Darby waited, then followed. With the red eyes and handkerchief, she looked like some child's mother. The hall was a zoo with nurses and orderlies and the wounded yelling and moving about. She turned a corner and saw an EXIT sign. Through the door, into another hall, much quieter, another door, and she was on a loading dock. There were lights in the alley. Don't run. Be strong. It's okay. No one's watching. She was on the street, walking briskly. The cool air cleared her eyes. She refused to cry.
Olson would take his time, and when he returned he would figure they had called her name and she was back there getting worked on. He would wait. And wait.
She turned corners, and saw Rampart. The Quarter was just ahead. She could get lost there. There were people on Royal, tourist types strolling along. She felt safer. She entered the Holiday Inn, paid with plastic, and got a room on the fifth floor.
After the door was bolted and chained, she curled up on the bed with all the lights on.
Mrs. Verheek rolled her plump but rich ass away from the center of the bed, and grabbed the phone. "It's for you, Gavin!" she yelled into the bathroom. Gavin emerged with shaving cream on half his face, and took the receiver from his wife, who burrowed deep into the bed. Like a hog rutting in mud, he thought.
"Hello," he snapped.
It was a female voice he'd never heard before. "This is Darby Shaw. Do you know who I am?"
He smiled instantly, and for a second thought of the string bikini on St. Thomas. "Well, yes. I believe we have a mutual friend."
"Did you read the little theory I wrote?"
"Ah, yes. The pelican brief, as we refer to it."
"And who is we?"
Verheek sat in a chair by the night table. This was no social call. "Why are you calling, Darby?"
"I need some answers, Mr. Verheek. I'm scared to death."
"It's Gavin, okay?"
"Gavin. Where is the brief now?"
"Here and there. What's wrong?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. Just tell me what you did with the brief."
"Well, I read it, then sent it to another division, and it was seen by some folks within the Bureau, then shown to Director Voyles, who sort of liked it."
"Has it been seen outside the FBI?"
"I can't answer that, Darby."
"Then I won't tell you what's happened to Thomas."
Verheek pondered this for a long minute. She waited patiently. "Okay. Yes, it's been seen outside the FBI. By whom and by how many, I don't know."
"He's dead, Gavin. He was murdered around ten last night. Someone planted a car bomb for both of us. I got lucky, but now they're after me."
Verheek was hovering over the phone, scribbling notes. "Are you hurt?"
"Physically, I'm okay."
"Where are you?"
"New Orleans."
"Are you certain, Darby? I mean, I know you're certain, but, dammit, who would want to kill him?"
"I met a couple of them."
"How'd you - "
"It's a long story. Who saw the brief, Gavin? Thomas gave it to you Monday night. It's been passed around, and forty-eight hours later he's dead. And I'm supposed to be dead with him. It fell into the wrong hands, wouldn't you say?"
"Are you safe?"
"Who the hell knows?"
"Where are you staying? What's your phone number?"
"Not so fast, Gavin. I'm moving real slow right now. I'm at a pay phone, so no cute stuff."
"Come on, Darby! Give me a break! Thomas Callahan was my best friend. You've got to come in."
"And what might that mean?"
"Look, Darby, give me fifteen minutes, and we'll have a dozen agents pick you up. I'll catch a flight and be there before noon. You can't stay on the streets."
"Why, Gavin? Who's after me? Talk to me, Gavin."
"I'll talk to you when I get there."
"I don't know. Thomas is dead because he talked to you. I'm not that anxious to meet you right now."
"Darby, look, I don't know who or why, but I assure you you're in a very dangerous situation. We can protect you."
"Maybe later."
He breathed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed. "You can trust me, Darby."
"Okay, I trust you. But what about those other people? This is heavy, Gavin. My little brief has someone awfully upset, wouldn't you say?"
"Did he suffer?"
She hesitated. "I don't think so." The voice was cracking.
"Will you call me in two hours? At the office. I'll give you an inside number."
"Give me the number, and I'll think about it."
"Please, Darby. I'll go straight to the Director when I get there. Call me at eight, your time."
"Give me the number."
The bomb exploded too late to make the Thursday morning edition of the Times-Picayune. Darby flipped through it hurriedly in the hotel room. Nothing. She watched the television, and there it was. A live shot of the burned-out Porsche, still sitting amid the debris in the parking lot, secluded nicely with yellow tape running everywhere. The police were treating it as a homicide. No suspects. No comment. Then the name of Thomas Callahan, age forty-five, a prominent professor of law at Tulane. The dean was suddenly there with a microphone in his face, talking about Professor Callahan and the shock of it all. The shock of it all, the fatigue, the fear, the pain, and Darby buried her head in the pillow. She hated crying, and this would be the last of it for a while. Mourning would only get her killed.
Even though it was a wonderful crisis, with the ratings up and Rosenberg dead, with his image clean and polished and America feeling good about itself because he was in command, with the Democrats running for cover and reelection next year in the bag, he was sick of this crisis and its relentless predawn meetings. He was sick of F. Denton Voyles and his smugness and arrogance, and his squatty little figure sitting on the other side of his desk in a wrinkled trench coat looking out a window while he addressed the President of the United States. He would be here in a minute for another meeting before breakfast, another tense encounter in which Voyles would tell only a portion of what he knew.
He was sick of being in the dark, and fed only what bits and crumbs Voyles chose to throw his way. Gminski would throw him a few, and somehow in the midst of all this crumb scattering and gathering he was supposed to get enough and be satisfied. He knew nothing compared to them. At least he had Coal to plow through their paper and memorize it all, and keep them honest.
He was sick of Coal, too. Sick of his perfectness and sleeplessness. Sick of his brilliance. Sick of his penchant for beginning each day when the sun was somewhere over the Atlantic, and planning every damned minute of every damned hour until it was over the Pacific. Then he, Coal, would load up a box of the day's junk, take it home, read it, decipher it, store it, then come in a few hours later blazing away with all the painfully boring mishmash he had just devoured. When Coal was tired, he slept five hours a night, but normal was three or four. He left his office in the West Wing at eleven each night, read all the way home in the back of his limo, then about the time the limo cooled off Coal was waiting on it for the return ride to the White House. He considered it a sin to arrive at his desk after 5 A.M. And if he could work a hundred and twenty hours a week, then everyone else should be able to do at least eighty. He demanded eighty. After three years, no one in this Administration could remember all the people fired by Fletcher Coal for not working eighty hours a week. Happened at least three times a month.