She loved him more because she watched him die, and she told herself to stop hearing the explosion, and stop smelling the smoke, and stop watching him die. If she survived three more days, she would be in a place where she could lock the door and cry and throw things until the grieving was over. She was determined to make it to that place. She was determined to grieve, and to heal. It was the least she deserved.
She memorized names until she knew more about White and Blazevich than anyone outside the firm. She eased into the darkness and caught a cab to the hotel.
Matthew Barr went to New Orleans, where he met with a lawyer who instructed him to fly to a certain hotel in Fort Lauderdale. The lawyer was vague about what would happen at the hotel, but Barr checked in Sunday night and found a room waiting for him. A note at the desk said he would receive a call in the early a.m.
He called Fletcher Coal at home at ten, and briefed him on the journey so far.
Coal had other things on his mind. "Grantham's gone crazy. He and a guy named Rifkin with the Times are making calls everywhere. They could be deadly."
"Have they seen the brief?"
"I don't know if they've seen it, but they've heard of it. Rifkin called one of my aides at home yesterday and asked what he knew about the pelican brief. The aide knew nothing, and got the impression Rifkin knew even less. I don't think he's seen it, but we can't be certain."
"Damn, Fletcher. We can't keep up with a bunch of reporters. Those guys make a hundred phone calls a minute."
"Just two. Grantham and Rifkin. You've already got Grantham wired. Do the same for Rifkin."
"Grantham's wired, but he's using neither the phone in his apartment nor the one in his car. I called Bailey from the airport in New Orleans. Grantham hasn't been home in twenty-four hours, but his car's still there. They called and knocked on his door. He's either dead in the apartment, or he sneaked out last night."
"Maybe he's dead."
"I don't think so. We were following, and so were the Fibbies. I think he got wind of it."
"You must find him."
"He'll turn up. He can't get too far away from the newsroom on the fifth floor."
"I want Rifkin wired too. Call Bailey tonight and get it started, okay?"
"Yes, sir," Barr said.
"What do you think Mattiece would do if he thought Grantham had the story and was about to spread it across the front page of the Washington Post?" Coal asked.
Barr stretched on the hotel bed and closed his eyes. Months ago he had made the decision never to cross Fletcher Coal. He was an animal.
"He's not afraid of killing people, is he?" Barr said.
"Do you think you'll see Mattiece tomorrow?"
"I don't know. These guys are very secretive. They speak in hushed tones behind closed doors. They've told me little."
"Why do they want you in Fort Lauderdale?"
"I do not know, but it's much closer to the Bahamas. I think I'm going there tomorrow, or perhaps he's coming here. I just don't know."
"Perhaps you should exaggerate the Grantham angle. Mattiece will snuff out the story."
"I'll think about it."
"Call me in the morning."
She stepped on the note when she opened her door. It said:
Darby, I'm on the patio. It's urgent,
Gray.
She took a deep breath and crammed the note in her pocket. She locked the door, and followed the narrow, winding hallways to the lobby, then through the dark sitting room, by the bar, through the restaurant, and onto the patio. He was at a small table, partially hidden by a brick wall.
"Why are you here?" she demanded in a whisper as she sat close to him. He looked tired and worried.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"That's not as important as why you're here. You're not supposed to come here unless I say so. What's going on?"
He gave her a quick summary of his morning, from the first phone call to Smith Keen to the maid in the hotel. He'd spent the rest of the day darting all over the city in various cabs, almost eighty bucks' worth of cabs, and he waited until dark to sneak into the Tabard Inn. He was certain he had not been followed.
She listened. She watched the restaurant and the entrance to the patio, and heard every word.
"I have no idea how anyone could find my room," he said.
"Did you tell anyone your room number?"
He thought for a second. "Only Smith Keen. But he'd never repeat it."
She was not looking at him. "Where were you when you told him your room number?"
"In his car."
She shook her head slowly. "I distinctly told you not to tell anyone. Didn't I?"
He would not answer.
"It's all fun and games, isn't it, Gray? Just another day at the beach. You're a big stud reporter who's had death threats before, but you're fearless. The bullets will bounce off, won't they? You and I can spend a few days here frolicking around town playing detective so you can win a Pulitzer and get rich and famous, and the bad guys aren't really so bad because, hey, you're Gray Grantham of the Washington Post and that makes you a mean son of a bitch."
"Come on, Darby."
"I've tried to impress upon you how dangerous these people are. I've seen what they can do. I know what they'll do to me if they find me. But no, Gray, it's all a game to you. Cops and robbers. Hide-and-seek."
"I'm convinced, okay?"
"Listen, hotshot, you'd better be convinced. One more screwup and we're dead. I'm out of lucky breaks. Do you understand?"
"Yes! I swear I understand."
"Get a room here. Tomorrow night, if we're alive, I'll find you another small hotel."
"What if this place is full?"
"Then you can sleep in my bathroom with the door closed."
She was dead serious. He felt like a first-grader who'd just received his first spanking. They didn't speak for five minutes.
"So how'd they find me?" he finally asked.
"I would assume the phones in your apartment are tapped, and your car is bugged. And I would assume Smith Keen's car is also wired. These people are not amateurs."
He spent the night in room 14 upstairs, but slept little. The restaurant opened at six, and he sneaked down for coffee, then sneaked back to his room. The inn was quaint and ancient, and had somehow been formed when three old townhouses were connected. Small doors and narrow hallways ran in all directions. The atmosphere was timeless.
It would be a long, tiresome day, but it would all be spent with her, and he looked forward to it. He'd made a mistake, a bad one, but she'd forgiven him. At precisely eight-thirty, he knocked on the door to room 1. She quickly opened it, then closed it behind him.
She was a law student again, with jeans and a flannel shirt. She poured him coffee, and sat at the small table where the phone was surrounded by notes from a legal pad.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, but only out of courtesy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"No." He threw a copy of the Times on the bed. He'd already scanned it, and it was empty again.
Darby took the phone and punched the number of the Georgetown law school. She looked at him, and listened, then said, "Placement office, please." There was a long pause. "Yes, this is Sandra Jernigan. I'm a partner with White and Blazevich here in town, and we're having a problem with our computers. We're trying to reconstruct some payroll records, and the accountants have asked me to ask you for the names of your students who clerked here last summer. I think there were four of them." She listened for a second. "Jernigan. Sandra Jernigan," she repeated. "I see. How long will it take?" A pause. "And your name is, Joan. Thank you, Joan." Darby covered the receiver and breathed deeply. Gray watched intently, but with an admiring grin.