"Watch where you're going," Patrick said, pointing to the road.
Sandy jerked the wheel and brought the car back into the right lane. "You're lying," he said without moving his lips. "I know you're lying."
"Nope. We collected one million, one hundred fifty thousand bucks from Stephano, and it's hidden now, probably in Switzerland with the rest of it."
"You don't know where it is?"
"She's been taking care of it. I'll find out when I see her."
Sandy was too shocked to say anything else. Patrick decided to help. "I knew they would grab me, and I knew they would try to -. make me talk. But I had no idea this would happen." He pointed to the burn above his left ankle. "I thought it might get ugly, but they damned near killed me, Sandy. They finally broke me, and I told them about Eva. By then, she was gone, and so was the money."
"You could've easily been killed," Sandy managed to say. He was driving with his right hand, scratching his head with his left.
"That's true. Very true. But two hours after I was captured, the FBI in Washington knew Stephano had me. That's what saved my life. Stephano couldn't kill me, because the feds knew about it."
"But how-"
"Eva called Cutter in Biloxi. He called Washington."
Sandy wanted to stop the car, get out and scream. Lean over the side of the bridge, and let flow an endless string of blue profanities. Just when he thought he had been clued in to Patrick's past, this latest twist came crashing in.
"You were a damned fool if you let them catch you."
"Oh really. Did I not just walk out of the courtroom a free man? Did I not just talk with a woman I love dearly, a woman who happens to be keeping a small fortune for me? The past is finally gone, Sandy. Don't you see? There's no one looking for. me anymore."
"So many things could've gone wrong."
"Yeah, but they didn't. I had the money, the tapes, the Clovis alibi. And I had four years to plan everything."
"The torture wasn't planned."
"No, but the scars will heal. Don't ruin the moment, Sandy. I'm on a roll."
Sandy dropped him off at his mother's house, his childhood home, where a cake was in the oven. Mrs. Lanigan asked him to stay, but he knew they needed time alone. Plus he hadn't seen his wife and kids in four days. Sandy drove away, his brain still swirling.
Chapter 43
HE AWOKE before sunrise in a bed he hadn't slept in in almost twenty years, in a room he hadn't seen in almost ten. The years were distant, another lifetime. The walls were closer together now, the ceiling lower. Over the years his things had been removed, the boyhood memorabilia, the Saints banners, the posters of blond models in tight swimsuits.
As the product of two people who rarely spoke to each other, he had made his room his sanctuary. He'd kept the door locked long before his teen years. His parents entered only when he allowed them.
His mother was cooking downstairs; the smell of bacon drifted throughout the house. They had stayed up late; now she was up early, anxious to talk. And who could blame her?
He stretched slowly and carefully. The crusted skin around his burns cracked and pulled. Too much of a stretch and the skin broke, and the bleeding started.
He touched the burns on his chest, desperately wanting to dig in with his fingernails and scratch with a fury. He crossed his feet and locked his hands behind his head. He smiled at the ceiling, an arrogant smile because life on the run was now over. Patrick and Danilo were gone, and the shadows behind them had been destroyed in a crushing defeat. Stephano and Aricia and Bogan et al., and the feds and Parrish with his insipid little indictment, all had been laid to waste. There was no one left to chase him.
Sunlight eased through the window, and the walls inched together. He showered quickly and treated his wounds with a cream and fresh gauze.
He had promised his mother some new grandchildren, a fresh batch of them to take the place of Ashley Nicole, a child she still dreamed of seeing again. He told her wonderful things about Eva, and promised to bring her to New Orleans in the very near future. No definite plans to get married, but it was inevitable.
They ate waffles and bacon and drank coffee on the patio as the old streets came to life. Before the neighbors could begin stopping by to applaud the good news, they left for a long drive. Patrick wanted to at least see his city again, if only briefly.
At nine, he and his mother walked into Robilio Brothers on Canal, where he bought new khakis and shirts and a handsome leather travel bag. They ate beignets at Cafe du Monde on Decatur, then a late lunch at a nearby cafe.
They sat at his gate at the airport for an hour, holding hands and saying little. When his flight was called, Patrick hugged his mother tightly and promised to call every day. She wanted to see the new grandkids, and quickly, she said, with a sad smile.
He flew to Atlanta. Using his legitimate Patrick Lanigan passport, given to Sandy by Eva, he boarded a flight to Nice.
HE HAD LAST SEEN Eva a month earlier, in Rio, over a long weekend in which they spent every moment together. The chase was almost over and Patrick knew it. The end was near.
They clung to each other as they walked the crowded beaches of Ipanema and Leblon, ignoring the happy voices around them. They had late, quiet dinners in their favorite restaurants-Antiquarius and Antonio's-but they had little appetite for food. When they spoke, the sentences were soft and short. The long conversations ended in tears.
At one point, she had convinced him to flee again, to leave with her while he was still able, to hide in a castle in Scotland or a tiny apartment in Rome, where no one would ever find them. But the moment passed. He was simply tired of running.
Late in the afternoon, they rode a cable car to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain to watch the sunset over Rio. The view of the city at night was spectacular, but difficult to appreciate under the circumstances. He held her closely as the wind chilled them, and he promised her that some day, when it was all over, they would stand in this exact spot, and watch the sunset, and plan their future. She tried to believe him.
They said good-bye on a street corner, near her apartment. He kissed her on the forehead and walked away, into the crowd. He left her crying there because it was better than a messy scene at the crowded airport. He left the city, and flew west, changing flights as the planes and airports got smaller. He arrived in Ponta Pora after dark, found his Beetle parked where he'd left it at the airport, and drove the quiet streets to Rua Tiradentes, to his modest home, where he arranged his things, and began his wait.
He called her every day between 4 and 6 P.M., a coded call with different names.
And then his calls stopped.
They had found him.
THE TRAIN from Nice arrived in Aix on time, a few minutes after noon, Sunday. He stepped onto the platform, and looked for her in the crowd. He didn't really expect to see her. He was only hoping, almost praying. Carrying his new bag with his new clothes, he found a taxi for the short ride across town to the Villa Gallici, on the edge of the city.
She had reserved a room in both names, Eva Miranda and Patrick Lanigan. How nice to be in from the cold, to travel as real people without the cloak and dagger of false names and passports. She had not checked in yet, the clerk informed him, and his spirits sank. He had dreamed of finding her in the room, adorned in soft lingerie, ready for intimacy. He could almost feel her.
"When was the reservation made?" he asked the clerk, irritated.
"Yesterday. She called from London, and said she would arrive this morning. We haven't seen her."