John Grisham - The Associate

Roy Benedict seemed to be waiting by the phone. “Where are you, Kyle?” he asked, almost in a pant.

“Western Hemisphere. I’m doing well. How about you?”

“Fine. You’re safe?”

“Safe. I’m hidden, stashed away, and I’m guarded by a posse of at least four, all anxious to shoot someone. Any news on our man Bennie?”

“No. They’ll have indictments by noon, and they’re adding one for murder. They’ll splash these around the world and hope for a break. You were right. Your apartment had more bugs than a landfill. Good stuff, too, the latest in wiretapping technology.”

“I’m honored.”

“And they found a transmitter in the rear bumper of your Jeep.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Anyway, all this is being presented to the grand jury as we speak, so at least Bennie will have a thick indictment on record should he ever make a mistake.”

“Don’t bet on that.”

“Have you talked to the law firm?”

“I left a message with Peckham, the flu routine. He’ll buy it for a couple of days.”

“No alarms, nothing strange.”

“No. It’s weird, Roy. I’m a thousand miles away now, and looking back, I can’t believe how easy it was to walk in with the right gear and walk out with the files. I could’ve taken every single document in the database, four million plus, and handed them over to Bennie or another thug. And I could’ve gone back into my office this morning as if nothing happened. Scully has got to be warned.”

“So who tells them?”

“I do. I have a few things to get off my chest.”

“Let’s talk about that tomorrow. I’ve been on the phone with Bullington all morning. Twice he’s mentioned the witness protection program. The FBI is pushing it hard. They are pretty nervous about you, Kyle.”

“I’m nervous about me, too, but witness protection?”

“Sure. You’re convinced they can’t find Bennie. They’re convinced they can. If they do, and they haul him back for a trial, with an incredible list of charges, then you’re the star. If you’re not around to testify, then the government’s case falls flat.”

A pleasant morning at the beach was becoming complicated. And why not? Nothing had been simple for a long time now.

“That’ll take some serious thought and consideration,” Kyle said.

“Then start thinking.”

“I’ll call you later.”

Kyle dressed in the khakis and a T-shirt, not a bad fit, then ate two bowls of cereal. He read the Pensacola News Journal and the New York Times. The Times had nothing about last night’s excitement at the Oxford Hotel. Of course not, Kyle said to himself. It happened far too late, and it was far too clandestine. Then why was he looking for it?

After breakfast and the papers, Todd joined him at the kitchen table. “We have a few rules,” he said with a jovial face but a hard smile.

“What a surprise.”

“You can make calls, obviously, but only on that phone. Can’t reveal your whereabouts. You can walk on the beach, but we have to follow, at a distance.”

“You’re kidding? I’m walking down the beach, and there’s a guy with a machine gun tagging along. How relaxing.”

Todd caught the humor and enjoyed a laugh. “No machine gun, and we won’t be conspicuous.”

“You’re all conspicuous. I can spot an agent a mile away.”

“Anyway, stay close to the house.”

“How long will I be here?”

Todd shrugged and said, “I have no idea.”

“Am I in protective custody or witness protection?”

“Custody, I think.”

“You don’t know, Todd? Come on. Custody implies that I’m a suspect of some variety, doesn’t it, Todd?”

Another shrug.

“But I’m not a suspect. I’m a witness, but I have not agreed to enter the witness protection program. So, according to my lawyer, the one I just talked to, I’m free to walk out that door anytime I want. Whatta you think about that, Todd?”

“That machine gun you just mentioned? We have at least six on the premises.”

“So I should stay here, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, it’s noon. What are we going to do?”

Barry had been hovering nearby, not missing a word. He walked to the table with a large basket of the usual board games the owners of all beach rentals leave behind. Barry said, “We have Monopoly, Risk, Rook, Scrabble, Chinese checkers, your call, Kyle.”

Kyle studied the basket. “Scrabble.”

The flu raged unabated into Friday. Doug Peckham, while claiming to be sympathetic, was curious about any “improvement.” They were getting hammered with motions in the Trylon case, and everyone was needed. His sympathy did not extend to a curiosity about where Kyle was staying, who, if anyone, was tending to him, what medications he was taking, and so on. Part of Kyle’s ruse was the forbidding diagnosis that his particular strain of the flu was “hotly contagious.” Since New York was going through its annual December flu warning, his story was easily digestible. Dale believed it, too, though she was much more sympathetic.

The temperature hit eighty degrees in the early afternoon, and Kyle was bored with the beach house. He said to Todd, “I’d like to take a walk. Would you please prepare the beach?”

“My pleasure. Which way are you going?”

“East, toward Miami.”

“I’ll round up the gang. They’re getting bored with you.”

Kyle walked for an hour, and passed fewer than ten beachcombers going the opposite way. Thirty yards behind him were two of his guardians, a male and a female, a happy couple with receivers in their ears and handguns in their pockets.

He heard music, and saw a small crowd under a fake thatched roof. It was the Gator Hotel, a 1950s-style mom-and-pop motel with a small pool and low rates, a depressing little place, but it had the only action on the beach. Just for the hell of it, and to torment his followers, he sauntered away from the water, walked between two small dunes, and pulled up a chair at Pedro’s Bar. Jimmy Buffett was singing softly about life in a banana republic. The bartender was mixing rum punch specials. The crowd numbered seven, all over the age of sixty, all overweight, all chatting in crisp northern accents. The early snowbirds.

Kyle sipped a rum punch and ordered a cigar. Between the dunes he saw his trailing couple stop and gawk and try to figure out what to do. Within minutes, another agent appeared from the front of the motel. He walked through the open bar, winked at Kyle, and kept going. We’re here, buddy.

He drank and smoked for a while, and tried to convince himself that he was relaxed. No worries. Just another overworked professional enjoying a few days at the beach.

But there was too much unfinished business in New York.

AFTER THREE DAYS of thorough protection, Kyle was fed up. The Lear landed at Teterboro just after 6:00 p.m. on Saturday, December 6. At Kyle’s insistence, he was booked into a suite at the Tribeca Grand Hotel, between Walker and White, near the Village. And at his request, all FBI agents remained below, in the lobby and atrium. He was tired of their overkill and silly rules — silly in his opinion.

Dale arrived promptly at eight. She was driven over by two agents and sneaked in through a service entrance. When they were alone,

Kyle started with the fake flu and worked his way backward. It was a long journey, and she listened with the same disbelief that had been shared by Roy Benedict and John McAvoy. They ordered room service, lobster and a fine white burgundy, compliments of the government, and kept talking. He was leaving the firm, and not sure where he was headed. She was leaving the firm, a nice lateral transfer to a better life in downtown Providence. He wanted to talk about her future, but she was determined to finish up with his past. She found it fascinating, incredulous, frightening, and said over and over, “Why didn’t you tell me?” The best response he could offer was “I didn’t tell anyone.”