Джон Гришэм - The Partner

“Here, in Biloxi?”

“Yes. He found me at the hotel, said he was finished with the Aricia case and was on his way to Florida for a vacation.”

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

“He said he was sorry. Said his boys got a little carried away down there when they caught you, wanted me to pass along his apologies.”

“What a guy. I’m sure he didn’t stop by just to apologize.”

“No, he didn’t. He told me about the mole in Brazil, about the Pluto Group and the rewards, and he asked me point-blank if the girl, Eva, was your Judas. I said I had no idea.”

“Why does he care?”

“Good question. He said his curiosity has the best of him. He paid over a million bucks in rewards, got his man, but didn’t get the money, and he said he won’t be able to sleep until he knows. I sort of believed him.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“He doesn’t have a dog in the fight anymore, or something like that. His words, not mine.”

Patrick put his left ankle on his right knee, and gently touched the burn. “What does he look like?” he asked.

“Fifty-five, very Italian, lots of groomed gray hair, black eyes, a handsome man. Why?”

“Because I’ve seen him everywhere. For the last three years, half the strangers I’ve seen in the outback of Brazil have been Jack Stephano. I’ve been chased in my sleep by a hundred men, all of whom turned out to be Jack Stephano. He has ducked in alleys, hidden behind trees, followed on foot at night in São Paulo, tagged behind me on motor scooters and chased me in cars. I’ve thought about Stephano more than I have my own mother.”

“The chase is over.”

“I finally got tired of it, Sandy. I gave up. Life on the run is quite an adventure, very thrilling and romantic, until you learn that someone is back there. While you’re sleeping, someone is trying to find you. While you’re having dinner with a wonderful woman in a city of ten million, someone is knocking on doors, quietly showing your photo to a clerk, offering small bribes for information. I stole too much money, Sandy. They had to come after me, and when I learned they were already in Brazil, I knew the end would come.”

“What do you mean, you gave up?”

Patrick breathed heavily and shifted his weight. He looked through his window at the waters below, and tried to organize his thoughts. “I gave up, Sandy. I got tired of running, and I gave up.”

“Yeah, I’ve already heard that.”

“I knew they would find me, so I decided to do it on my terms, not theirs.”

“I’m listening.”

“The rewards were my idea, Sandy. Eva would fly to Madrid, then to Atlanta, where she would meet with the boys from Pluto. They were paid to contact Stephano and handle the flow of information and money. We milked the money out of Stephano, and eventually led him to me, to my little house in Ponta Porã.”

Sandy turned slowly, his face blank, mouth open and crooked to one side, his eyes vacant.

“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.

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 Café du Monde on Decatur, then a late lunch at a nearby café.

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.