John Grisham - The firm

Tarrance lunged at the phone. "Where are you?"

"In town. But not for long."

"Look, Mitch, you won't last two days on your own. They'll fly in enough thugs to start another war. You've got to let us help you."

"I don't know, Tarrance. For some strange reason I just don't trust you boys right now. I can't imagine why. Just a bad feeling."

"Please, Mitch. Don't make this mistake."

"I guess you want me to believe you boys can protect me for the rest of my life. Sorta funny, isn't it, Tarrance? I cut a deal with the FBI, and I almost get gunned in my own office. That's real protection."

Tarrance breathed deeply into the phone. There was a long pause. "What about the documents? We've paid you a million for them."

"You're cracking up, Tarrance. You paid me a million for my clean files. You got them, and I got the million. Of course, that was just part of the deal. Protection was also a part of it."

"Give us the damned files, Mitch. They're hidden somewhere close to us, you told me that. Take off if you want to, but leave the files."

"Won't work, Tarrance. Right now I can disappear, and the Moroltos may or may not come after me. If you don't get the files, you don't get the indictments. If the Moroltos don't get indicted, maybe, if I'm lucky, one day they'll just forget about me. I gave them a real scare, but no permanent damage. Hell, they may even hire me back one of these days."

"You don't really believe that. They'll chase you until they find you. If we don't get the records, we'll be chasing too. It's that simple, Mitch."

"Then I'll put my money on the Moroltos. If you guys find me first, there'll be a leak. Just a small one."

"You're outta your mind, Mitch. If you think you can take your million and ride into the sunset, you're a fool. They'll have goons on camels riding the deserts looking for you. Don't do it, Mitch."

"Goodbye, Wayne. Ray sends his regards."

The line was dead. Tarrance grabbed the phone and threw it against the wall.

Mitch glanced at the clock on the airport wall. He punched in another call. Tammy answered.

"Hello, sweetheart. Hate to wake you."

"Don't worry, the couch kept me awake. What's up?"

"Major trouble. Get a pencil and listen very carefully. I don't have a second to waste. I'm running, and they're right behind me."

"Fire away."

"First, call Abby at her parents'. Tell her to drop everything and get out of town. She doesn't have time to kiss her mother goodbye or to pack any clothes. Tell her to drop the phone, get in her car and drive away. And don't look back. She takes Interstate 64 to Huntington, West Virginia, and goes to the airport. She flies from Huntington to Mobile. In Mobile, she rents a car and drives east on Interstate 10 to Gulf Shores, then east on Highway 182 to Perdido Beach. She checks in at the Perdido Beach Hilton under the name of Rachel James. And she waits. Got that?"

"Yeah."

"Second. I need you to get on a plane and fly to Memphis. I called Doc, and the passports, etc., are not ready. I cussed him, but to no avail. He promised to work all night and have them ready in the morning. I will not be here in the morning, but you will. Get the documents."

"Yes, sir."

"Third. Get on a plane and get back to the apartment in Nashville. Sit by the phone. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the phone."

"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'11 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. Sonofa-bitch!"

THE 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. "jDe donde es usted?" he asked. Where are you from?

Her face broke into unrestrained delight. A wide smile revealed few teeth. "Mexico," she said proudly. "jHabla es-panol?" she asked eagerly.

"Si." '

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.