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She looked at Gray. "When?"
"It'll take me an hour to revise it again, and add Mr. Voyles' comments."
"An hour," she said to Voyles.
"I'll wait."
"Could we talk in private?" she said to Voyles while nodding at Gray.
"Certainly." He grabbed his trench coat, and stopped at the door. He smiled at her. "You're a helluva lady, Ms. Shaw. Your brains and guts are bringing down one of the sickest men in this country. I admire you. And I promise I'll always level with you."
He stuck the cigar in the middle of his chubby smile and left the room.
They watched the door close. "Do you think I'll be safe?" she asked.
"Yes. I think he's sincere. Plus, he has men with guns who can get you out of here. It's okay, Darby."
"You can leave with me, can't you?"
"Sure."
She walked to him and put her arms around his waist. He held her tightly, and closed his eyes.
At seven, the editors gathered around the table for the last time Tuesday night. They quickly read the section Gray added to include Voyles' comments. Feldman walked in late with an enormous smile.
"You will not believe this," he said. "I've had two phone calls. Ludwig called from China. The President found him there and begged him to hold the story for twenty-four hours. Ludwig said the man was near tears. Ludwig, being the gentleman, listened respectfully, and politely declined. The second call was from Judge Roland, an old friend of mine. Seems as though the boys at White and Blazevich called him away from the dinner table and requested permission to file an injunction tonight with an immediate hearing. Judge Roland listened quite disrespectfully, and impolitely declined."
"Let's run this baby!" Krauthammer yelled.
The takeoff was smooth and the jet was headed due west, supposedly for Denver. It was adequate but not luxurious, but then it was owned by the taxpayers and held by a man who cared nothing for the finer things. No good whiskey, Gray determined as he opened the cabinets. Voyles was an abstainer, and at the moment this really irritated Gray since he was a guest and dying of thirst. He found two semichilled Sprites in the refrigerator, and handed one to Darby. She popped the top of the can.
The jet appeared to be level. The copilot appeared in the door of their cabin. He was polite and introduced himself.
"We were told that we would have a new destination shortly after takeoff."
"That's correct," Darby said.
"Fine. Uh, we'll need to know something in about ten minutes."
"Okay."
"Is there any liquor on this thing?" Gray asked.
"Sorry." The copilot smiled, and returned to the cockpit.
Darby and her long legs consumed most of the small sofa, but he was determined to join her. He lifted her feet and sat at the end of it. They were in his lap. Red toenails. He rubbed her ankles and thought only of this first major event - the holding of the feet. It was terribly intimate for him, but didn't seem to faze her. She was smiling a little now, unwinding. It was over.
"Were you scared?" he asked.
"Yes. And you?"
"Yes, but I felt safe. I mean, it's hard to feel vulnerable with six armed buddies using their bodies as shields. It's hard to feel watched in the rear of a van with no windows."
"Voyles loved it, didn't he?"
"He was like Napoleon, making plans and directing troops. It's a big moment for him. He'll take a shot in the morning, but it'll bounce off. The only person who can fire him is the President, and I'd say Voyles has control of him at the moment."
"And the murders are solved. He has to feel good about that."
"I think we've added ten years to his career. What have we done!"
"I think he's cute," Darby said. "I didn't like him at first, but he sort of grows on you. And he's human. When he mentioned Verheek, I saw a trace of water in his eyes."
"A real sweetheart. I'm sure Fletcher Coal will be delighted to see this cute little man in a few hours."
Her feet were long and thin. Perfect, really. He rubbed along the top of them, and felt like a sophomore moving up from the knee on the second date. They were pale, and needed sun, and he knew that in a few short days they would be brown with sand permanently stuck between the toes. He had not been invited to visit later, and this was disturbing. He had no idea where she was going, and this was intentional. He was not certain she knew her destination.
The foot play reminded her of Thomas. He'd get half drunk and smear polish around the nails. With the jet humming and shaking softly, he was suddenly many miles removed from her. He'd been dead for two weeks, but it seemed much longer. There'd been so many changes. It was better this way. If she was at Tulane, walking by his office, seeing his classroom, talking to the other professors, staring at his apartment from the street, it would be awfully painful. The little reminders are nice for the long run, but during the mourning they get in the way.
She was a different person now, with a different life in a different place.
And a different man was rubbing her feet. He was an ass at first, cocky and abrasive, a typical reporter. But he was thawing rapidly, and under the jaded layer she was finding a warm man who obviously liked her very much.
"Tomorrow's a big day for you," she said.
He took a sip of straight Sprite. He would pay an outrageous sum of money for a ice-cold imported beer in a green bottle. "Big day," he said, admiring the toes. It would be more than a big day, but he felt the need to understate it. At this moment, she had his attention, not the chaos of tomorrow.
"What'll happen?" she asked.
"I'll probably go back to the office and wait for it to hit. Smith Keen said he would be there all night. A lot of people will be in early. We'll gather in the conference room, and they'll bring more televisions. We'll spend the morning watching it break. It'll be great fun listening to the official White House response. White and Blazevich will say something. Who knows about Mattiece. Chief Runyan will have a comment. Voyles will be very visible. The lawyers will assemble grand juries. And the politicians will be delirious. They'll hold press conferences all day on Capitol Hill. It will be a rather significant news day. I hate you'll miss it."
She gave a little sarcastic snort. "What's your next story?"
"Probably Voyles and his tape. You have to anticipate a White House denial of any interference, and if the ink gets too hot for Voyles, he'll attack with a vengeance. I'd like to have the tape."
"And after that?"
"Depends on a lot of unknowns. After six o'clock in the morning, the competition gets much stiffer. There'll be a million rumors and a thousand stories, but every paper in the country will be wedging in."
"But you'll be the star," she said with admiration, not sarcasm.
"Yeah, I'll get my fifteen minutes."
The copilot knocked on the door and opened it. He looked at Darby.
"Atlanta," she said, and he closed the door.
"Why Atlanta?" Gray asked.
"You ever changed planes at Atlanta?"
"Sure."
"You ever got lost changing planes at Atlanta?"
"I think so."
"I rest my case. It's huge and wonderfully busy."
He emptied the can and set it on the floor. "Where to from there?" He knew he shouldn't ask because she hadn't volunteered. But he wanted to know.
"I'll catch a quick flight somewhere. I'll do my four-airports-in-one-night routine. It's probably unnecessary, but I'll feel safer. I'll eventually land somewhere in the Caribbean."
Somewhere in the Caribbean. That narrowed it to a thousand islands. Why was she so vague? Did she not trust him? He was sitting here playing with her feet and she wouldn't tell him where she was going.
"What do I tell Voyles?" he asked.
"I'll call you when I get there. Or I might drop you a line."
Great! They could be pen pals. He could send her his stories and she could send postcards from the beach.
"Will you hide from me?" he asked, looking at her.
"I don't know where I'm going, Gray. I won't know until I get there."
"But you'll call?"
"Eventually, yes. I promise."
By 11 P.M., only five lawyers remained in the offices of White and Blazevich, and they were in Marty Velmano's on the tenth floor. Velmano, Sims Wakefield, Jarreld Schwabe, Nathaniel (Einstein) Jones, and a retired partner named Frank Cortz. Two bottles of Scotch sat on the edge of Velmano's desk. One was empty, the other almost there. Einstein sat alone in one corner, mumbling to himself. He had wild, curly gray hair and a pointed nose, and indeed looked crazy. Especially now. Sims Wakefield and Jarreld Schwabe sat in front of the desk with ties off and sleeves rolled up.
Cortz finished a phone chat with an aide to Victor Mattiece. He handed the phone to Velmano, who placed it on the desk.
"That was Strider," Cortz reported. "They're in Cairo in the penthouse suite of some hotel. Mattiece will not talk to us. Strider says he's over the edge, acting very bizarre. He's locked himself in a room, and, needless to say, he ain't coming to this side of the ocean. Strider says they've told the boys with the guns to get out of town immediately. The chase is off. The fat lady is singing."
"So what're we supposed to do?" asked Wakefield.
"We're on our own," said Cortz. "Mattiece has washed his hands of us."
They spoke quietly and deliberately. The screaming ended hours ago. Wakefield blamed Velmano for the memo. Velmano blamed Cortz for bringing in a sleazy client like Mattiece in the first place. That was twelve years ago, Cortz screamed back, and we've enjoyed his fees ever since. Schwabe blamed Velmano and Wakefield for being so careless with the memo. They dragged Morgan through the mud again and again. It had to be him. Einstein sat in the corner and watched them. But that was all behind them now.
"Grantham mentioned only me and Sims," Velmano said. "The rest of you guys may be safe."
"Why don't you and Sims skip the country?" Schwabe said.
"I'll be in New York at 6 A.M." Velmano said. "Then to Europe for a month on the trains."
"I can't run," Wakefield said. "I've got a wife and six kids."
