Mr. Morolto leaned into Lazarov’s face. “What about the water, Lou? We’re on a beach, right? There’s land and highways and railroads and airports on one side, and there’s water and boats on the other. Now, if the roads are blocked and the airports and railroads are out of the question, where do you think they might go? It seems obvious to me they would try to find a boat and ease out in the dark. Makes sense, don’t it, boys?”
   Every head in the room nodded quickly. DeVasher spoke first. “Makes a hell of a lot of sense to me.”
   “Wonderful,” said Mr. Morolto. “Then where are our boats?”
   Lazarov jumped from his seat, turned to the wall and began barking orders at his lieutenants. “Go down to the docks! Rent every fishing boat you can find for tonight and all day tomorrow. Pay them whatever they want. Don’t answer any questions, just pay ’em the money. Get our men on those boats and start patrolling as soon as possible. Stay within a mile of shore.”


* * *

   Shortly before eleven, Friday night, Aaron Rimmer stood at the checkout counter at an all-night Texaco in Tallahassee and paid for a root beer and twelve gallons of gas. He needed change for the call. Outside, next to the car wash, he flipped through the blue pages and called the Tallahassee Police Department. It was an emergency. He explained himself, and the dispatcher connected him with a shift captain.
   “Listen!” Rimmer yelled urgently, “I’m here at this Texaco, and five minutes ago I saw these convicts everybody is looking for! I know it was them!”
   “Which convicts?” asked the captain.
   “The McDeeres. Two men and a woman. I left Panama City Beach not two hours ago, and I saw their pictures in the paper. Then I stopped here and filled up, and I saw them.”
   Rimmer gave his location and waited thirty seconds for the first patrol car to arrive with blue lights flashing. It was quickly followed by a second, third and fourth. They loaded Rimmer in a front seat and raced him to the South Precinct. The captain and a small crowd waited anxiously. Rimmer was escorted like a celebrity into the captain’s office, where the three composites and mug shot were waiting on the desk.
   “That’s them!” he shouted. “I just saw them, not ten minutes ago. They were in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee plates, and it was pulling a long double-axle U-Haul trailer.”
   “Exactly where were you?” asked the captain. The cops hung on every word.
   “I was pumping gas, pump number four, regular unleaded, and they eased into the parking lot, real suspicious like. They parked away from the pumps, and the woman got out and went inside.” He picked up Abby’s composite and studied it. “Yep. That’s her. No doubt. Her hair’s a lot shorter, but it’s dark. She came right back out, didn’t buy a thing. She seemed nervous and in a hurry to get back to the truck. I was finished pumping, so I walked inside. Right when I opened the door, they drove within two feet of me. I saw all three of them.”
   “Who was driving?” asked the captain. Rimmer stared at Ray’s mug shot. “Not him. The other one.” He pointed at Mitch’s composite.
   “Could I see your driver’s license,” a sergeant said.
   Rimmer carried three sets of identification. He handed the sergeant an Illinois driver’s license with his picture and the name Frank Temple.
   “Which direction were they headed?” the captain asked.
   “East.”
   At the same moment, about four miles away, Tony Verkler hung up the pay phone, smiled to himself and returned to the Burger King.
   The captain was on the phone. The sergeant was copying information from Rimmer/Temple’s driver’s license and a dozen cops chatted excitedly when a patrolman rushed into the office “Just got a call! Another sighting, at a Burger King east of town. Same info! All three of them in a green Ford pickup pulling a U-Haul. Guy wouldn’t leave a name, but said he saw their pictures in the paper. Said they pulled through the carry-out window, bought three sacks of food and took off.”
   “It’s gotta be them!” the captain said with a huge smile.


* * *

   The Bay County sheriff sipped thick black coffee from a Styrofoam cup and rested his black boots on the executive conference table in the Caribbean Room at the Holiday Inn. FBI agents were in and out, fixing coffee, whispering and updating each other on the latest. His hero, the big man himself, Director F. Denton Voyles, sat across the table and studied a street map with three of his underlings. Imagine, Denton Voyles in Bay County. The room was a beehive of police activity. Florida state troopers filtered in and out. Radios and telephones rang and squawked on a makeshift command post in a corner. Sheriff’s deputies and city policemen from three counties loitered about, thrilled with the chase and suspense and presence of all those FBI agents. And Voyles.
   A deputy burst through the door with a wild-eyed glow of sheer excitement. “Just got a call from Tallahassee! They’ve got two positive IDs in the last fifteen minutes! All three of them in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee tags!”
   Voyles dropped his street map and walked over to the deputy. “Where were the sightings?” The room was silent, except for the radios.
   “First one was at a Texaco Quick Shop. Second one was four miles away at a Burger King. They drove through the drive-in window. Both witnesses were positive and gave identical IDs.”
   Voyles turned to the sheriff. “Sheriff, call Tallahassee and confirm. How far away is it?”
   The black boots hit the floor. “Hour and a half. Straight down Interstate 10.”
   Voyles pointed at Tarrance, and they stepped into a small room used as the bar. The quiet roar returned to mission control.
   “If the sightings are real,” Voyles said quietly in Tarranee’s face, “we’re wasting our time here.”
   “Yes, sir. They sound legitimate. A single sighting could be a fluke or a prank, but two that close together sound awfully legitimate.”
   “How the hell did they get out of here?”
   “It’s gotta be that woman, Chief. She’s been helping him for a month. I don’t know who she is, or where he found her, but she’s on the outside watching us and feeding him whatever he needs.”
   “Do you think she’s with them?”
   “Doubt it. She’s probably just following closely, away from the action, and taking directions from him.”
   “He’s brilliant, Wayne. He’s been planning this for months.”
   “Evidently.”
   “You mentioned the Bahamas once.”
   “Yes, sir. The million bucks we paid him was wired to a bank in Freeport. He later told me it didn’t stay there long.”
   “You think, maybe, he’s headed there?”
   “Who knows. Obviously he has to get out of the country. I talked to the warden today. He told me Ray McDeere can speak five or six languages fluently. They could be going anywhere.”
   “I think we should pull out,” Voyles said.
   “Let’s get the roadblocks set up around Tallahassee. They won’t last long if we’ve got a good description of the vehicle. We should have them by morning.”
   “I want every cop in central Florida on the highways in an hour. Roadblocks everywhere. Every Ford pickup is automatically searched, okay? Our men will wait here until daybreak, then we’ll pull up stakes.”
   “Yes, sir,” Tarrance answered with a weary grin.


* * *

   Word of the Tallahassee sightings spread instantly along the Emerald Coast. Panama City Beach relaxed. The McDeeres were gone. For reasons unknown only to them, their flight had moved inland. Sighted and positively identified, not once but twice, they were now somewhere else speeding desperately toward the inevitable confrontation on the side of a dark highway.
   The cops along the coast went home. A few roadblocks remained through the night in Bay County and Gulf County; the predawn hours of Saturday were almost normal. Both ends of the Strip remained blocked, with cops making cursory exams of driver’s licenses. The roads north of town were free and clear. The search had moved east.


* * *

   On the outskirts of Ocala, Florida, near Silver Springs on Highway 40, Tony Verkler lumbered from a 7-Eleven and stuck a quarter in a pay phone. He called the Ocala Police Department with the urgent report that he had just seen those three convicts everybody was looking for up around Panama City Beach. The McDeeres! Said he saw their pictures in the paper the day before when he was driving through Pensacola, and now he had just seen them. The dispatcher informed him all patrolmen were on the scene of a bad accident and asked if he would mind driving over to the police station so they could file a report. Tony said he was in a hurry, but since it was somewhat important, he would be there in a minute.
   When he arrived, the chief of police was waiting in a T-shirt and blue jeans. His eyes were swollen and red, and his hair was not in place. He led Tony into his office and thanked him for coming by. He took notes as Tony explained how he was pumping gas in front of the 7-Eleven and a green Ford pickup with a U-Haul trailer behind it pulled up next to the store and a woman got out and used the phone. Tony was in the process, he explained, of driving from Mobile to Miami and had driven through the manhunt up around Panama City. He had seen the newspapers and had been listening to his radio and knew all about the three McDeeres. Anyway, he went in and paid for the gas and thought that he had seen the woman somewhere before. Then he remembered the papers. He walked over to a magazine rack in the front window and got a good look at the men. No doubt in his mind. She hung up, got back in the truck between the men, and they left. Green Ford with Tennessee plates.
   The chief thanked him and called the Marion County Sheriff’s Department. Tony said goodbye and returned to his car, where Aaron Rimmer was asleep in the back seat.
   They headed north, in the direction of Panama City Beach.

Chapter 39

   Saturday, 7 a.m. Andy Patrick looked east and west along the Strip, then walked quickly across the parking lot to Room 39. He knocked gently.
   After a delay, she asked, “Who is it?”
   “The manager,” he answered. The door opened, and the man who resembled the composite of Mitchell Y. McDeere slid out. His hair was now very short and gold-colored. Andy stared at his hair.
   “Good morning, Andy,” he said politely while glancing around the parking lot.
   “Good morning. I was kinda wondering if you folks were still here.”
   Mr. McDeere nodded and continued to look around the parking lot.
   “I mean, according to the television this morning, you folks traveled halfway across Florida last night.”
   “Yeah, we’re watching it. They’re playing games, aren’t they, Andy?”
   Andy kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. “Television said there were three positive identifications last night. At three different places. Kinda strange, I thought. I was here all night, working and being on the lookout and all, and I didn’t see you leave. Before sunrise I sneaked across the highway to a coffee shop, just over there, and as usual, there were cops in there. I sat close to them. According to them, the search has been called off around here. They said the FBI moved out right after the last sighting came in, around four this morning. Most of the other cops left too. They’re gonna keep the Strip blocked until noon and call it off. Rumor has it you’ve got help from the outside, and you’re trying to get to the Bahamas.”
   Mr. McDeere listened closely as he watched the parking lot. “What else did they say?”
   “They kept talking about a U-Haul truck full of stolen goods, and how they found the truck, and it was empty, and how nobody can figure out how you loaded the stolen goods into a trailer and sneaked outta town right under their noses. They’re very impressed, all right. Of course, I didn’t say nothing, but I figured it was the same U-Haul you drove in here Thursday night.”
   Mr. McDeere was deep in thought and did not say anything. He didn’t appear to be nervous. Andy studied his face carefully.
   “You don’t seem too pleased,” Andy said. “I mean, the cops are leaving and calling off the search. That’s good, ain’t it?”
   “Andy, can I tell you something?”
   “Sure.”
   “It’s more dangerous now than before.”
   Andy thought about this for a long minute, then said, “How’s that?”
   “The cops just wanted to arrest me, Andy. But there are some people who want to kill me. Professional killers, Andy. Many of them. And they’re still here.”
   Andy narrowed his good eye and stared at Mr. McDeere. Professional killers! Around here? On the Strip? Andy took a step backward. He wanted to ask exactly who they were and why they were chasing him, but he knew he wouldn’t get much of an answer. He saw an opportunity. “Why don’t you escape?”
   “Escape? How could we escape?”
   Andy kicked another rock and nodded in the direction of a 1971 Pontiac Bonneville parked behind the office. “Well, you could use my car. You could get in the trunk, all three of you, and I could drive you outta town. You don’t appear to be broke, so you could catch a plane and be gone. Just like that.”
   “And how much would that cost?”
   Andy studied his feet and scratched his ear. The guy was probably a doper, he thought, and the boxes were probably full of cocaine and cash. And the Colombians were probably after him. “That’d be pretty expensive, you know. I mean, right now, at five thousand a day, I’m just an innocent motel clerk who’s not very observant. Not part of nothing, you understand. But if I drive you outta here, then I become an accomplice, subject to indictment and jail and all that other crap I’ve been through, you know? So it’d be pretty expensive.”
   “How much, Andy?”
   “A hundred thousand.”
   Mr. McDeere did not flinch or react; he just kept a straight face and glanced across the beach to the ocean. Andy knew immediately it was not out of the question.
   “Let me think about it, Andy. For right now, you keep your eyes open. Now that the cops are gone, the killers will move in. This could be a very dangerous day, Andy, and I need your help. If you see anyone suspicious around here, call us quick. We’re not leaving these rooms, okay?”
   Andy returned to the front desk. Any fool would jump in the trunk and haul ass. It was the boxes, the stolen goods. That’s why they wouldn’t leave.
   The McDeeres enjoyed a light breakfast of stale pastries and warm soft drinks. Ray was dying for a cold beer, but another trip to the convenience store was too risky. They ate quickly and watched the early-morning news. Occasionally a station along the coast would flash their composites on the screen. It scared them at first, but they got used to it.
   A few minutes after 9 A.M., Saturday, Mitch turned off the television and resumed his spot on the floor among the boxes. He picked up a stack of documents and nodded at Abby, the camera operator. The deposition continued.


* * *

   Lazarov waited until the maids were on duty, then scattered his troops along the Strip. They worked in pairs, knocking on doors, peeking in windows and sliding through dark hallways. Most of the small places had two or three maids who knew every room and every guest. The procedure was simple, and most of the time it worked. A goon would find a maid, hand her a hundred-dollar bill, and show her the composites. If she resisted, he would continue giving money until she became cooperative. If she was unable to make the ID, he would ask if she had noticed a U-Haul truck, or a room full of boxes, or two men and a woman acting suspicious or scared, or anything unusual. If the maid was of no help, he would ask which rooms were occupied, then go knock on the doors.
   Start with the maids, Lazarov had instructed them. Enter from the beach side. Stay away from the front desks. Pretend to be cops. And if you hit pay dirt, kill them instantly and get to a phone.
   DeVasher placed four of the rented vans along the Strip near the highway. Lamar Quin, Kendall Mahan, Wally Hudson and Jack Aldrich posed as drivers and watched every vehicle that passed. They had arrived in the middle of the night on a private plane with ten other senior associates of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. In the souvenir shops and cafes, the former friends and colleagues of Mitch McDeere milled about with the tourists and secretly hoped they would not see him. The partners had been called home from airports around the country, and by midmorning they were walking the beach and inspecting pools and hotel lobbies. Nathan Locke stayed behind with Mr. Morolto, but the rest of the partners disguised themselves with golf caps and sunglasses and took orders from General DeVasher. Only Avery Tolar was missing. Since walking out of the hospital, he had not been heard from. Including the thirty-three lawyers, Mr. Morolto had almost a hundred men participating in his private little manhunt.
   At the Blue Tide Motel, a janitor took a hundred-dollar bill, looked at the composites and said he thought he might have seen the woman and one of the men check into two rooms early Thursday evening. He stared at Abby’s sketch and became convinced it was her. He took some more money and went to the office to check the registration records. He returned with the information that the woman had checked in as Jackie Nagel and paid cash for two rooms for Thursday, Friday and Saturday. He took some more money, and the two gunmen followed him to the rooms. He knocked on both doors. No answer. He unlocked them and allowed his new friends to inspect them. The rooms had not been used Friday night. One of the troops called Lazarov, and five minutes later DeVasher was poking around the rooms looking for clues. He found none, but the search was immediately constricted to a four-mile stretch of beach between the Blue Tide and the Beachcomber, where the U-Haul was found.
   The vans moved the troops closer. The partners and senior associates scoured the beach and restaurants. And the gunmen knocked on doors.
   Andy signed the Federal Express ticket at 10:35 and inspected the package for Sam Fortune. It had been shipped by Doris Greenwood, whose address was listed as 4040 Poplar Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. No phone number. He was certain it was valuable and for a moment contemplated another quick profit. But its delivery had already been contracted for. He gazed along both ends of the Strip and left the office with the package.
   After years of dodging and hiding, Andy had subconsciously trained himself to walk quickly in the shadows, near the corners, never in the open. As he turned the corner to cross the parking lot, he saw two men knocking on the door to Room 21. The room happened to be vacant, and he was immediately suspicious of the two. They wore odd-fitting matching white shorts that fell almost to their knees, although it was difficult to tell exactly where the shorts stopped and the snow-white legs began. One wore dark socks with battered loafers. The other wore cheap sandals and walked in obvious pain. White Panama hats adorned their beefy heads.
   After six months on the Strip, Andy could spot a fake tourist. The one beating on the door hit it again, and when he did Andy saw the bulge of a large handgun stuck in the back of his shorts.
   He quickly retraced his quiet footsteps and returned to the office. He called Room 39 and asked for Sam Fortune.
   “This is Sam.”
   “Sam, this is Andy at the desk. Don’t look out, but there are two very suspicious men knocking on doors across the parking lot.”
   “Are they cops?”
   “I don’t think so. They didn’t check in here.”
   “Where are the maids?” Sam asked.
   “They don’t come in till eleven on Saturday.”
   “Good. We’re turning off the lights. Watch them and call when they leave.”
   From a dark window in a closet, Andy watched the men go from door to door, knocking and waiting, occasionally getting one to open. Eleven of the forty-two rooms were occupied. No response at 38 and 39. They returned to the beach and disappeared. Professional killers! At his motel.
   Across the Strip, in the parking lot of a miniature golf course, Andy saw two identical fake tourists talking to a man in a white van. They pointed here and there and seemed to be arguing.
   He called Sam. “Listen, Sam, they’re gone. But this place is crawling with these people.”
   “How many?”
   “I can see two more across the Strip. You folks better run for it.”
   “Relax, Andy. They won’t see us if we stay in here.”
   “But you can’t stay forever. My boss’ll catch on before much longer.”
   “We’re leaving soon, Andy. What about the package?”
   “It’s here.”
   “Good. I need to see it. Say, Andy, what about food? Could you ease across the street and get something hot?”
   Andy was a manager, not a porter. But for five thousand a day the Sea Gull’s Rest could provide a little room service. “Sure. Be there in a minute.”


* * *

   Wayne Tarrance grabbed the phone and fell across the single bed in his Ramada Inn room in Orlando. He was exhausted, furious, baffled and sick of F. Denton Voyles. It was 1:30 P.M., Saturday. He called Memphis. The secretary had nothing to report, except that Mary Alice called and wanted to talk to him. They had traced the call to a pay phone in Atlanta. Mary Alice said she would call again at 2 P.M. to see if Wayne—she called him Wayne—had checked in. Tarranee gave his room number and hung up. Mary Alice. In Atlanta. McDeere in Tallahassee, then Ocala. Then no McDeere. No green Ford pickup with Tennessee plates and trailer. He had vanished again.
   The phone rang once. Tarrance slowly lifted the receiver. “Mary Alice,” he said softly.
   “ Wayne baby! How’d you guess?”
   “Where is he?”
   “Who?” Tammy giggled.
   “McDeere. Where is he?”
   “Well, Wayne, you boys were hot for a while, but then you chased a wild rabbit. Now you’re not even close, baby. Sorry to tell you.”
   “We’ve got three positive IDs in the past fourteen hours.”
   “Better check them out, Wayne. Mitch told me a few minutes ago he’s never been to Tallahassee. Never heard of Ocala. Never driven a green Ford pickup. Never pulled a U-Haul trailer. You boys bit hard, Wayne. Hook, line and sinker.”
   Tarrance pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed into the phone.
   “So how’s Orlando?” she asked. “Gonna see Disney World while you’re in town?”
   “Where the hell is he!”
   “Wayne, Wayne, relax, baby. You’ll get the documents.”
   Tarrance sat up. “Okay, when?”
   “Well, we could be greedy and insist on the rest of our money. I’m at a pay phone, Wayne, so don’t bother to trace it, okay? But we’re not greedy. You’ll get your records within twenty-four hours. If all goes well.”
   “Where are the records?”
   “I’ll have to call you back, baby. If you stay at this number, I’ll call you every four hours until Mitch tells me where the documents are. But, Wayne, if you leave this number, I might lose you, baby. So stay put.”
   “I’ll be here. Is he still in the country?”
   “I think not. I’m sure he’s in Mexico by now. His brother speaks the language, you know?”
   “I know.” Tarrance stretched out on the bed and said to hell with it. Mexico could have them, as long as he got the records.
   “Stay where you are, baby. Take a nap. You gotta be tired. I’ll call around five or six.”
   Tarrance laid the phone on the nightstand, and took a nap.


* * *

   The dragnet lost its steam Saturday afternoon when the Panama City Beach police received the fourth complaint from motel owners. The cops were dispatched to the Breakers Motel, where an irate owner told of armed men harassing the guests. More cops were sent to the Strip, and before long they were searching the motels for gunmen who were searching for the McDeeres. The Emerald Coast was on the brink of war.
   Weary and hot, DeVasher’s men were forced to work alone. They spread themselves even thinner along the beach and stopped the door-to-door work. They lounged in plastic chairs around the pools, watching the tourists come and go. They lay on the beach, dodging the sun, hiding behind dark shades, watching the tourists come and go.
   As dusk approached, the army of goons and thugs and gunmen, and lawyers, slipped into the darkness and waited. If the McDeeres were going to move, they would do it at night. A silent army waited for them.
   DeVasher’s thick forearms rested uncomfortably on a balcony railing outside his Best Western room. He watched the empty beach below as the sun slowly disappeared on the horizon. Aaron Rimmer walked through the sliding glass door and stopped behind DeVasher. “We found Tolar,” Rimmer said.
   DeVasher did not move. “Where?”
   “Hiding in his girlfriend’s apartment in Memphis.”
   “Was he alone?”
   “Yeah. They iced him. Made it look like a robbery.”


* * *

   In Room 39, Ray inspected for the hundredth time the new passports, visas, driver’s licenses and birth certificates. The passport photos for Mitch and Abby were current, with plenty of dark hair. After the escape, time would take care of the blondness. Ray’s photo was a slightly altered Harvard Law School mug shot of Mitch, with the long hair, stubble and rough academic looks. The eyes, noses and cheekbones were similar, after careful analysis, but nothing else. The documents were in the names of Lee Stevens, Rachel James and Sam Fortune, all with addresses in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Doc did good work, and Ray smiled as he studied each one.
   Abby packed the Sony video camera into its box. The tripod was folded and leaned against the wall. Fourteen videocassette tapes with stick-on labels were stacked neatly on the television.
   After sixteen hours, the video deposition was over. Starting with the first tape, Mitch had faced the camera, raised his right hand and sworn to tell the truth. He stood next to the dresser with documents covering the floor around him. Using Tammy’s notes, summaries and flowcharts, he methodically walked through the bank records first. He identified over two hundred and fifty secret accounts in eleven Cayman banks. Some had names, but most were just numbered. Using copies of computer printouts, he constructed the histories of the accounts. Cash deposits, wire transfers and withdrawals. At the bottom of each document used in his deposition, he wrote with a black marker the initials MM and then the exhibit number: MM1, MM2, MM3 and so on. After Exhibit MM1485, he had identified nine hundred million dollars hiding in Cayman banks.
   After the bank records, he painstakingly pieced together the structure of the empire. In twenty years, more than four hundred Cayman corporations had been chartered by the Moroltos and The Firm their incredibly rich and incredibly corrupt attorneys. Many of the corporations owned all or pieces of each other and used the banks as registered agents and permanent addresses. Mitch learned quickly that he had only a fraction of the records and speculated, on camera, that most documents were hidden in the basement in Memphis. He also explained, for the benefit of the jury, that it would take a small army of IRS investigators a year or so to piece together the Morolto corporate puzzle. He slowly explained each exhibit, marked it carefully and filed it away. Abby operated the camera. Ray watched the parking lot and studied the fake passports.
   He testified for six hours on various methods used by the Moroltos and their attorneys to turn dirty money into clean. Easily the most favored method was to fly in a load of dirty cash on a Bendini plane, usually with two or three lawyers on board to legitimate the trip. With dope pouring in by land, air and sea, U.S. customs cares little about what’s leaving the country. It was a perfect setup. The planes left dirty and came back clean. Once the money landed on Grand Cayman, a lawyer on board handled the required payoffs to Cayman customs and to the appropriate banker. On some loads, up to twenty-five percent went for bribes.
   Once deposited, usually in unnamed, numbered accounts, the money became almost impossible to trace. But many of the bank transactions coincided nicely with significant corporate events. The money was usually deposited into one of a dozen numbered holding accounts. Or “super accounts,” as Mitch called them. He gave the jury these account numbers, and the names of the banks. Then, as the new corporations were chartered, the money was transferred from the super accounts to the corporate accounts, often in the same bank. Once the dirty money was owned by a legitimate Cayman corporation, the laundering began. The simplest and most common method was for the company to purchase real estate and other clean assets in the United States. The transactions were handled by the creative attorneys at Bendini, Lambert & Locke, and all money moved by wire transfer. Often, the Cayman corporation would purchase another Cayman corporation that happened to own a Panama corporation that owned a holding company in Denmark. The Danes would purchase a ball-bearing factory in Toledo and wire in the purchase money from a subsidiary bank in Munich. And the dirty money was now clean.
   After marking Exhibit MM4292, Mitch quit the deposition. Sixteen hours of testimony was enough. It would not be admissible at trial, but it would serve its purpose. Tarranee and his buddies could show the tapes to a grand jury and indict at least thirty lawyers from the Bendini firm. He could show the tapes to a federal magistrate and get his search warrants.
   Mitch had held to his end of the bargain. Although he would not be around to testify in person, he had been paid only a million dollars and was about to deliver more than was expected. He was physically and emotionally drained, and sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off. Abby sat in a chair with her eyes closed.
   Ray peeked through the blinds. “We need a cold beer,” he said.
   “Forget it,” Mitch snapped.
   Ray turned and stared at him. “Relax, little brother. It’s dark, and the store is just a short walk down the beach. I can take care of myself.”
   “Forget it, Ray. There is no need to take chances. We’re leaving in a few hours, and if all goes well, you’ll have the rest of your life to drink beer.”
   Ray was not listening. He pulled a baseball cap firmly over his forehead, stuck some cash in his pockets and reached for the gun.
   “Ray, please, at least forget the gun,” Mitch pleaded.
   Ray stuck the gun under his shirt and eased out the door. He walked quickly in the sand behind the small motels and shops, hiding in the shadows and craving a cold beer. He stopped behind the convenience store, looked quickly around and was certain no one was watching, then walked to the front door. The beer cooler was in the rear.
   In the parking lot next to the Strip, Lamar Quin hid under a large straw hat and made small talk with some teenagers from Indiana. He saw Ray enter the store and thought he might recognize something. There was a casualness about the man’s stride that looked vaguely familiar. Lamar moved to the front window and glanced in the direction of the beer cooler. The man’s eyes were covered with sunglasses, but the nose and cheekbones were certainly familiar. Lamar eased inside the small store and picked up a sack of potato chips. He waited at the checkout counter and came face-to-face with the man, who was not Mitchell McDeere but greatly resembled him.
   It was Ray. It had to be. The face was sunburned, and the hair was too short to be stylish. The eyes were covered. Same height. Same weight. Same walk.
   “How’s it going?” Lamar said to the man.
   “Fine. You?” the voice was similar.
   Lamar paid for his chips and returned to the parking lot. He calmly dropped the bag in a garbage can next to a phone booth and quickly walked next door to a souvenir shop to continue his search for the McDeeres.

Chapter 40

   Darkness brought a cool breeze to the beach along the Strip. The sun disappeared quickly, and there was no moon to replace it. A distant ceiling of harmless dark clouds covered the sky, and the water was black.
   Darkness brought fishermen to the Dan Russell Pier in the center of the Strip. They gathered in groups of three and four along the concrete structure and stared silently as their lines ran into the black water twenty feet below. They leaned motionless on the railing, occasionally spitting or talking to a friend. They enjoyed the breeze and the quietness and the still water much more than they enjoyed the occasional fish that ventured by and hit a hook. They were vacationers from the North who spent the same week each year at the same motel and came to the pier each night in the darkness to fish and marvel at the sea. Between them sat buckets full of bait and small coolers full of beer.
   From time to time throughout the night, a nonfisherman or a pair of lovebirds would venture onto the pier and walk a hundred yards to the end of it. They would gaze at the black, gentle water for a few minutes, then turn and admire the glow of a million flickering lights along the Strip. They would watch the inert, huddled fishermen leaning on their elbows. The fishermen did not notice them.
   The fishermen did not notice Aaron Rimmer as he casually walked behind them around eleven. He smoked a cigarette at the end of the pier and tossed the butt into the ocean. He gazed along the beach and thought of the thousands of motel rooms and condos.
   The Dan Russell Pier was the westernmost of the three at Panama City Beach. It was the newest, the longest and the only one built with nothing but concrete. The other two were older and wooden. In the center there was a small brick building containing a tackle shop, a snack bar and rest rooms. Only the rest rooms were open at night.
   It was probably a half mile east of the Sea Gull’s Rest. At eleven-thirty, Abby left Room 39, eased by the dirty pool and began walking east along the beach. She wore shorts, a white straw hat and a windbreaker with the collar turned up around her ears. She walked slowly, with her hands thrust deep in the pockets like an experienced, contemplative beachcomber. Five minutes later, Mitch left the room, eased by the dirty pool and followed her footsteps. He gazed at the ocean as he walked. Two joggers approached, splashing in the water and talking between breaths. On a string around his neck and tucked under his black cotton shirt was a whistle, just in case. In all four pockets he had crammed sixty thousand in cash. He looked at the ocean and nervously watched Abby ahead of him. When he was two hundred yards down the beach, Ray left Room 39 for the last time. He locked it and kept a key. Wrapped around his waist was a forty-foot piece of black nylon rope. The gun was stuck under it. A bulky windbreaker covered it all nicely. Andy had charged another two thousand for the clothing and items.
   Ray eased onto the beach. He watched Mitch and could barely see Abby. The beach was deserted.
   It was almost midnight, Saturday, and most of the fishermen had left the pier for another night. Abby saw three in a small cluster near the rest rooms. She slipped past them and nonchalantly strolled to the end of the pier, where she leaned on the concrete railing and stared at the vast blackness of the Gulf. Red buoy lights were scattered as far as she could see. Blue and white channel lights formed a neat line to the east. A blinking yellow light on some vessel inched away on the horizon. She was alone at the end of the pier.
   Mitch hid in a beach chair under a folded umbrella near the entrance to the pier. He could not see her, but had a good view of the ocean. Fifty feet away, Ray sat in the darkness on a brick ledge. His feet dangled in the sand. They waited. They checked their watches.
   At precisely midnight, Abby nervously unzipped her windbreaker and untied a heavy flashlight. She glanced at the water below and gripped it fiercely. She shoved it into her stomach, shielded it with the windbreaker, aimed at the sea and pushed the switch three times. On and off. On and off. On and off. The green bulb flashed three times. She held it tightly and stared at the ocean.
   No response. She waited an eternity and two minutes later flashed again. Three times. No response. She breathed deeply and spoke to herself. “Be calm, Abby, be calm. He’s out there somewhere.” She flashed three more times. Then waited. No response.
   Mitch sat on the edge of the beach chair and anxiously surveyed the sea. From the corner of an eye, he saw a figure walking, almost running from the west. It jumped onto the steps of the pier. It was the Nordic. Mitch bolted across the beach after him.
   Aaron Rimmer walked behind the fishermen, around the small building, and watched the woman in the white hat at the end of the pier. She was bent over clutching something. It flashed again, three times. He walked silently up to her.
   “Abby.”
   She jerked around and tried to scream. Rimmer lunged at her and shoved her into the railing. From the darkness, Mitch dived head first into the Nordic’s legs, and all three went down hard on the slick concrete. Mitch felt the gun at the Nordic’s back. He swung wildly with a forearm and missed. Rimmer whirled and landed a wicked smash to Mitch’s left eye. Abby kicked and crawled away. Mitch was blind and dazed. Rimmer stood quickly and reached for the gun, but never found it. Ray charged like a battering ram and sent the Nordic crashing into the railing. He landed four bulletlike jabs to the eyes and nose, each one drawing blood. Skills learned in prison. The Nordic fell to all fours, and Ray snapped his head with four powerful kicks. He groaned pitifully and fell, face first.
   Ray removed the gun and handed it to Mitch, who was standing now and trying to focus with his good eye. Abby watched the pier. No one.
   “Start flashing,” Ray said as he unwound the rope from his waist. Abby faced the water, shielded the flashlight, found the switch and began flashing like crazy.
   “What’re you gonna do?” Mitch whispered, watching Ray and the rope.
   “Two choices. We can either blow his brains out or drown him.”
   “Oh my god!” Abby said as she flashed.
   “Don’t fire the gun,” Mitch whispered.
   “Thank you,” Ray said. He grabbed a short section of rope, twisted it tightly around the Nordic’s neck and pulled. Mitch turned his back and stepped between the body and Abby. She did not try to watch. “I’m sorry. We have no choice,” Ray mumbled almost to himself.
   There was no resistance, no movement from the unconscious man. After three minutes, Ray exhaled loudly and announced, “He’s dead.” He tied the other end of the rope to a post, slid the body under the railing and lowered it quietly into the water.
   “I’m going down first,” Ray said as he crawled through the railing and slid down the rope. Eight feet under the deck of the pier, an iron cross brace was attached to two of the thick concrete columns that disappeared into the water. It made a nice hideout. Abby was next. Ray grabbed her legs as she clutched the rope and eased downward. Mitch, with his one eye, lost his equilibrium and almost went for a swim.
   But they made it. They sat on the cross brace, ten feet above the cold, dark water. Ten feet above the fish and the barnacles and the body of the Nordic. Ray cut the rope so the corpse could fall to the bottom properly before it made its ascent in a day or two.
   They sat like three owls on a limb, watching the buoy lights and channel lights and waiting for the messiah to come walking across the water. The only sounds were the soft splashing of the waves below and the steady clicking of the flashlight.
   And then voices from the deck above. Nervous, anxious, panicked voices, searching for someone. Then they were gone.
   “Well, little brother, what do we do now?” Ray whispered.
   “Plan B,” Mitch said.
   “And what’s that?”
   “Start swimming.”
   “Very funny,” Abby said, clicking away.
   An hour passed. The iron brace, though perfectly located, was not comfortable.
   “Have you noticed those two boats out there?” Ray asked quietly.
   The boats were small, about a mile oifshore, and for the past hour had been cruising slowly and suspiciously back and forth in sight of the beach. “I think they’re fishing boats,” Mitch said.
   “Who fishes at one o’clock in the morning?” Ray asked.
   The three of them thought about this. There was no explanation.
   Abby saw it first, and hoped and prayed it was not the body now floating toward them. “Over there,” she said, pointing fifty yards out to sea. It was a black object, resting on the water and moving slowly in their direction. They watched intently. Then the sound, like that of a sewing machine.
   “Keep flashing,” Mitch said. It grew closer.
   It was a man in a small boat.
   “Abanks!” Mitch whispered loudly. The humming noise died.
   “Abanks!” he said again.
   “Where the hell are you?” came the reply.
   “Over here. Under the pier. Hurry, dammit!”
   The hum grew louder, and Abanks parked an eight-foot rubber raft under the pier. They swung from the brace and landed in one joyous pile. They quietly hugged each other, then hugged Abanks. He revved up the five-horsepower electric trolling motor and headed for open water.
   “Where have you been?” Mitch asked.
   “Cruising,” Abanks answered nonchalantly.
   “Why are you late?”
   “I’m late because I’ve been dodging these fishing boats filled with idiots in tourist clothes posing as fishermen.”
   “You think they’re Moroltos or Fibbies?” Abby asked.
   “Well, if they’re idiots, they could be either one.”
   “What happened to your green light?”
   Abanks pointed to a flashlight next to the motor. “Battery went dead.”
   The boat was a forty-foot schooner that Abanks had found in Jamaica for only two hundred thousand. A friend waited by the ladder and helped them aboard. His name was George, just George, and he spoke English with a quick accent. Abanks said he could be trusted.
   “There’s whiskey if you like. In the cabinet,” Abanks said. Ray found the whiskey. Abby found a blanket and lay down on a small couch. Mitch stood on the deck and admired his new boat. When Abanks and George had the raft aboard, Mitch said, “Let’s get out of here. Can we leave now?”
   “As you wish,” George snapped properly.
   Mitch gazed at the lights along the beach and said farewell. He went below and poured a cup of scotch.


* * *

   Wayne Tarrance slept across the bed in his clothes. He had not moved since the last call, six hours earlier. The phone rang beside him. After four rings, he found it.
   “Hello.” His voice was slow and scratchy.
   “Wayne baby. Did I wake you?”
   “Of course.”
   “You can have the documents now. Room 39, Sea Gull’s Rest Motel, Highway 98, Panama City Beach. The desk clerk is a guy named Andy, and he’ll let you in the room. Be careful with them. Our friend has them all marked real nice and precise, and he’s got sixteen hours of videotape. So be gentle.”
   “I have a question,” Tarrance said.
   “Sure, big boy. Anything.”
   “Where did he find you? This would’ve been impossible without you.”
   “Gee, thanks, Wayne. He found me in Memphis. We got to be friends, and he offered me a bunch of money.”
   “How much?”
   “Why is that important, Wayne? I’ll never have to work again. Gotta run, baby. It’s been real fun.”
   “Where is he?”
   “As we speak, he’s on a plane to South America. But please don’t waste your time trying to catch him. Wayne, baby, I love you, but you couldn’t even catch him in Memphis. Bye now.” She was gone.

Chapter 41

   Sunday. The forty-foot schooner sped south with full sails under a clear sky. Abby was in a deep sleep in the master suite. Ray was in a scotch-induced coma on a couch. Abanks was somewhere below catching a nap.
   Mitch sat on the deck sipping cold coffee and listening to George expound on the basics of sailing. He was in his late fifties, with long, gray, bleached hair and dark, sun-cured skin. He was small and wiry, much like Abanks. He was Australian by birth, but twenty-eight years earlier had fled his country after the largest bank heist in its history. He and his partner split eleven million in cash and silver and went their separate ways. His partner was now dead, he had heard.
   George was not his real name, but he’d used it for twenty-eight years and forgotten the real one. He discovered the Caribbean in the late sixties, and after seeing its thousands of small, primitive English-speaking islands, decided he’d found home. He put his money in banks in the Bahamas, Belize, Panama and, of course, Grand Cayman. He built a small compound on a deserted stretch of beach on Little Cayman and had spent the past twenty-one years touring the Caribbean in his thirty-foot schooner. During the summer and early fall, he stayed close to home. But from October to June, he lived on his boat and hopped from island to island. He’d been to three hundred of them in the Caribbean. He once spent two years just in the Bahamas.
   “There are thousands of islands,” he explained. “And they’ll never find you if you move a lot.”
   “Are they still looking for you?” Mitch asked.
   “I don’t know. I can’t call and ask, you know. But I doubt it.”
   “Where’s the safest place to hide?”
   “On this boat. It’s a nice little yacht, and once you learn to sail it, it’ll be your home. Find you a little island somewhere, perhaps Little Cayman or Brae—they’re both still primitive—and build a house. Do as I’ve done. And spend most of your time on this boat.”
   “When do you stop worrying about being chased?”
   “Oh, I still think about it, you know. But I don’t worry about it. How much did you get away with?”
   “Eight million, give or take,” Mitch said.
   “That’s nice. You’ve got the money to do as you please, so forget about them. Just tour the islands for the rest of your life. There are worse things, you know.”
   For days they sailed toward Cuba, then around it in the direction of Jamaica. They watched George and listened to his lectures. After twenty years of sailing through the Caribbean, he was a man of great knowledge and patience. Ray, the linguist, listened to and memorized words like spinnaker, mast, bow, stern, aft, tiller, halyard winches, masthead fittings, shrouds, lifelines, stanchions, sheet winch, bow pulpit, coamings, transom, clew outhaul, genoa sheets, mainsail, jib, jibstays, jib sheets, cam cleats and boom vangs. George lectured on heeling, luffing, running, blanketing, backwinding, heading up, trimming and pointing. Ray absorbed the language of sailing; Mitch studied the technique. Abby stayed in the cabin, saying little and smiling only when necessary. Life on a boat was not something she dreamed about. She missed her house and wondered what would happen to it. Maybe Mr. Rice would cut the grass and pull the weeds. She missed the shady streets and neat lawns and the small gangs of children riding bicycles. She thought of her dog, and prayed that Mr. Rice would adopt it. She worried about her parents—their safety and their fear. When would she see them again? It would be years, she decided, and she could live with that if she knew they were safe.
   Her thoughts could not escape the present. The future was inconceivable.
   During the second day of the rest of her life, she began writing letters; letters to her parents, Kay Quin, Mr. Rice and a few friends. The letters would never be mailed, she knew, but it helped to put the words on paper.
   Mitch watched her carefully, but left her alone. He had nothing to say, really. Maybe in a few days they could talk.
   By the end of the fourth day, Wednesday, Grand Cayman was in sight. They circled it slowly once and anchored a mile from shore. After dark, Barry Abanks said goodbye. The McDeeres simply thanked him, and he eased away in the rubber raft. He would land three miles from Bodden Town at another dive lodge, then call one of his dive captains to come get him. He would know if anyone suspicious had been around. Abanks expected no trouble.
   George’s compound on Little Cayman consisted of a small main house of white-painted wood and two smaller outbuildings. It was inland a quarter of a mile, on a tiny bay. The nearest house could not be seen. A native woman lived in the smallest building and maintained the place. Her name was Fay.
   The McDeeres settled in the main house and tried to begin the process of starting over. Ray, the escapee, roamed the beaches for hours and kept to himself. He was euphoric, but could not show it. He and George took the boat out for several hours each day and drank scotch while exploring the islands. They usually returned drunk.
   Abby spent the first days in a small room upstairs overlooking the bay. She wrote more letters and began a diary. She slept alone.
   Twice a week, Fay drove the Volkswagen bus into town for supplies and mail. She returned one day with a package from Barry Abanks. George delivered it to Mitch. Inside the package was a parcel sent to Abanks from Doris Greenwood in Miami. Mitch ripped open the thick legal-sized envelope and found three newspapers, two from Atlanta and one from Miami.
   The headlines told of the mass indicting of the Bendini law firm in Memphis. Fifty-one present and former members of The Firm were indicted, along with thirty-one alleged members of the Morolto crime family in Chicago. More indictments were coming, promised the U.S. Attorney. Just the tip of the iceberg. Director F. Denton Voyles allowed himself to be quoted as saying it was a major blow to organized crime in America. It should be a dire warning, he said, to legitimate professionals and businessmen who are tempted to handle dirty money.
   Mitch folded the newspapers and went for a long walk on the beach. Under a cluster of palms, he found some shade and sat down. The Atlanta paper listed the names of every Bendini lawyer indicted. He read them slowly. There was no joy in seeing the names. He almost felt sorry for Nathan Locke. Almost. Wally Hudson, Kendall Mahan, Jack Aldrich and, finally, Lamar Quin. He could see their faces. He knew their wives and their children. Mitch gazed across the brilliant ocean and thought about Lamar and Kay Quin. He loved them, and he hated them. They had helped seduce him into, and they were not without blame. But they were his friends. What a waste! Maybe Lamar would only serve a couple of years and then be paroled. Maybe Kay and the kids could survive. Maybe.
   “I love you, Mitch.” Abby was standing behind him. She held a plastic pitcher and two cups.
   He smiled at her and waved to the sand next to him. “What’s in the pitcher?”
   “Rum punch. Fay mixed it for us.”
   “Is it strong?”
   She sat next to him on the sand. “It’s mostly rum. I told Fay we needed to get drunk, and she agreed.”
   He held her tightly and sipped the rum punch. They watched a small fishing boat inch through the sparkling water.
   “Are you scared, Mitch?”
   “Terrified.”
   “Me too. This is crazy.”
   “But we made it, Abby. We’re alive. We’re safe. We’re together.”
   “But what about tomorrow? And the next day?”
   “I don’t know, Abby. Things could be worse, you know. My name could be in the paper there with the other freshly indicted defendants. Or we could be dead. There are worse things than sailing around the Caribbean with eight million bucks in the bank.”
   “Do you think my parents are safe?”
   “I think so. What would Morolto have to gain by harming your parents? They’re safe, Abby.”
   She refilled the cups with rum punch and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be okay Mitch. As long as we’re together, I can handle anything.”
   “Abby,” Mitch said slowly, staring at the water, “I have a confession to make.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “The truth is, I never wanted to be a lawyer anyway.”
   “Oh, really.”
   “Naw. Secretly, I’ve always wanted to be a sailor.”
   “Is that so? Have you ever made love on the beach?” Mitch hesitated for a slight second. “Uh, no.”
   “Then drink up, sailor. Let’s get drunk and make a baby.”

About the Arthor





   Long before his name became synonymous with the modern legal thriller, he was working 60-70 hours a week at a small Southaven, Mississippi law practice, squeezing in time before going to the office and during courtroom recesses to work on his hobby—writing his first novel.
   Born on February 8, 1955 in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to a construction worker and a homemaker, John Grisham as a child dreamed of being a professional baseball player. Realizing he didn’t have the right stuff for a pro career, he shifted gears and majored in accounting at Mississippi State University. After graduating from law school at Ole Miss in 1981, he went on to practice law for nearly a decade in Southaven, specializing in criminal defense and personal injury litigation. In 1983, he was elected to the state House of Representatives and served until 1990.
   One day at the Dessoto County courthouse, Grisham overheard the harrowing testimony of a twelve-year-old rape victim and was inspired to start a novel exploring what would have happened if the girl’s father had murdered her assailants. Getting up at 5 a.m. every day to get in several hours of writing time before heading off to work, Grisham spent three years on A Time to Kill and finished it in 1987. Initially rejected by many publishers, it was eventually bought by Wynwood press, who gave it a modest 5,000 copy printing and published it in June 1988.
   That might have put an end to Grisham’s hobby. However, he had already begun his next book, and it would quickly turn that hobby into a new full-time career—and spark one of publishing’s greatest success stories. The day after Grisham completed A Time to Kill, he began work on another novel, the story of a hotshot young attorney lured to an apparently perfect law firm that was not what it appeared. When he sold the film rights to The Firm to paramount pictures for $600,000, Grisham suddenly became a hot property among publishers, and book rights were bought by Doubleday. Spending 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, The Firm became the bestselling novel of 1991.
   The successes of The Pelican Brief, which hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list, and The Client, which debuted at number one, confirmed grisham’s reputation as the master of the legal thriller. Grisham’s success even renewed interest in A Time to Kill, which was republished in hardcover by Doubleday and then in paperback by Dell. This time around, it was a bestseller.
   Since first publishing A Time to Kill in 1988, Grisham has written one novel a year and all of them have become bestsellers, leading Publishers Weekly to declare him “the bestselling novelist of the 90s’ in a January 1998 profile. There are currently over 60 million John Grisham books in print worldwide, which have been translated into 29 languages. Seven of his novels have been turned into films (The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, The Chamber, and A Painted House), as was an original screenplay, The Gingerbread Man.
   Grisham lives with his wife Renee and their two children Ty and Shea. The family splits their time between their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantation near Charlottesville, VA.
   Grisham took time off from writing for several months in 1996 to return, after a five-year hiatus, to the courtroom. He was honoring a commitment made before he had retired from the law to become a full-time writer: representing the family of a railroad brakeman killed when he was pinned between two cars. Preparing his case with the same passion and dedication as his books’ protagonists, Grisham successfully argued his clients’ case, earning them a jury award of $683,500 —the biggest verdict of his career.
   When he’s not writing, Grisham devotes time to charitable causes, including taking mission trips with his church group. He also keeps up with his greatest passion: baseball. The man who dreamed of being a professional baseball player now serves as the local Little League commissioner. The six ballfields he built on his property have played host to over 350 kids on 26 Little League teams.

   John Grisham’s books are:
   A Time to Kill (1989)
   The Firm (1991)
   The Pelican Brief (1992)
   The Client (1993)
   The Chamber (1994)
   The Rainmaker (1995)
   The Runaway Jury (1996)
   The Partner (1997)
   The Street Lawyer (1998)
   The Testament (1999)
   The Brethren (2000)
   A Painted House (2001)
   Skipping Christmas (2001)
   The Summons (2002)
   Bleachers (2003)
   King of Torts (2003)
   The Last Juror (2004)

The King of Torts

John Grisham

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Author’s Note