"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."