jury to vote an indictment. They would do exactly as Foley would do in their position: act to cut their losses.
Foley packed very efficiently and methodically. He had never seen the attraction of sinking enormous amounts of money in paintings and bric-a-brac like Buckley, and he didn’t have fifty pounds of gold jewelry hidden under a Persian rug like Salateri, so he didn’t have to think very hard. He nearly filled his two suitcases with cash, threw on top an accordion envelope that contained a few passbooks for offshore banks, last month’s stock and bond statements, and his passport. He slipped a few personal papers in with them, put on his favorite sport coat, stuck his prescription sunglasses into the pocket, and walked out the door.
As he stood in the private elevator and felt it descend thirty floors, he marveled at how simple and inevitable it suddenly had become to walk away from a two-billion-dollar company. There really was no decision to make. If Seaver had not talked, he would probably be on his way here to kill whoever was left. If he had talked, the police were on the way, and so were people a hell of a lot scarier than police. And if Seaver hadn’t talked, and wasn’t mad, then Pete Hatcher had probably heard of Seaver being caught running around the country with a gun, and that would convince Hatcher that
The elevator opened and he dragged his two suitcases out on the garage level. Then he thought about selecting the right car to take to the airport. His Saab was probably the best one for this, because it didn’t look like something a man like Foley would drive.
He took the keys off the board and carried his suitcases over to the dark-green, stubby Saab. It was the name of the car that suggested his first destination. He would go to Sabi Sand Game Reserve in South Africa. He would stay at the Singita Lodge and begin making calls to find his next stop while he was there. For the moment he had a strong interest in places where he could see people coming from a long way off.
Foley opened the trunk. As he lifted the first suitcase in, he had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to look over his shoulder. It was like a chill at the back of his neck. He whirled quickly. There was nobody in the dark behind him, no visible shape at all on this level except his four other cars. But there could have been. It could have been the first F.B.I. agent, or Calvin Seaver waiting to get even, or some nightmare guy that the Mafia had sent to get rid of a bad memory. It could even be nothing more than a thief, somebody who knew that Foley had a lot of money. In a day or so, when the word got around that the three partners had bailed out, there would be a lot of people like that. He would have to watch for them, too.
It occurred to him that he was never going to be able to stop looking over his shoulder, even if he lived for a year or more. As he started the car, a familiar thought entered his mind, but it was for a new reason. He wished he knew a way to find that woman who made people disappear.
SHE WILL HELP YOU DISAPPEAR,
IF IT HELPS YOU STAY ALIVE …
The Jane Whitefield
Novels
by
Thomas Perry
Published by Ivy Books.
Available in bookstores everywhere.
Jane Whitefield is in the one-woman business of helping desperate people disappear. Thanks to her membership in the Wolf Clan of the Seneca tribe, she can fool any pursuer, cover any trail, and then provide her clients with new identities, complete with authentic paperwork.
VANISHING
ACT
But when Jane opens a door out
of the world for an attractive fugitive
named John Felker, she walks into
a trap that will take all her heritage
and cunning to escape.
Jane Whitefield is the patron saint of the pursued, a Native American “guide” who specializes in making victims vanish. Calling on the ancient wisdom of the Seneca tribe and her own razor-sharp cunning, she conjures up new identities for people with nowhere left to run.
DANCE FOR
THE DEAD
But when a calculating killer stalks an
