"But we have no authority to interfere with state prisoners."

Mitch smiled and returned to his coffee. "James Earl Ray escaped from Brushy Mountain. And he had no help from the outside."

"Oh, that's great. We attack the prison like commandos and rescue your brother. Beautiful."

"Don't play dumb with me, Tarrance. It's not negotiable."

"All right, all right. I'll see what I can do. Anything else? Any more surprises?"

"No, just questions about where we go and what we do. Where do we hide initially? Where do we hide during the trials? Where do we live for the rest of our lives? Just minor questions like that."

"We can discuss it later."

"What did Hodge and Kozinski tell you?"

"Not enough. We've got a notebook, a rather thick notebook, in which we've acc.u.mulated and indexed everything we know about the Moroltos and the firm. Most of it's Morolto c.r.a.p, their organization, key people, illegal activities and so on. You need to read it all before we start to work."

"Which, of course, will be after I've received the first million."

"Of course. When can we see your files?"

"In about a week. I've managed to copy four files that belong to someone else. I may get my hands on a few more of those."

"Who's doing the copying?"

"None of your business."

Tarrance thought for a second and let it pa.s.s. "How many files?"

"Between forty and fifty. I have to sneak them out a few at a time. Some I've worked on for eight months, others only a week or so. As far as I can tell, they're all legitimate clients."

"How many of these clients have you personally met?"

"Two or three."

"Don't bet they're all legitimate. Hodge told us about some dummy files, or sweat files as they are known to the partners, that have been around for years and every new a.s.sociate cuts his teeth on them; heavy files that require hundreds of hours and make the rookies feel like real lawyers."

"Sweat files?"

"That's what Hodge said. It's an easy game, Mitch. They lure you with the money. They smother you with work that looks legitimate and for the most part probably is legitimate. 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 sungla.s.ses. "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 Sat.u.r.day-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."

25.

The 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 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 c.o.ke, 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 s.e.x? 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 Rumheads quietened as all eyes turned to watch the sun meet the water. Gray and white clouds, the trailing remnants of the storm, lay low on the horizon and sank with the sun. Slowly they turned shades of orange and yellow and red, pale shades at first, then, suddenly, brilliant tones. For a few brief moments, the sky was a canvas and the sun splashed its awesome array of colors with bold strokes. Then the bright orange ball touched the water and within seconds was gone. The clouds became black and dissipated. A Cayman sunset.

With great fear and caution, Abby slowly maneuvered the jeep through the early-morning traffic in the shopping district. She was from Kentucky. She had never driven on the left side of the road for any substantial period of time. Mitch gave directions and watched the rearview mirror. The narrow streets and sidewalks were already crowded with tourists window-shopping for duty-free china, crystal, perfume, cameras and jewelry.

Mitch pointed to a hidden side street, and the jeep darted between two groups of tourists. He kissed her on the cheek. "I'll meet you right here at five."

"Be careful," she said. "I'll go to the bank, then stay on the beach near the condo."

He slammed the door and disappeared between two small shops. The alley led to a wider street that led to Hogsty Bay. He ducked into a crowded T-shirt store filled with racks and rows of tourist shirts and straw hats and sungla.s.ses. He selected a gaudy green-and-orange flowered shirt and a Panama hat. Two minutes later he darted from the store into the back seat of a pa.s.sing taxi. "Airport," he said. "And make it quick. Watch your tail. Someone may be following."

The driver made no response, just eased past the bank buildings and out of town. Ten minutes later he stopped in front of the terminal.

"Anybody follow us?" Mitch asked, pulling money from his pocket.

"No, mon. Four dollars and ten cents."

Mitch threw a five over the seat and walked quickly into the terminal. The Cayman Airways flight to Cayman Brac would leave at nine. At a gift shop Mitch bought a cup of coffee and hid between two rows of shelves filled with souvenirs. He watched the waiting area and saw no one. Of course, he had no idea what they looked like, but he saw no one sniffing around and searching for lost people. Perhaps they were following the jeep or combing the shopping district looking for him. Perhaps.

For seventy-five Cayman dollars he had reserved the last seat on the ten-pa.s.senger, three-engine Trislander. Abby had made the reservation by pay phone the night they arrived. At the last possible second, he jogged from the terminal onto the tarmac and climbed on board. The pilot slammed and locked the doors, and they taxied down the runway. No other planes were visible. A small hangar sat to the right.

The ten tourists admired the brilliant blue sea and said little during the twenty-minute flight. As they approached Cayman Brac, the pilot became the tour guide and made a wide circle around the small island. He paid special attention to the tall bluffs that fell into the sea on the east end. Without the bluffs, he said, the island would be as flat as Grand Cayman. He landed the plane softly on a narrow asphalt strip.

Next to the small white frame building with the word AIRPORT AIRPORT painted on all sides, a clean-cut Caucasian waited and watched the pa.s.sengers quickly disembark. He was Rick Acklin, Special Agent, and sweat dripped from his nose and glued his shirt to his back. He stepped slightly forward. "Mitch," he said almost to himself. painted on all sides, a clean-cut Caucasian waited and watched the pa.s.sengers quickly disembark. He was Rick Acklin, Special Agent, and sweat dripped from his nose and glued his shirt to his back. He stepped slightly forward. "Mitch," he said almost to himself.

Mitch hesitated and then walked over.

"Car's out front," Acklin said.

"Where's Tarrance?" Mitch looked around.

"He's waiting."

"Does the car have air conditioning?"

"Afraid not. Sorry."

The car was minus air, power anything and signal lights. It was a 1974 LTD, and Acklin explained as they followed the dusty road that there simply was not much of a selection of rental cars on Cayman Brac. And the reason the U.S. government had rented the car was because he and Tarrance had been unable to find a taxi. They were lucky to find a room, on such late notice.

The small neat homes were closer together, and sea appeared. They parked in the sand parking lot of an establishment called Brac Divers. An aging pier jutted into the water and anch.o.r.ed a hundred boats of all sizes. To the west along the beach a dozen thatched-roof cabins sat two feet above the sand and housed divers who came from around the world. Next to the pier was an open-air bar, nameless, but complete with a domino game and a dartboard. Oak-and-bra.s.s fans hung from the ceiling through the rafters and rotated slowly and silently, cooling the domino players and the bartender.

Wayne Tarrance sat at a table by himself drinking a c.o.ke and watching a dive crew load a thousand identical yellow tanks from the pier onto a boat. Even for a tourist, his dress was hysterical. Dark sungla.s.ses with yellow frames, brown straw sandals, obviously brand-new, with black socks, a tight Hawaiian luau shirt with twenty loud colors and a pair of gold gym shorts that were very old and very short and covered little of the shiny, sickly-white legs under the table. He waved his c.o.ke at the two empty chairs.

"Nice shirt, Tarrance," Mitch said in undisguised amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Thanks. You gotta real winner yourself."

"Nice tan too."

"Yeah, yeah. Gotta look the part, you know."

The waiter hovered nearby and waited for them to speak. Acklin ordered a c.o.ke. Mitch said he wanted a c.o.ke with a splash of rum in it. All three became engrossed with the dive boat and the divers loading their bulky gear.