The Pelican Brief

He gave her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. “I fell or something. There were two explosions, and I think the second one knocked me down. I don’t remember everything. Please, tell me who Rupert is.”

“I have no idea. I don’t know a cop named Rupert, and there was no cop here with cowboy boots.”

She thought about this for a block and a half.

“What did Callahan do for a living?”

“A law professor at Tulane. I’m a student there.”

“Who would want to kill him?”

She stared at the traffic lights and shook her head. “You’re certain it was intentional?”

“No doubt about it. It was a very powerful explosive. We found a piece of a foot stuck in a chain-link fence eighty feet away. I’m sorry, okay? He was murdered.”

“Maybe someone got the wrong car.”

“That’s always possible. We’ll check out everything. I take it you were supposed to be in the car with him.”

She tried to speak, but could not hold the tears. She buried her face in the handkerchief.

He parked between two ambulances near the emergency entrance at Charity, and left the blue lights on. He helped her quickly inside to a dirty room where fifty people sat in various degrees of pain and discomfort. She found a seat by the water fountain. Olson talked to the lady behind the window, and he raised his voice but Darby couldn’t understand him. A small boy with a bloody towel around his foot cried in his mother’s lap. A young black girl was about to give birth. There was not a doctor or nurse in sight. No one was in a hurry.

Olson crouched in front of her. “It’ll be a few minutes. Sit tight. I’m go

“Yeah, sure.”

He was gone. She checked again for blood, and found none. The double doors opened wide, and two angry nurses came after the girl in labor. They sort of dragged her away, back through the doors and down the hall.

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 I

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 ru

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 ru