The Firm

Then, after a few years, you've unwittingly become a part of the conspiracy. You're nailed, and there's no getting out. Even you, Mitch. You started work in July, eight months ago, and you've probably already touched a few of the dirty files. You didn't know it, had no reason to suspect it. But they've already set you up.'

'Two million, Tarrance. Two million and my brother.'

Tarrance sipped the lukewarm coffee and ordered a piece of coconut pie as Dot came within earshot. He glanced at his watch and surveyed the crowd of truckers, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and gossiping.

He adjusted the sunglasses. 'So what do I tell Mr. Voyles?'

'Tell him we ain't got a deal until he agrees to get Ray out of prison. No deal, Tarrance.'

'We can probably work something out.'

'I'm confident you can.'

'When do you leave for the Caymans?'

'Early Sunday. Why?'

'Just curious, that's all.'

'Well, I'd like to know how many different groups will be following me down there. Is that asking too much? I'm sure we'll attract a crowd, and frankly, we had hoped for a little privacy.'

'Firm condo?'

'Of course.'

'Forget privacy. It's probably got more wires than a switchboard. Maybe even some cameras.'

'That's comforting. We might stay a couple of nights at Abanks Dive Lodge. If you boys are in the neighborhood, stop by for a drink.'

'Very funny. If we're there, it'll be for a reason. And you won't know it.'

Tarrance ate the pie in three bites. He left two bucks on the table and they walked to the dark rear of the truck stop. The dirty asphalt pavement vibrated under the steady hum of an acre of diesel engines. They waited in the dark.

'I'll talk to Voyles in a few hours,' Tarrance said. 'Why don't you and your wife take a leisurely Saturday- afternoon drive tomorrow?'

'Anyplace in particular?'

'Yeah. There's a town called Holly Springs thirty miles east of here. Old place, full of antebellum homes and Confederate history. Women love to drive around and look at the old mansions. Make your appearance around four o'clock and we'll find you. Our buddy Laney will be driving a bright red Chevy Blazer with Tennessee plates. Follow him. We'll find a place and talk.'

'Is it safe?'

'Trust us. If we see or smell something, we'll break off. Drive around town for an hour, and if you don't see Laney, grab a sandwich and go back home. You'll know they were too close. We won't take chances.'

'Thanks. A great bunch of guys.'

Laney eased around the corner in the BMW and jumped out. 'Everything's clear. No trace of anyone.'

'Good,' Tarrance said. 'See you tomorrow, Mitch. Happy truckin'.' They shook hands.

'It's not negotiable, Tarrance,' Mitch said again.

'You can call me Wayne. See you tomorrow.'

Chapter 25

T he black thunderheads and driving rain had long since cleared the tourists from Seven Mile Beach when the McDeeres, soaked and tired, arrived at the luxury condominium duplex. Mitch backed the rented Mitsubishi jeep over the curb, across the small lawn and up to the front door. Unit B. His first visit had been to Unit A. They appeared to be identical, except for the paint and trim. The key fit, and they grabbed and threw luggage as the clouds burst and the rain grew thicker.

Once inside and dry, they unpacked in the master bedroom upstairs with a long balcony facing the wet beach. Cautious with their words, they inspected the town house and checked out each room and closet. The refrigerator was empty, but the bar was very well stocked. Mitch mixed two drinks, rum and Coke, in honor of the islands. They sat on the balcony with their feet in the rain and watched the ocean churn and spill toward the shore. Rumheads was quiet and barely visible in the distance. Two natives sat at the bar, drinking and watching the sea.

'That's Rumheads over there,' Mitch said, pointing with his drink.

'Rumheads?'

'I told you about it. It's a hot spot where tourists drink and the locals play dominoes.'

'I see.' Abby was unimpressed. She yawned and sank lower into the plastic chair. She closed her eyes.

'Oh, this is great, Abby. Our first trip out of the country, our first real honeymoon, and you're asleep ten minutes after we hit land.'

'I'm tired, Mitch. I packed all night while you were sleeping.'

'You packed eight suitcases—six for you and two for me. You packed every garment we own. No wonder you were awake all night.'

'I don't want to run out of clothes.'

'Run out? How many bikinis did you pack? Ten? Twelve?'

'Six.'

'Great. One a day. Why don't you put one on?'

'What?'

'You heard me. Go put on that little blue one with high legs and a couple of strings around front, the one that weighs half a gram and cost sixty bucks and your buns hang out when you walk. I wanna see it.'

'Mitch, it's raining. You've brought me here to this island during the monsoon season. Look at those clouds. Dark and thick and extremely stationary. I won't need any bikinis this week.'

Mitch smiled and began rubbing her legs. 'I rather like the rain. In fact, I hope it rains all week. It'll keep us inside, in the bed, sipping rum and trying to hurt each other.'

'I'm shocked. You mean you actually want sex? We've already done it once this month.'

'Twice.'

'I thought you wanted to snorkel and scuba-dive all week.'

'Nope. There's probably a shark out there waiting for me.'

The winds blew harder and the balcony was being drenched. 'Let's go take off our clothes,' Mitch said.

After an hour, the storm began to move. The rain slackened, then turned to a soft drizzle, then it was gone. The sky lightened as the dark, low clouds left the tiny island and headed northeast, toward Cuba. Shortly before its scheduled departure over the horizon, the sun suddenly emerged for a brief encore. It emptied the beach cottages and town homes and condos and hotel rooms as the tourists strolled through the sand toward the water. Rumheads was suddenly packed with dart throwers and thirsty beachcombers. The domino game picked up where it had left off. The reggae band next door at the Palms tuned up.

Mitch and Abby walked aimlessly along the edge of the water in the general direction of Georgetown, away from the spot where the girl had been. He thought of her occasionally, and of the photographs. He had decided she was a pro and had been paid by DeVasher to seduce and conquer him in front of the hidden cameras. He did not expect to see her this time.

As if on cue, the music stopped, the beach strollers froze and watched, the noise at