Lamar Quin, Wally Hudson and Kendall Mahan sat in the conference room on the third floor and contemplated their next move. As senior associates, they knew about the fifth floor and the basement, about Mr. Lazarov and Mr. Morolto, about Hodge and Kozinski. They knew that when one joined , one did not leave.
They told their stories about the Day. They compared it to the day they learned the sad truth about Santa Claus. A sad and frightening day, when Nathan Locke talked to them in his office and told them about their biggest client. And then he introduced them to DeVasher. They were employees of the Morolto family, and they were expected to work hard, spend their handsome paychecks and remain very quiet about it. All three did. There had been thoughts of leaving, but never serious plans. They were family men. In time, it sort of went away. There were so many clean clients to work for. So much hard, legitimate work.
The partners handled most of the dirty work, but growing seniority had brought increasing involvement in the conspiracy. They would never be caught, the partners assured them. They were too smart. They had too much money. It was a perfect cover. Of particular concern at the conference table was the fact that the partners had skipped town. There was not a single partner in Memphis. Even Avery Tolar had disappeared. He had walked out of the hospital.
They talked about Mitch. He was out there somewhere, scared and running for his life. If DeVasher caught him, he was dead and they would bury him like Hodge and Kozin-ski. But if the feds caught him, they got the records, and they got , which, of course, included the three of them.
What if, they speculated, no one caught him? What if he made it, just vanished? Along with his documents, of course. What if he and Abby were now somewhere on a beach, drinking rum and counting their money? They liked this thought and talked about it for a while.
Finally, they decided to wait until tomorrow. If Mitch was gunned down somewhere, they would stay in Memphis. If he was never found, they would stay in Memphis. If the feds caught him, they would hit the road, Jack.
Run, Mitch, run!
The rooms at the Blue Tide Motel were narrow and tacky. The carpet was twenty years old and badly worn. The bedspreads had cigarette burns. But luxury was unimportant.
After dark Thursday, Ray stood behind Abby with a pair of scissors and snipped delicately around her ears. Two towels under the chair were covered with her dark hair. She watched him carefully in the mirror next to the antique color television --and was free with her instructions. It was a boyish cut, well above the ears, with bangs. He stepped back and admired his work.
"Not bad," he said.
She smiled and brushed hair from her arms. "I guess I need to color it now," she said sadly. She walked to the tiny, bathroom and closed the door.
She emerged an hour later as a blonde. A yellowish blonde. Ray was asleep on the bedspread. She knelt on the dirty carpet and scooped up the hair.
She picked it from the floor and filled a plastic garbage bag. The empty dye bottle and the applicator were thrown in with the hair, and she tied the bag. There was a knock at the door.
Abby froze, and listened. The curtains were pulled tightly. She slapped Ray's feet. Another knock. Ray jumped from the bed and grabbed the gun.
"Who is it?" she whispered loudly at the window.
"Sam Fortune," he whispered back.
Ray unlocked the door, and Mitch stepped in. He grabbed Abby and bear-hugged Ray. The door was locked, the lights turned off, and they sat on the bed in the darkness. He held Abby tightly. With so much to say, the three said nothing.
A tiny, weak ray of light from the outside filtered under the curtains and, as minutes passed, gradually lit the dresser and television. No one spoke. There were no sounds from the Blue Tide. The parking lot was virtually empty.
"I can almost explain why I'm here," Ray finally said, "but I'm not sure why you're here."
"We've got to forget why we're here," Mitch said, "and concentrate on leaving here. All together. All safe."
"Abby's told me everything," Ray said.
"I don't know everything," she said. "I don't know who's chasing us."
"I'm assuming they're all out there," Mitch said. "De-Vasher and his gang are nearby. Pensacola, I would guess. It's the nearest airport of any size. Tarrance is somewhere along the coast directing his boys in their all-out search for
Ray McDeere, the rapist. And his accomplice, Abby McDeere."
"What happens next?" Abby asked.
"They'll find the car, if they haven't already done so. That will pinpoint Panama City Beach. The paper said the search' extended from Mobile to Miami, so now they're spread out. When they find the car, they zero in here. Now, there's a thousand cheap motels just like this one along the Strip. For twelve miles, nothing but motels, condos and T-shirt shops. That's a lot of people, a lot of tourists with shorts and sandals, and tomorrow we'll be tourists too, shorts, sandals, the whole bit. I figure even if they have a hundred men after us, we've got two or three days."
"Once they decide we're here, what happens?" she asked.
"You and Ray could have simply abandoned the car and taken off in another one. They can't be certain we're on the Strip, but they'll start looking here. But they're not the Gestapo. They can't crash a door and search without probable cause."
"DeVasher can," Ray said.
"Yeah, but there's a million doors around here. They'll set up roadblocks and watch every store and restaurant. They'll talk to every hotel clerk, show them Ray's mug shot. They'll swarm like ants for a few days, and with luck, they'll miss us."
"What are you driving, Mitch?" Ray asked.
"A U-Haul."
"I don't understand why we don't get in the U-Haul, right now, and haul ass. I mean, the car is sitting a mile down the road, just waiting to be found, and we know they're coming. I say we haul it."
"Listen, Ray. They might be setting roadblocks right now. Trust me. Did I get you out of prison? Come on."
A siren went screaming past on the Strip. They froze, and listened to it fade away.
"Okay, gang," Mitch said, "we're moving out. I don't like this place. The parking lot is empty and too close to the highway. I've parked the U-Haul three doors down at the elegant Sea Gull's Rest Motel. I've got two lovely rooms there. The roaches are much smaller. We're taking a quiet stroll on the beach. Then we get to unpack the truck. Sound exciting?"
37
JOEY Morolto and his squad of storm troopers landed at the Pensacola airport in a chartered DC-9 before sunrise Friday. Lazarov waited with two limos and eight rented vans. He briefed Joey on the past twenty-four hours as the convoy left Pensacola and traveled east on Highway 98. After an hour of briefing, they arrived at a twelve-floor condo called the Sandpiper, in the middle of the Strip at Destin. An hour from Panama City Beach. The penthouse on the top floor had been procured by Lazarov for only four thousand dollars a week. Off-season rates. The remainder of the twelfth floor and all of the eleventh had been leased, for the goons.
Mr. Morolto snapped orders like an agitated drill sergeant. A command post was set up in the great room of the penthouse, overlooking the calm emerald water. Nothing suited him. He wanted breakfast, and Lazarov sent two vans to a Delchamps supermarket nearby. He wanted McDeere, and Lazarov asked him to be patient.
By daybreak, the troops had settled into their condos. They waited.
Three miles away along the beach, and within view of the Sandpiper, F. Denton Voyles and Wayne Tarrance sat on the balcony of an eighth-floor room at the Sandestin Hilton. They drank coffee, watched the sun rise gently on the horizon and talked strategy. The night had not gone well. The car had not been found. No sign of Mitch. With sixty FBI agents and hundreds of locals scouring the coast, they should have at least found the car. With each passing hour, the McDeeres were farther away.
In a file by a coffee table inside were the warrants. For Ray McDeere, the warrant read: escape, unlawful flight, robbery and rape. Abby's sin was merely being an accomplice. The charges for Mitch required more creativity. Obstruction of justice and a nebulous racketeering charge. And of course the old standby, mail fraud. Tarrance was not sure where the mail fraud fit, but he worked for the FBI and had never seen a case that did not include mail fraud.