Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  Mitch sat with his back to the wall and his face toward the dining room and the front door. The corner was dark. Candles lit the table. They ordered more wine.

  Abby sat motionless, staring at him, watching every move and waiting.

  “Do you remember a guy named Rick Acklin from Western Kentucky?”

  “No,” she said without moving her lips.

  “He played baseball, lived in the dorm. I think you may have met him once. A very nice guy, real clean-cut, good student. I think he was from Bowling Green. We weren’t good friends, but we knew each other.”

  She shook her head and waited.

  “Well, he finished a year before we did and went to law school at Wake Forest. Now he’s with the FBI. And he’s working here in Memphis.” He watched her closely to see if “FBI” would have an impact. It did not. “And today I’m eating lunch at Obleo’s hot-dog place on Main Street, when Rick walks up out of nowhere and says hello. Just like it was a real coincidence. We chat for a few minutes, and another agent, guy by the name of Tarrance, walks up and has a seat. It’s the second time Tarrance has chased me down since I passed the bar.”

  “The second …?”

  “Yes. Since August.”

  “And these are … FBI agents?”

  “Yes, with badges and everything. Tarrance is a veteran agent from New York. Been here about two years. Acklin is a rookie they brought in three months ago.”

  “What do they want?”

  The wine arrived and Mitch looked around the club. A band was tuning up on a small stage in a far corner. The bar was crowded with well-dressed professional types chitting and chatting relentlessly. The waiter pointed to the unopened menus. “Later,” Mitch said rudely.

  “Abby, I don’t know what they want. The first visit was in August, right after my name was printed in the paper for passing the bar.” He sipped his wine and detailed play by play the first Tarrance visit at Lansky’s Deli on Union, the warnings about whom not to trust and where not to talk, the meeting with Locke and Lambert and the other partners. He explained their version of why the FBI was so interested in the firm and said that he discussed it with Lamar and believed every word Locke and Lambert had said.

  Abby hung on every word, but waited to start asking.

  “And now, today, while I’m minding my own business, eating a foot-long with onions, this guy I went to college with walks up and tells me that they, the FBI, know for a fact that my phones are bugged, my home is wired and somebody down at Bendini, Lambert & Locke knows when I sneeze and take a crap. Think of it, Abby, Rick Acklin was transferred here after I passed the bar exam. Nice coincidence, huh?”

  “But what do they want?”

  “They won’t say. They can’t tell me, yet. They want me to trust them, and all that routine. I don’t know, Abby. I have no idea what they’re after. But they’ve chosen me for some reason.”

  “Did you tell Lamar about this visit?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone. Except you. And I don’t plan to tell anyone.”

  She gulped the wine. “Our phones are tapped?”

  “According to the FBI. But how do they know?”

  “They’re not stupid, Mitch. If the FBI told me my phones were tapped, I’d believe them. You don’t?”

  “I don’t know whom to believe. Locke and Lambert were so smooth and believable when they explained how the firm fights with the IRS and the FBI. I want to believe them, but so much of it doesn’t add up. Look at it this way—if the firm had a rich client who was shady and worthy of FBI scrutiny, why would the FBI pick me, the rookie, the one who knows the least, and begin following me? What do I know? I work on files someone else hands me. I have no clients of my own. I do as I’m told. Why not go after one of the partners?”

  “Maybe they want you to squeal on the clients.”

  “No way. I’m a lawyer and sworn to secrecy about the affairs of clients. Everything I know about a client is strictly confidential. The feds know that. No one expects a lawyer to talk about his clients.”

  “Have you seen any illegal deals?”

  He cracked his knuckles and gazed around the dining room. He smiled at her. The wine had settled and was taking effect. “I’m not supposed to answer that question, even from you, Abby. But the answer is no. I’ve worked on files for twenty of Avery’s clients and a few other ones here and there, and I’ve seen nothing suspicious. Maybe a couple of risky tax shelters, but nothing illegal. I’ve got a few questions about the bank accounts I saw in the Caymans, but nothing serious.” Caymans! His stomach dropped as he thought of the girl on the beach. He felt sick.

  The waiter loitered nearby and stared at the menus. “More wine,” Mitch said, pointing at the glasses.

  Abby leaned forward, near the candles, and looked bewildered. “Okay, who tapped our phones?”

  “Assuming they’re tapped, I have no idea. At the first meeting in August, Tarrance implied it was someone from the firm. I mean, that’s the way I took it. He said not to trust anyone at the firm, and that everything I said was subject to being heard and recorded. I assumed he meant they were doing it.”

  “And what did Mr. Locke say about that?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t tell him. I kept a few things to myself.”

  “Someone has tapped our phones and wired our house?”

  “And maybe our cars. Rick Acklin made a big deal of it today. He kept telling me not to say anything I didn’t want recorded.”

  “Mitch, this is incredible. Why would a law firm do that?”

  He shook his head slowly and looked into the empty wineglass. “I have no idea, babe. No idea.”

  The waiter set two new wineglasses on the table and stood with his hands behind him. “Will you be ordering?” he asked.

  “In a few minutes,” Abby said.

  “We’ll call you when we’re ready,” Mitch added.

  “Do you believe it, Mitch?”

  “I think something’s up. There’s more to the story.”

  She slowly folded her hands on the table and stared at him with a look of utter fear. He told the story of Hodge and Kozinski, starting with Tarrance at the deli, then to the Caymans and being followed and the meeting with Abanks. He told her everything Abanks had said. Then Eddie Lomax and the deaths of Alice Knauss, Robert Lamm and John Mickel.

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” she said when he finished.

  “So have I. But I feel better now that you know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I hoped it would go away. I hoped Tarrance would leave me alone and find someone else to torment. But he’s here to stay. That’s why Rick Acklin was transferred to Memphis. To work on me. I have been selected by the FBI for a mission I know nothing about.”

  “I feel weak.”

  “We have to be careful, Abby. We must continue to live as if we suspect nothing.”

  “I don’t believe this. I’m sitting here listening to you, but I don’t believe what you’re telling me. This is not real, Mitch. You expect me to live in a house that’s wired and the phones are tapped and someone, somewhere is listening to everything we say.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yeah. Let’s hire this Lomax guy to inspect our house.”

  “I’ve thought of that. But what if he finds something? Think about it. What if we know for sure that the house is wired? What then? What if he breaks a device that’s been planted? They, whoever in hell they are, will know that we know. It’s too dangerous, for now anyway. Maybe later.”

  “This is crazy, Mitch. I guess we’re supposed to run out in the backyard to have a conversation.”

  “Of course not. We could use the front yard.”

  “At this moment, I don’t appreciate your sense of humor.”

  “Sorry. Look, Abby, let’s be normal and patient for a while. Tarrance has convinced me he’s serious and he’s not going to forget about me. I can’t stop him. He finds me, remember. I think they follow me and
wait in ambush. For the time being, it’s important that we carry on as usual.”

  “Usual? Come to think of it, there’s not much conversation around our house these days. I sort of feel sorry for them if they’re waiting to hear meaningful dialogue. I talk to Hearsay a lot.”

  17

  The snow cleared long before Christmas, leaving the ground wet and making way for the traditional Southern holiday weather of gray skies and cold rain. Memphis had seen two white Christmases in the past ninety years, and the experts predicted no more in the century.

  There was snow in Kentucky, but the roads were clear. Abby called her parents early Christmas morning after she packed. She was coming, she said, but she would be alone. They were disappointed, they said, and suggested that perhaps she should stay if it was causing trouble. She insisted. It was a ten-hour drive. Traffic would be light, and she would be there by dark.

  Mitch said very little. He spread the morning paper on the floor next to the tree and pretended to concentrate as she loaded her car. The dog hid nearby under a chair, as if waiting for an explosion. Their gifts had been opened and arranged neatly on the couch. Clothes and perfume and albums, and for her, a full-length fox coat. For the first time in the young marriage, there was money to spend at Christmas.

  She draped the coat over her arm and walked to the paper. “I’m leaving now,” she said softly, but firmly.

  He stood slowly and looked at her.

  “I wish you would come with me,” she said.

  “Maybe next year.” It was a lie, and they knew it. But it sounded good. It was promising.

  “Please be careful.”

  “Take care of my dog.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  He took her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. He looked at her and smiled. She was beautiful, much more so than when they married. At twenty-four, she looked her age, but the years were becoming very generous.

  They walked to the carport, and he helped her into the car. They kissed again, and she backed down the driveway.

  Merry Christmas, he said to himself. Merry Christmas, he said to the dog.

  After an hour of watching the walls, he threw two changes of clothes in the BMW, placed Hearsay in the front seat and left town. He drove south on Interstate 55, out of Memphis, into Mississippi. The road was deserted, but he kept an eye on the rearview mirror. The dog whimpered precisely every sixty minutes, and Mitch would stop on the shoulder—if possible, just over a hill. He would find a cluster of trees where he could hide and watch the traffic while Hearsay did his business. He noticed nothing. After five stops, he was sure he was not being followed. They evidently took off Christmas Day.

  In six hours he was in Mobile, and two hours later he crossed the bay at Pensacola and headed for the Emerald Coast of Florida. Highway 98 ran through the coastal towns of Navarre, Fort Walton Beach, Destin and Sandestin. It encountered clusters of condominiums and motels, miles of shopping centers, then strings of run-down amusement parks and low rent T-shirt shops, most of which had been locked and neglected since Labor Day. Then it went for miles with no congestion, no sprawl, just an awesome view of the snowy-white beaches and brilliant emerald waters of the Gulf. East of Sandestin, the highway narrowed and left the coast, and for an hour he drove alone on the two-lane with nothing to look at but the woods and an occasional self-serve gas station or quick-shop convenience store.

  At dusk, he passed a high rise, and a sign said Panama City Beach was eight miles ahead. The highway found the coast again at a point where it forked and offered a choice between the bypass to the north and the scenic route straight ahead on what was called the Miracle Strip. He chose the scenic route next to the beach—the strip that ran for fifteen miles by the water and was lined on both sides with condos, cheap motels, trailer parks, vacation cottages, fast-food joints and T-shirt shops. This was Panama City Beach.

  Most of the ten zillion condos were empty, but there were a few cars parked about and he assumed that some families vacationed on the beach for Christmas. A hot-weather Christmas. At least they’re together, he said to himself. The dog barked, and they stopped by a pier where men from Pennsylvania and Ohio and Canada fished and watched the dark waters.

  They cruised the Miracle Strip by themselves. Hearsay stood on the door and took in the sights, barking at the occasional flashing neon of a cinder-block motel advertising its openness and cheap rates. Christmas on the Miracle Strip closed everything but a handful of diehard coffee shops and motels.

  He stopped for gas at an all-night Texaco with a clerk who seemed uncommonly friendly.

  “San Luis Street?” Mitch asked.

  “Yes, yes,” the clerk said with an accent and pointed to the west. “Second traffic light to the right. First left. That’s San Luis.”

  The neighborhood was a disorganized suburb of antique mobile homes. Mobile, yes, but it was apparent they had not moved in decades. The trailers were packed tightly together like rows of dominoes. The short, narrow driveways seemed inches apart and were filled with old pickups and rusted lawn furniture. The streets were crowded with parked cars, junk cars, abandoned cars. Motorcycles and bicycles leaned on the trailer hitches and lawn-mower handles protruded from beneath each home. A sign called the place a retirement village—“San Pedro Estates—A Half Mile from the Emerald Coast.” It was more like a slum on wheels, or a project with a trailer hitch.

  He found San Luis Street and suddenly felt nervous. It was winding and narrow with smaller trailers in worse shape than the other “retirement homes.” He drove slowly, anxiously watching street numbers and observing the multitude of out-of-state license plates. The street was empty except for the parked and abandoned cars.

  The home at 486 San Luis was one of the oldest and smallest. It was scarcely bigger than a camper. The original paint job looked to be silver, but the paint was cracked and peeling, and a dark green layer of mold covered the top and inched downward to a point just above the windows. The screens were missing. One window above the trailer hitch was badly cracked and held together with gray electrical tape. A small covered porch surrounded the only entrance. The storm door was open, and through the screen Mitch could see a small color television and the silhouette of a man walking by.

  This was not what he wanted. By choice, he had never met his mother’s second husband, and now was not the time. He drove on, wishing he had not come.

  He found on the Strip the familiar marquee of a Holiday Inn. It was empty, but open. He hid the BMW away from the highway, and registered under the name of Eddie Lomax of Danesboro, Kentucky. He paid cash for a single room with an ocean view.

  The Panama City Beach phone book listed three Waffle Huts on the Strip. He lay across the motel bed and dialed the first number. No luck. He dialed the second number, and again asked for Eva Ainsworth. Just a minute, he was told. He hung up. It was 11 p.m. He had slept for two hours.

  The taxi took twenty minutes to arrive at the Holiday Inn, and the driver began by explaining that he had been home enjoying leftover turkey with his wife and kids and kinfolks when the dispatcher called, and how it was Christmas and he hoped to be with his family all day and not worry about work for one day of the year. Mitch threw a twenty over the seat and asked him to be quiet.

  “What’s at the Waffle Hut, man?” the driver asked.

  “Just drive.”

  “Waffles, right?” He laughed and mumbled to himself. He adjusted the radio volume and found his favorite soul station. He glanced in the mirror, looked out the windows, whistled a bit, then said, “What brings you down here on Christmas?”

  “Looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman.”

  “Ain’t we all. Anyone in particular?”

  “An old friend.”

  “She at the Waffle Hut?”

  “I think so.”

  “You some kinda private eye or something?”

  “No.”

  “Seems mighty suspicious to me.”
/>   “Why don’t you just drive.”

  The Waffle Hut was a small, rectangular, boxlike building with a dozen tables and a long counter facing the grill, where everything was cooked in the open. Large plate-glass windows lined one side next to the tables so the customers could take in the Strip and the condos in the distance while they enjoyed their pecan waffles and bacon. The small parking lot was almost full, and Mitch directed the driver to an empty slot near the building.

  “Ain’t you getting out?” the driver asked.

  “No. Keep the meter running.”

  “Man, this is strange.”

  “You’ll get paid.”

  “You got that right.”

  Mitch leaned forward and rested his arms on the front seat. The meter clicked softly as he studied the customers inside. The driver shook his head, slumped in the seat, but watched out of curiosity.

  In the corner next to the cigarette machine a table of fat tourists with long shirts, white legs and black socks drank coffee, and all talked at the same time while glancing at the menus. The leader, the one with an unbuttoned shirt, a heavy gold chain draped upon his chest hair, thick gray sideburns and a Phillies baseball cap, looked repeatedly toward the grill, in search of a waitress.

  “You see her?” asked the driver.

  Mitch said nothing, then leaned forward and frowned. She appeared from nowhere and stood at the table with her pen and order book. The leader said something funny, and the fat people laughed. She never smiled, just kept writing. She was frail and much thinner. Almost too thin. The black-and-white uniform fit snugly and squeezed her tiny waist. Her gray hair was pulled tightly and hidden under the Waffle Hut bonnet. She was fifty-one, and from the distance she looked her age. Nothing worse. She seemed sharp. When she finished scribbling she snatched the menus from their hands, said something polite, almost smiled, then disappeared. She moved quickly among the tables, pouring coffee, handing ketchup bottles and giving orders to the cook.