The Firm

Ray removed the gun and handed it to Mitch, who was standing now and trying to focus with his good eye. Abby watched the pier. No one.

“Start flashing,” Ray said as he unwound the rope from his waist. Abby faced the water, shielded the flashlight, found the switch and began flashing like crazy.

“What’re you go

“Two choices. We can either blow his brains out or drown him.”

“Oh my god!” Abby said as she flashed.

“Don’t fire the gun,” Mitch whispered.

“Thank you,” Ray said. He grabbed a short section of rope, twisted it tightly around the Nordic’s neck and pulled. Mitch turned his back and stepped between the body and Abby. She did not try to watch. “I’m sorry. We have no choice,” Ray mumbled almost to himself.

There was no resistance, no movement from the unconscious man. After three minutes, Ray exhaled loudly and a

“I’m going down first,” Ray said as he crawled through the railing and slid down the rope. Eight feet under the deck of the pier, an iron cross brace was attached to two of the thick concrete columns that disappeared into the water. It made a nice hideout. Abby was next. Ray grabbed her legs as she clutched the rope and eased downward. Mitch, with his one eye, lost his equilibrium and almost went for a swim.

But they made it. They sat on the cross brace, ten feet above the cold, dark water. Ten feet above the fish and the barnacles and the body of the Nordic. Ray cut the rope so the corpse could fall to the bottom properly before it made its ascent in a day or two.

They sat like three owls on a limb, watching the buoy lights and cha

And then voices from the deck above. Nervous, anxious, panicked voices, searching for someone. Then they were gone.

“Well, little brother, what do we do now?” Ray whispered.

“Plan B,” Mitch said.

“And what’s that?”

“Start swimming.”

“Very fu

An hour passed. The iron brace, though perfectly located, was not comfortable.

“Have you noticed those two boats out there?” Ray asked quietly.

The boats were small, about a mile oifshore, and for the past hour had been cruising slowly and suspiciously back and forth in sight of the beach. “I think they’re fishing boats,” Mitch said.

“Who fishes at one o’clock in the morning?” Ray asked.

The three of them thought about this. There was no explanation.

Abby saw it first, and hoped and prayed it was not the body now floating toward them. “Over there,” she said, pointing fifty yards out to sea. It was a black object, resting on the water and moving slowly in their direction. They watched intently. Then the sound, like that of a sewing machine.

“Keep flashing,” Mitch said. It grew closer.

It was a man in a small boat.

“Abanks!” Mitch whispered loudly. The humming noise died.

“Abanks!” he said again.

“Where the hell are you?” came the reply.

“Over here. Under the pier. Hurry, dammit!”

The hum grew louder, and Abanks parked an eight-foot rubber raft under the pier. They swung from the brace and landed in one joyous pile. They quietly hugged each other, then hugged Abanks. He revved up the five-horsepower electric trolling motor and headed for open water.

“Where have you been?” Mitch asked.

“Cruising,” Abanks answered nonchalantly.

“Why are you late?”

“I’m late because I’ve been dodging these fishing boats filled with idiots in tourist clothes posing as fishermen.”

“You think they’re Moroltos or Fibbies?” Abby asked.

“Well, if they’re idiots, they could be either one.”

“What happened to your green light?”

Abanks pointed to a flashlight next to the motor. “Battery went dead.”

The boat was a forty-foot schooner that Abanks had found in Jamaica for only two hundred thousand. A friend waited by the ladder and helped them aboard. His name was George, just George, and he spoke English with a quick accent. Abanks said he could be trusted.

“There’s whiskey if you like. In the cabinet,” Abanks said. Ray found the whiskey. Abby found a blanket and lay down on a small couch. Mitch stood on the deck and admired his new boat. When Abanks and George had the raft aboard, Mitch said, “Let’s get out of here. Can we leave now?”

“As you wish,” George snapped properly.

Mitch gazed at the lights along the beach and said farewell. He went below and poured a cup of scotch.

Wayne Tarrance slept across the bed in his clothes. He had not moved since the last call, six hours earlier. The phone rang beside him. After four rings, he found it.

“Hello.” His voice was slow and scratchy.

“Wayne baby. Did I wake you?”

“Of course.”

“You can have the documents now. Room 39, Sea Gull’s Rest Motel, Highway 98, Panama City Beach. The desk clerk is a guy named Andy, and he’ll let you in the room. Be careful with them. Our friend has them all marked real nice and precise, and he’s got sixteen hours of videotape. So be gentle.”

“I have a question,” Tarrance said.

“Sure, big boy. Anything.”

“Where did he find you? This would’ve been impossible without you.”

“Gee, thanks, Wayne. He found me in Memphis. We got to be friends, and he offered me a bunch of money.”

“How much?”

“Why is that important, Wayne? I’ll never have to work again. Gotta run, baby. It’s been real fun.”

“Where is he?”

“As we speak, he’s on a plane to South America. But please don’t waste your time trying to catch him. Wayne, baby, I love you, but you couldn’t even catch him in Memphis. Bye now.” She was gone.

Chapter 41

Sunday. The forty-foot schooner sped south with full sails under a clear sky. Abby was in a deep sleep in the master suite. Ray was in a scotch-induced coma on a couch. Abanks was somewhere below catching a nap.

Mitch sat on the deck sipping cold coffee and listening to George expound on the basics of sailing. He was in his late fifties, with long, gray, bleached hair and dark, sun-cured skin. He was small and wiry, much like Abanks. He was Australian by birth, but twenty-eight years earlier had fled his country after the largest bank heist in its history. He and his partner split eleven million in cash and silver and went their separate ways. His partner was now dead, he had heard.

George was not his real name, but he’d used it for twenty-eight years and forgotten the real one. He discovered the Caribbean in the late sixties, and after seeing its thousands of small, primitive English-speaking islands, decided he’d found home. He put his money in banks in the Bahamas, Belize, Panama and, of course, Grand Cayman. He built a small compound on a deserted stretch of beach on Little Cayman and had spent the past twenty-one years touring the Caribbean in his thirty-foot schooner. During the summer and early fall, he stayed close to home. But from October to June, he lived on his boat and hopped from island to island. He’d been to three hundred of them in the Caribbean. He once spent two years just in the Bahamas.

“There are thousands of islands,” he explained. “And they’ll never find you if you move a lot.”

“Are they still looking for you?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t call and ask, you know. But I doubt it.”

“Where’s the safest place to hide?”

“On this boat. It’s a nice little yacht, and once you learn to sail it, it’ll be your home. Find you a little island somewhere, perhaps Little Cayman or Brae—they’re both still primitive—and build a house. Do as I’ve done. And spend most of your time on this boat.”