The Pelican Brief

While he was falling, Mr. Chop kicked him in the ribs. Number two, with blood all over his face, charged wild-eyed into Stump, and the massacre was on. He curled around his hands, which were curled around his severely damaged testicles, and they kicked him and cursed him without mercy until someone yelled, “Cops,” and this saved his life. Mr. Chop and number two helped number one to his feet, and the Saints were last seen darting into a bar. Stump made it to his feet, and crawled away like a dog hit by a Mack truck but still alive and determined to die at home.

She hid in a dark corner of a pub on Decatur, drinking coffee then a beer, coffee then a beer. Her hands shook and her stomach flipped. The po’boys smelled delicious, but she could not eat. After three beers in three hours, she ordered a plate of boiled shrimp and switched to spring water.

The alcohol had calmed her, and the shrimp settled her. She was safe in here, she thought, so why not watch the game and just sit here, maybe, until it closed.

The pub was packed at kickoff. They watched the wide screen above the bar, and got drunk. She was a Saints fan now. She hoped her three buddies were okay and enjoying the game. The crowd yelled and cursed the Redskins.

Darby stayed in her little corner until the game was long over, then slid into the darkness.

At some point in the fourth quarter, with the Saints down by four field goals, Edwin Sneller hung up the phone and turned off the television. He stretched his legs, then returned to the phone and called Khamel next door.

“Listen to my English,” the assassin said. “Tell me if you hear a trace of an accent.”

“Okay. She’s here,” Sneller said. “One of our men saw her this morning at Jackson Square. He followed her for three blocks, then lost her.”

“How did he lose her?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? She got away, but she’s here. Her hair is very short and almost white.”

“White?”

Sneller hated to repeat himself, especially to this mongrel.

“He said it was not blond but white, and she was wearing green Army pants and a brown bomber jacket. Somehow she recognized him, and took off.”

“How would she recognize him? Has she seen him before?”

These idiot questions. It was hard to believe he was considered Superman. “I can’t answer that.”

“How’s my English?”

“Perfect. There’s a small card under your door. You need to see it.”

Khamel laid the phone on a pillow and walked to the door. In a second he was back on the phone. “Who is this?”

“The name is Verheek. Dutch, but he’s an American. Works for the FBI in Washington. Evidently, he and Callahan were friends. They finished law school together at Georgetown, and Verheek was an honorary pallbearer at the memorial service yesterday. Last night he was hanging out in a bar not far from the campus, and was asking questions about the girl. Two hours ago, one of our men was in the same bar posing as an FBI agent, and he struck up a conversation with the bartender, who turns out to be a law student who knows the girl. They watched football and talked for a while, then the kid produced the card. Look on the back. He’s in room 1909 at the Hilton.”

“That’s a five-minute walk.” The street maps were scattered on one bed.

“Yes. We’ve made a few phone calls to Washington. He’s not an agent, just a lawyer. He knew Callahan, and he might know the girl. It’s obvious he’s trying to find her.”

“She would talk to him, wouldn’t she?”

“Probably.”

“How’s my English?”

“Perfect.”

Khamel waited an hour and left the hotel. With the coat and tie, he was just an average joe strolling along Canal at dusk headed for the river. He carried a large gym bag and smoked a cigarette, and five minutes later entered the lobby of the Hilton. He worked his way through the crowd of fans returning from the Dome. The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor, and he walked one flight down to the nineteenth.

There was no answer at 1909. If the door had opened with the chain locked, he would have apologized and explained he had the wrong room. If the door had opened without the chain and with a fate in the crack, he would have kicked it sharply and been inside. But it did not open.

His new pal Verheek was probably hanging around a bar, passing out cards, begging kids to talk to him about Darby Shaw. What a nut.

He knocked again, and while he waited he slid a six-inch plastic ruler between the door and the facing, and worked it gently until the bolt clicked. Locks were minor nuisances for Khamel. Without a key, he could open a locked car and start the engine in less than thirty seconds.

Inside, he locked the door behind him, and placed his bag on the bed. Like a surgeon, he picked the gloves from a pocket and pulled them tightly over his fingers. He laid a .22 and silencer on the table.

The phone was quick work. He plugged the recorder into the jack under the bed, where it could sit for weeks before it was noticed. He called the weather station twice to test the recorder. Perfect.

His new pal Verheek was a slob. Most of the clothes in the room were dirty and simply thrown in the direction of the suit case sitting on a table. He had not unpacked. A cheap garment bag hung in the closet with one solitary shirt.

Khamel covered his tracks and settled low in the closet. He was a patient man, and he could wait for hours. He held the .22 just in case this clown happened to barge into the closet and he had to kill him with bullets. If not, he would just listen.

Gavin quit the bars Sunday. He was getting nowhere. She had called him, and she was not hanging around those places, so what the hell? He was drinking too much and eating too much, and he was tired of New Orleans. He already had a flight booked for late Monday afternoon, and if she didn’t call again he was finished playing detective.

He couldn’t find her, and it wasn’t his fault. Cabdrivers got lost in this city. Voyles would be screaming by noon. He had done his best.

He was stretched on the bed in nothing but boxer shorts, flipping through a magazine and ignoring the television. It was almost eleven. He would wait on her until twelve, then try to sleep.

It rang at exactly eleven. He pushed a button and remotely killed the television. “Hello.”

It was her. “It’s me, Gavin.”

“So you’re alive.”

“Barely.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s happened?”

“They saw me today, and one of their goons, my friend Stump, chased me through the Quarter. You haven’t met Stump, but he’s the one who watched you and everyone else walk into the chapel.”

“But you got away.”

“Yeah. A small miracle, but I got away.”

“What happened to Stump?”

“He was mortally wounded. He’s probably lying in a bed somewhere wearing an ice pack in his shorts. He was just a few steps from me when he picked a fight with the wrong guys. I’m scared, Gavin.”

“Did he follow you from somewhere?”

“No. We just sort of met on the street.”

Verheek paused a second. Her voice was shaking, but under control. She was losing her cool. “Look, Darby. I’ve got a flight out of here tomorrow afternoon. I have this little job and my boss expects me to be at the office. So I can’t hang around New Orleans for the next month hoping you don’t get killed and hoping you come to your senses and trust me. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I think you need to go with me.”

“Go where?”

“To Washington. To my house. To someplace other than where you are.”

“What happens then?”

“Well, you get to live, for one thing. I’ll plead with the Director, and I promise you’ll be safe. We’ll do something, dammit. Anything beats this.”