The Firm Page 0,90

going?" Mitch asked.

"For a little ride. Just relax, son."

So I'm number six,thought Mitch. This is it. No, wait a minute. They were much more creative than this with their killing.

"Mitch, can I call you Mitch?"

"Sure."

"Fine. Mitch, I'm in charge of security for, and - "

"Why does The Firm need security?"

"Just listen to me, son, and I'll explain. The Firm has an extensive security program, thanks to old man Bendini. He was a nut about security and secrecy. My job is to protect, and quite frankly, we're very concerned about this FBI business."

"So am I."

"Yes. We believe the FBI is determined to infiltrate our firm in hopes of collecting information on certain clients."

"Which clients?"

"Some high rollers with questionable tax shelters."

Mitch nodded and looked at the river below. They were now in Arkansas, with the Memphis skyline fading behind them. DeVasher recessed the conversation. He sat like a frog with his hands folded across the gut. Mitch waited, until it became apparent that lapses in conversation and awkward silence did not bother DeVasher. Several miles across the river, the driver left the interstate and found a rough county road that circled and ran back to the east. Then he turned onto a gravel road that went for a mile through low-lying bean fields next to the river. Memphis was suddenly visible again, across the water.

"Where are we going?" Mitch asked, with some alarm.

"Relax. I want to show you something."

A gravesite,thought Mitch. The limo stopped on a cliff that fell ten feet to a sandbar next to the bank. The skyline stood impressively on the other side. The top of the Bendini Building was visible.

"Let's take a walk," DeVasher said.

"Where to?" Mitch asked.

"Come on. It's okay." DeVasher opened his door and walked to the rear bumper. Slowly, Mitch followed him.

"As I was saying, Mitch, we are very troubled by this contact with the FBI. If you talk to them, they will get bolder, then who knows what the fools will try. It's imperative that you not speak to them, ever again. Understand?"

"Yes. I've understood since the first visit in August."

Suddenly, DeVasher was in his face, nose to nose. He smiled wickedly. "I have something that will keep you honest." He reached in his sport coat and pulled out a manila envelope.

"Take a look at these," he said with a sneer, and walked away.

Mitch leaned on the limo and nervously opened the envelope. There were four photographs, black and white, eight by ten, very clear. On the beach. The girl.

"Oh my god! Who took these?" Mitch yelled at him.

"What difference does it make? It's you, ain't it?"

There was no doubt about who it was. He ripped the photographs into small pieces and threw them in DeVasher's direction.

"We got plenty at the office," DeVasher said calmly. "Bunch of them. We don't want to use them, but one more little conversation with Mr. Tarrance or any other Fibbie and we'll mail them to your wife. How would you like that, Mitch? Imagine your pretty little wife going to the mailbox to get her Redbook and catalogues and she sees this sftrange envelope addressed to her. Try to think of that, Mitch. The next time you and Tarrance decide to shop for plastic shoes, think about us, Mitch. Because we'll be watching."

"Who knows about these?" Mitch asked.

"Me and the photographer, and now you. Nobody in the firm knows, and I don't plan to tell them. But if you screw up again, I suspect they'll be passing them around at lunch. I play hardball, Mitch."

He sat on the trunk and rubbed his temples. DeVasher walked up next to him. "Listen, son. You're a very bright young man, and you're on your way to big bucks. Don't screw it up. Just work hard, play the game, buy new cars, build bigger homes, the works. Just like all the other guys. Don't try to be no hero. I don't want to use the pictures."

"Okay, okay."
Chapter 21
For seventeen days and seventeen nights, the troubled lives of Mitch and Abby McDeere proceeded quietly without interference from Wayne Tarrance or any of his confederates. The routines returned. Mitch worked eighteen hours a day, every day of the week, and never left the office for any reason except to drive home. Lunch was at the desk. Avery sent other associates to run errands or file motions or appear in court. Mitch seldom left his office, the fifteen-by-fifteen sanctuary where he was certain Tarrance could not get him. If possible, he stayed out of the