Three Classic Thrillers (48 page)

“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. Sonofabitch!”

T
he 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 dónde es usted?”
he asked. Where are you from?

Her face broke into unrestrained delight. A wide smile revealed few teeth.
“México,”
she said proudly.
“¿Habla español?”
she asked eagerly.

“Sí.”

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 flipped 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.