The Client (Page 96)

"Yes." "Removed the salt shakers?" "No salt shakers. Everything’s clean." "Good. Tell him to call back in twenty minutes," she said.

Trumann mumbled into the phone and flipped a switch. Within seconds, K. O. ‘s phone beeped. He stuck it to his head, and broke into a large smile. "Yes sir," he said most respectfully. "Just a second." He jabbed the phone at Reggie. "It’s Director Voyles. He’d like to speak with you." Reggie took it slowly, and said, "This is Reggie Love." Lewis and Trumann watched like two kids waiting for ice cream.

A deep and very clear voice came from the other end. Though Denton Voyles had never been tond ot the press during his forty-two years as director of the FBI, they occasionally captured a brief word or two. The voice was familiar. "Ms. Love, this is Denton Voyles. How are you?" "Just fine. The name’s Reggie, okay." "Sure, Reggie. Listen, K. O. just brought me up-to-date, and I want to assure you the FBI will do anything you want to protect this kid and his family. K. O. has full authority to act for me. We’ll also protect you if you wish." "I’m more concerned about the child, Denton." Trumann and Lewis glanced at each other. She had just called him Denton, a feat no one had dared to attempt before. And she was not the least disrespectful.

"If you want, you can fax me the agreement here and I’ll sign it myself," he said.

"That won’t be necessary, but thanks." "And my plane is at your disposal." "Thank you." "And I promise that we’ll see to it that Mr. Fol-trigg has to face the music in Memphis. We had nothing to do with the grand jury subpoenas, you understand?" "Yes, I know." "Good luck to you, Reggie. You guys work out the details. Lewis can move mountains. Call me if you need me. I’ll be at the office all day." "Thank you," she said, and handed the phone back to K. O. Lewis, the mountain mover.

The assistant night manager of the grill, a young man of no more than nineteen with a peach-fuzz mustache and an attitude, walked to the table. These people had been here for an hour, and from all indications they had set up camp. There were three phones in the center of the table. Some papers were lying about. The woman wore a sweatshirt and jeans. One of the men wore a cap and no socks. "Excuse me," he said curtly, "can I be of assistance?" Trumann glanced over his shoulder, and snapped, "No." He hesitated, and took a step closer. "I’m the assistant night manager, and I demand to know what you’re doing here." Trumann snapped his fingers loudly, and two gentlemen reading the Sunday paper at a table not far away jumped to their feet and whipped badges from their pockets. They stuck them into the face of the assistant night manager. "FBI," they said together as they each took an arm and led him away. He did not return. The grill was still deserted.

A phone rang, and Lewis took it. He listened carefully. Reggie opened the Sunday New Orleans paper. At the bottom of the front page was her face. The picture was taken from the bar registry, and it was next to Mark’s fourth-grade class photo. Side by side. Escaped. Disappeared. On the run. Boyette and all that. She turned to the comics.

"That was Washington," Lewis reported as he placed the phone on the table. "The clinic in Rockford is full. They’re checking on the other two." Reggie nodded and sipped her coffee. The sun was making its first efforts of the day. Her eyes were red and her head was hurting, but the adrenaline was pumping. With a little luck, she would be home by dark.

"Look, Reggie, could you give us an idea how long it’ll take to get to the body?" Trumann asked with great caution, tie aian t wam iu upset her. But he needed to start planning. "Mul-danno’s still out there, and if he gets it first, we’re all up a creek." He paused and waited for her to say something. "It’s in the city, right?" "If you don’t get lost, you should be able to find it in fifteen minutes." "Fifteen minutes," he repeated slowly, as if this were too good to be true. Fifteen minutes.

Chapter 39

V^LINT HADN’T SMOKED A CIGARETTE IN FOUR YEARS, BUT he found himself puffing nervously on a Virginia Slim. Dianne had one too, and they stood at the end of the hall and watched as the day broke over downtown Memphis. Greenway was in the room with Ricky. Next door, Jason McThune, the hospital administrator, and a small collection of FBI agents waited. Both Glint and Dianne had talked to Reggie in the past thirty minutes.

"The director has given his word," Glint said, sucking hard on the narrow cigarette, trying to extract a little smoke. "There’s no other choice, Dianne." She stared through the window with one arm across her chest and the other hand holding the cigarette near her mouth. "We just leave, right? We just get on the plane and fly off into the sunset, and everybody lives happily ever after?" "Something like that." "What if I don’t want to, Glint?" "You can’t say no." "Why not?" "It’s very simple. Your son has made the decision to talk. He’s also made the decision to enter the witness protection program, so like it or not, you have to go too. You and Ricky." "I’d like to talk to my son." "You can talk to him in New Orleans. If you can change his mind, then the deal’s off. Reggie’s not dropping the big news until you guys are on the plane and in the air." Glint was trying to be firm, yet compassionate. She was scared, weak, and vulnerable. Her hands trembled as she placed the filter between her lips.

"Ms. Sway," a heavy voice said from behind. They turned to find the Honorable Harry M. Roosevelt standing behind them in a massive, bright blue jogging suit with Memphis State Tigers emblazoned across the front. It had to be a triple extra-large, and it stopped six inches above his ankles. A pair of ancient but seldom used running shoes covered his long feet. He was holding the two-page agreement Glint had typed.

She acknowledged his presence but said nothing.

"Hello, Your Honor," Glint said quietly.

"I just talked to Reggie," he said to Dianne. "I’d say they’ve had a rather eventful trip." He stepped between them and ignored Glint. "I’ve read this agreement, and I’m inclined to sign it. I think it’s in the best interests of Mark for you to do the same." "Is that an order?" she asked.

"No. I do not have the power to bind you to this agreement," he said, then flashed a huge, warm smile. "But I would if I could." She placed the cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill, and stuck both hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. "And if I don’t?" "Then Mark will be returned here, placed back in detention, and beyond that, who knows. He will eventually be forced to talk. The situation is much more urgent now." "Why?" "Because we now know for a fact that Mark knows where the body is. So does Reggie. They could be in great danger. You’re at the point, Ms. Sway, where you have to trust people." "That’s easy for you to say." "Indeed it is. But if I were you, I’d sign this and get on the plane." Dianne slowly took the agreement from his honor. "Let’s go talk to Dr. Greenway." They followed her down the hall to the room next to Ricky’s.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, THE NINTH FLOOR OF ST. PETER’S was sealed off by a dozen FBI agents. The waiting room was evacuated. The nurses were told to remain at their station. Three of the elevators were stopped on the ground floor. The other was held in place on the ninth by an agent.

The door to Room 943 opened, and little Ricky Sway, drugged and sound asleep, was wheeled into the hallway on a stretcher pushed by Jason McThune and Glint Van Hooser. On this, his sixth day of confinement, he was no better than when he first arrived. Greenway walked along one side, Dianne the other. Harry followed along for a few steps, then stopped.