"Mr. Parrish," His Honor said. It had been agreed that Parrish would do the bulk of the talking. The burden would be his to explain to the court, for the record, and, more important, for the press and the citizenry listening out there.
He did a wonderful job of detailing recent developments. Wasn't a murder, after all, but something far less. The state did not oppose the reduction of charges, because it no longer believed that Mr. Lanigan killed anyone. He paced around the courtroom in his best Perry Mason routine, unshackled by the customary rules of etiquette and procedure. He was the spin doctor for all sides.
"Next, we have a motion by the defendant for this court to accept a plea of guilty to the charge of mutilating a corpse. Mr. Parrish?"
The second act was similar to the first, with Parrish relishing the story of poor old Clovis. Patrick could feel the heated stares as Parrish delighted in as many details as Sandy had given them. "At least I didn't kill anyone!" Patrick wanted to scream.
"How do you plead, Mr. Lanigan?" His Honor asked.
"Guilty," Patrick said, firmly but with no pride.
"Does the state have a recommended sentence?" the Judge asked the prosecutor.
Parrish walked to his table, fumbled through his notes, paced back toward the bench, and along the way finally said, "Yes, Your Honor. I have a letter from a Ms. Deena Postell of Meridian, Mississippi. She is the only surviving grandchild of Clovis Goodman." He handed a copy to Trussel as if it were something brand-new. "In the letter, Ms. Postell pleads with this court not to prosecute Mr. Lanigan for burning her grandfather's corpse. He's been dead for over four years, and the family cannot survive any more suffering and agony. Evidently, Ms. Postell was quite close to her grandfather, and took his death very hard."
Patrick cut his eyes at Sandy. Sandy wasn't about to look at Patrick.
"Have you spoken with her?" the Judge asked.
"Yes. About an hour ago. She became quite emotional on the phone, and pleaded with me not to reopen this sad case. She vowed that she would not testify in any trial, nor would she cooperate with the prosecution in any way." Parrish again walked to his table and rifled through some more papers. He spoke to the Judge but addressed the courtroom. "Given the feelings of the family, it is the recommendation of the state that the defendant be sentenced to serve twelve months in jail, that the incarceration be suspended pending good behavior, that he pay a fine of five thousand dollars and all court costs, and be placed on probation."
"Mr. Lanigan, do you agree with this sentence?" Trussel asked.
"Yes, Your Honor," Patrick said, barely able to lift his head.
"It is so ordered. Anything further?" Trussel picked up his gavel, and waited. Both lawyers shook their heads.
"We are adjourned," he said, rapping it loudly.
Patrick turned and made a quick exit from the courtroom. Gone again, vanished before their very eyes.
He waited with Sandy for an hour in Huskey's office while darkness settled in and the last of the courtroom stragglers reluctantly gave it up and went home. Patrick was anxious to leave.
At seven, he said a long, fond good-bye to Karl. He thanked him for being there, for standing by him, for everything, and he promised to keep in touch. On his way out the door, he also thanked him again for serving as one of his pallbearers.
"Anytime," Karl said. "Anytime."
THEY LEFT BILOXI in Sandy's Lexus-Sandy at the wheel, Patrick sitting low in the passenger's seat, subdued and taking in for the last time the lights along the Gulf. They passed the casinos on the beaches at Biloxi and Gulfport, the pier at Pass Christian, and then the lights spread out as they crossed the Bay of St. Louis.
Sandy handed him the phone number, and he called her hotel. It was 3 A,M. in London, but she grabbed the phone as if she were watching it. "Eva, it's me," he said, with restraint. Sandy almost stopped the car so he could get out while they talked. He tried not to listen.
"We're leaving Biloxi now, on the way to New Orleans. Yes, I'm fine. I've never felt better. And you?"
He listened for a long time, his eyes closed, his head leaning back.
"What's today?" he asked.
"Friday, November sixth," Sandy said.
"I'll meet you in Aix, at the Villa Gallici, on Sunday. Right. Yes. I'm fine, dear. I love you. Go back to sleep, and I'll call you in a few hours."
They crossed into Louisiana in silence, and somewhere over Lake Pontchartrain, Sandy said, "I had a very interesting visitor this afternoon."
"Really, who?"
"Jack Stephano."
"Here, in Biloxi?"
"Yes. He found me at the hotel, said he was finished with the Aricia case and was on his way to Florida for a vacation."
"Why didn't you kill him?"
"He said he was sorry. Said his boys got a little carried away down there when they caught you, wanted me to pass along his apologies."
"What a guy. I'm sure he didn't stop by just to apologize."
"No, he didn't. He told me about the mole in Brazil, about the Pluto Group and the rewards, and he asked me point-blank if the girl, Eva, was your Judas. I said I had no idea."
"Why does he care?"
"Good question. He said his curiosity has the best of him. He paid over a million bucks in rewards, got his man, but didn't get the money, and he said he won't be able to sleep until he knows. I sort of believed him."
"Sounds reasonable."
"He doesn't have a dog in the fight anymore, or something like that. His words, not mine."
Patrick put his left ankle on his right knee, and gently touched the burn. "What does he look like?" he asked.
"Fifty-five, very Italian, lots of groomed gray hair, black eyes, a handsome man. Why?"
"Because I've seen him everywhere. For the last three years, half the strangers I've seen in the outback of Brazil have been Jack Stephano. I've been chased in my sleep by a hundred men, all of whom turned out to be Jack Stephano. He has ducked in alleys, hidden behind trees, followed on foot at night in Sao Paulo, tagged behind me on motor scooters and chased me in cars. I've thought about Stephano more than I have my own mother."
"The chase is over."
"I finally got tired of it, Sandy. I gave up. Life on the run is quite an adventure, very thrilling and romantic, until you learn that someone is back there. While you're sleeping, someone is trying to find you. While you're having dinner with a wonderful woman in a city of ten million, someone is knocking on doors, quietly showing your photo to a clerk, offering small bribes for information. I stole too much money, Sandy. They had to come after me, and when I learned they were already in Brazil, I knew the end would come."
"What do you mean, you gave up?"
Patrick breathed heavily and shifted his weight. He looked through his window at the waters below, and tried to organize his thoughts. "I gave up, Sandy. I got tired of running, and I gave up."
"Yeah, I've already heard that."
"I knew they would find me, so I decided to do it on my terms, not theirs."
"I'm listening."
"The rewards were my idea, Sandy. Eva would fly to Madrid, then to Atlanta, where she would meet with the boys from Pluto. They were paid to contact Stephano and handle the flow of information and money. We milked the money out of Stephano, and eventually led him to me, to my little house in Ponta Pora."
Sandy turned slowly, his face blank, mouth open and crooked to one side, his eyes vacant.