The Firm Page 0,92

of a jackhammer. The breathing was heavy and painful. He was nauseous. Slowly, he backed away from the desk, holding the envelope. She's in the bed, he thought. Hurt, sick, devastated and mad as hell. He wiped his forehead and tried to collect himself. Face it like a man, he said.

She was in the bed, reading a book with the television on. The dog was in the backyard. Mitch opened the bedroom door, and Abby bolted upright in horror. She almost screamed at the intruder, until she recognized him.

"You scared me, Mitch!"

Her eyes glowed with fear, then fun. They had not been crying. They looked fine, normal. No pain. No anger. He could not speak.

"Why are you home?" she demanded, sitting up in bed, smiling now.

Smiling? "I live here," he said weakly.

"Why didn't you call?"

"Do I have to call before I can come home?" His breathing was now almost normal. She was fine!

"It would be nice. Come here and kiss me."

He leaned across the bed and kissed her. He handed her the envelope. "What's this?" he asked nonchalantly.

"You tell me. It's addressed to me, but there was nothing inside. Not a thing." She closed her book and laid it on the night table.

Not a thing! He smiled at her and kissed her again. "Are you expecting photographs from anyone?" he asked in complete ignorance.

"Not that I know of. Must be a mistake."

He could almost hear DeVasher laughing at this very moment on the fifth floor. The fat bastard was standing up there somewhere in some dark room full of wires and machines with a headset stretched around his massive bowling ball of a head, laughing uncontrollably.

"That's strange," Mitch said. Abby pulled on a pair of jeans and pointed to the backyard. Mitch nodded. The signal was simple, just a quick point or a nod of the head in the direction of the patio.

Mitch laid the envelope on the rolltop desk and for a second touched the scrawled markings on it. Probably DeVasher's handwriting. He could almost hear him laughing. He could see his fat face and nasty smile. The photographs had probably been passed around during lunch in the partners' dining room. He could see Lambert and McKnight and even Avery gawking admiringly over coffee and dessert.

They'd better enjoy the pictures, dammit. They'd better enjoy the remaining few months of their bright and rich and happy legal careers.

Abby walked by and he grabbed her hand. "What's for dinner?" he asked for the benefit of those listening.

"Why don't we go out. We should celebrate since you're home at a decent hour."

They walked through the den. "Good idea," said Mitch. They eased through the rear door, across the patio and into the darkness.

"What is it?" Mitch asked.

"You got a letter today from Doris. She said she's in Nashville, but will return to Memphis on the twenty-seventh of February. She says she needs to see you. It's important. It was a very short letter."

"The twenty-seventh! That was yesterday."

"I know. I presume she's already in town. I wonder what she wants."

"Yeah, and I wonder where she is."

"She said her husband had an engagement here in town."

"Good. She'll find us," Mitch said.

* * *

Nathan Locke closed his office door and pointed DeVasher in the direction of the small conference table near the window. The two men hated each other and made no attempt to be cordial. But business was business, and they took orders from the same man.

"Lazarov wanted me to talk to you, alone," DeVasher said. "I've spent the past two days with him in Vegas, and he's very anxious. They're all anxious, Locke, and he trusts you more than anyone else around here. He likes you more than he likes me."

"That's understandable," Locke said with no smile. The ripples of black around his eyes narrowed and focused intently on DeVasher.

"Anyway, there are a few things he wants us to discuss."

"I'm listening."

"McDeere's lying. You know how Lazarov's always bragged about having a mole inside the FBI. Well, I've never believed him, and still don't, for the most part. But according to Lazarov, his little source is telling him that there was some kind of secret meeting involving McDeere and some FBI heavyweights when your boy was in Washington back in January. We were there, and our men saw nothing, but it's impossible to track anyone twenty-four hours a day without getting caught. It's possible he could've slipped away for a little while without our knowledge."

"Do you believe it?"

"It's not important whether I believe it.