The Pelican Brief

She said to duck into the St. Moritz at the corner of Sixth, and he did. She had reserved a room for him under the name of Warren Clark. He paid cash for the room, and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. He was to wait. Just sit and wait, she’d said.

He stood in the window for an hour and watched Central Park grow dark. The phone rang.

“Mr. Clark?” a female asked.

“Uh, yes.”

“It’s me. Did you arrive alone?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Six floors up. Take the elevator to the eighteenth, then walk down to the fifteenth. Room 1520.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Yes. I’m waiting.”

He brushed his teeth again, checked his hair, and ten minutes later was standing before room 1520. He felt like a sophomore on his first date. He hadn’t had butterflies this bad since high school football.

But he was Gray Grantham of the Washington Post, and this was just another story and she was just another woman, so grab the reins, buddy.

He knocked, and waited. “Who is it?”

“Grantham,” he said to the door.

The bolt clicked, and she opened the door slowly. The hair was gone, but she smiled, and there was the cover girl. She shook his hand firmly. “Come in.”

She closed and bolted the door behind him. “Would you care for a drink?” she asked.

“Sure, what do you have?”

“Water, with ice.”

“Sounds great.”

She walked into a small sitting room where the television was on with no sound. “In here,” she said. He set his bag on the table, and took a seat on the sofa. She was standing at the bar, and for a quick second he admired the jeans. No shoes. Extra-large sweatshirt with the collar to one side where a bra strap peeked through.

She handed him the water, and sat in a chair by the door.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“You didn’t tell me to.”

She chuckled at this. “Forgive me. I’ve been through a lot. Let’s order room service.”

He nodded and smiled at her. “Sure. Anything you want is fine with me.”

“I’d love a greasy cheeseburger with fries and a cold beer.”

“Perfect.”

She picked up the phone and ordered the food. Grantham walked to the window and watched the lights crawling along Fifth Avenue.

“I’m twenty-four. How old are you?” She was on the sofa now, sipping ice water.

He took the chair nearest to her. “Thirty-eight. Married once. Divorced seven years and three months ago. No children. Live alone with a cat. Why’d you pick the St. Moritz?”

“Rooms were available, and I convinced them it was important to pay with cash and present no identification. Do you like it?”

“It’s fine. Sort of past its prime.”

“This is not exactly a vacation.”

“It’s fine. How long do you think we might be here?”

She watched him carefully. He’d published a book six years earlier on HUD scandals, and though it didn’t sell she’d found a copy in a public library in New Orleans. He looked six years older than the photo on the dust jacket, but he was aging nicely with a touch of gray over the ears.

“I don’t know how long you’ll stay,” she said. “My plans are subject to change by the minute. I may see a face on the street and fly to New Zealand.”

“When did you leave New Orleans?”

“Monday night. I took a cab to Baton Rouge, and that would have been easy to follow. I flew to Chicago, where I bought four tickets to four different cities, including Boise, where my mother lives. I jumped on the plane to La Guardia at the last moment. I don’t think anyone followed.”

“You’re safe.”

“Maybe for the moment. We’ll both be hunted when this story is published. Assuming it’s published.”

Gray rattled his ice and studied her. “Depends on what you tell me. And it depends on how much can be verified from other sources.”

“The verification is up to you. I’ll tell you what I know, and from there you’re on your own.”

“Okay. When do we start talking?”

“After di

“Of course not. I’ve got all night, and all day tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I mean, you’re talking about the biggest story in twenty years, so I’ll hang around as long as you’ll talk to me.”

Darby smiled and looked away. Exactly a week ago, she and Thomas were waiting for di

She had lived a year in the past seven days, and she was having a real conversation with a live person who did not wish her dead. She crossed her feet on the coffee table. It was not uncomfortable having him here in her room. She relaxed. His face said, “Trust me.” And why not? Whom else could she trust?

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“It’s been a long week. Seven days ago I was just another law student busting my tail to get to the top. Now look at me.”

He was looking at her. Trying to be cool, not like a gawking sophomore, but he was looking. The hair was dark and very short, and quite stylish, but he liked the long version in yesterday’s fax.

“Tell me about Thomas Callahan,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He’s part of the story, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. I’ll get to it later.”

“Fine. Your mother lives in Boise?”

“Yes, but she knows nothing. Where’s your mother?”

“Short Hills, New Jersey,” he answered with a smile. He crunched on an ice cube and waited for her. She was thinking.

“What do you like about New York?” she asked.

“The airport. It’s the quickest way out.”

“Thomas and I were here in the summer. It’s hotter than New Orleans.”

Suddenly, Grantham realized she was not just a hot little coed, but a widow in mourning. The poor lady was suffering. She had not been checking out his hair or his clothes or his eyes. She was in pain. Dammit!

“I’m very sorry about Thomas,” he said. “I won’t ask about him again.”

She smiled but said nothing.

There was a loud knock. Darby jerked her feet off the table, and glared at the door. Then she breathed deeply. It was the food.

“I’ll get it,” Gray said. “Just relax.”

For centuries, a quiet but mammoth battle of nature raged without interference along the coastline of what would become Louisiana. It was a battle for territory. No humans were involved until recent years. From the south, the ocean pushed inland with its tides and winds and floods. From the north, the Mississippi River hauled down an inexhaustible supply of freshwater and sediment, and fed the marshes with the soil they needed to vegetate and thrive. The saltwater from the Gulf eroded the coastline and burned the freshwater marshes by killing the grasses that held them together. The river responded by draining half the continent and depositing its soil in lower Louisiana. It slowly built a long succession of sedimentary deltas, each of which in turn eventually blocked the river’s path and forced it to change course yet again. The lush wetlands were built by the deltas.

It was an epic struggle of give-and-take, with the forces of nature firmly in control. With the constant replenishment from the mighty river, the deltas not only held their own against the Gulf, but expanded.

The marshlands were a marvel of natural evolution. Using the rich sediment as food, they grew into a green paradise of cypress and oak and dense patches of pickerelweed and bulrush and cattails. The water was filled with crawfish, shrimp, oysters, red snappers, flounder, pompano, bream, crabs, and alligators.