jg.thepartner-第10部分

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　Rapley　found　the　liquor　on　a　table　at　one　end　of　the　room；　and　spoke　to　Vitrano　as　he　poured　a　Scotch　and　tried　to　appear　pleased。　At　the　other　end；　a　variety　of　bottled　waters　and　soft　drinks　was　being　ignored。
　〃It's　been　like　this　all　afternoon；〃　Vitrano　said　as　they　looked　at　the　crowd　and　listened　to　the　happy　talk。　〃Soon　as　word　got　out；　this　place　started　hopping。〃
　The　Patrick　news　raced　through　the　legal　munity　along　the　Coast　in　a　matter　of　minutes。　Lawyers　thrive　on　gossip；　tend　even　to　embellish　it；　and　repeat　it　with　amazing　rapidity。　Rumors　were　heard；　collected；　invented。　He　weighs　a　hundred　and　thirty　pounds　and　speaks　five　languages。　The　money　was　found。　The　money　is　gone　forever。　He　lived　in　near　poverty。　Or　was　it　a　mansion？　He　lived　alone。　He　has　a　new　wife　and　three　kids。　They　know　where　the　money　is。　They　haven't　a　clue。
　All　rumors　eventually　got　back　to　the　money。　As　the　friends　and　the　curious　gathered　in　the　conference　room　and　chatted　about　this　and　that；　everything　drifted　back　to　the　money。　Secrets　were　scarce　among　this　crowd。　For　years　now　everyone　knew　the　firm　lost　one　third　of　ninety　million。　And　the　remotest　chance　of　collecting　that　money　brought　in　the　friends　and　the　curious　for　a　drink　or　two　and　a　story　or　a　rumor　and　an　update　and　the　inevitable；　〃Damn；　I　hope　they　find　the　money。〃
　Rapley　disappeared　into　the　crowd　with　his　second　drink。　Bogan　slugged　down　sparkling　water　and　chatted　with　a　judge。　Vitrano　worked　the　crowd　and　confirmed　or　denied　as　much　as　possible。　Havarac　huddled　in　a　corner　with　an　aging　court　reporter　who　suddenly　found　him　cute。
　The　liquor　flowed　as　night　fell。　Hopes　were　raised　and　raised　as　the　gossip　got　recycled。
　PATRICK　essentially　was　the　evening　news　on　the　Coast　station。　It　reported　little　else。　There　were　Mast　and　Parrish　staring　grimly　at　the　bank　of　microphones　as　if　they'd　been　whipped　and　dragged　there　against　their　wills。　There　was　a　close…up　of　the　front　door　of　the　law　office；　with　no　ments　from　anyone　inside。　There　was　a　drippy　little　chronicle　from　Patrick's　gravesite；　plete　with　brooding　possibilities　of　what　may　have　happened　to　the　poor　soul　whose　ashes　were　buried　down　there。　There　was　a　flashback　to　the　fiery　crash　four　years　earlier；　with　shots　of　the　site　and　the　burned　hulk　of　Mr。　Patrick　Lanigan's　Chevy　Blazer。　No　ments　from　the　wife；　the　FBI；　the　Sheriff。　No　ments　from　the　players；　but　lots　of　wild　speculation　from　the　reporters。
　The　news　also　played　well　in　New　Orleans；　Mobile；　Jackson；　and　even　Memphis。　CNN　picked　it　up　mid…evening；　and　ran　it　nationally　for　an　hour　before　sending　it　abroad。　It　was　such　an　irresistible　story。
　It　was　almost　7　A。M。；　Swiss　time；　when　Eva　saw　it　in　her　hotel　room。　She　had　fallen　asleep　with　the　TV　on　sometime　after　midnight；　and　had　slept　on　and　off　throughout　the　night；　waiting　as　long　as　possible　for　news　of　Patrick　before　drifting　away。　She　was　tired　and　scared。　She　wanted　to　go　home　but　knew　she　couldn't。
　Patrick　was　alive。　He　had　promised　her　a　hundred　times　they　would　never　kill　him　if　and　when　they　found　him。　For　the　first　time；　she　believed　him。
　How　much　had　he　told　them？　That　was　the　question。
　How　badly　was　he　hurt？　How　much　did　they　get　from　him？
　She　whispered　a　short　prayer　and　thanked　God　that　Patrick　was　still　alive。
　Then　she　made　a　checklist。
　UNDER　THE　INDIFFERENT　GAZE　of　two　uniformed　guards；　and　with　the　feeble　assistance　of　Luis；　his　ancient　Puerto　Rican　orderly；　Patrick　shuffled　down　the　hallway　in　his　bare　feet　and　baggy　white　military　boxer　shorts。　His　wounds　needed　air…no　clothing　or　bandages　now。　Just　ointments　and　oxygen。　His　calves　and　thighs　were　painfully　tender；　and　his　knees　and　ankles　quivered　with　each　step。
　He　wanted　to　clear　his　head；　dammit。　He　weled　the　pain　from　the　open　burns　because　it　sharpened　his　brain。　Only　God　knew　what　vile　blend　of　chemicals　had　been　pumped　into　his　blood　during　the　past　three　days。
　The　torture　was　a　dense；　horrible　fog；　but　it　was　lifting　now。　As　the　chemicals　broke　down　and　dissolved　and　were　flushed　out；　he　began　to　hear　his　anguished　screams。　How　much　had　he　told　them　about　the　money？
　He　leaned　on　the　windowsill　in　the　empty　canteen　while　the　orderly　fetched　a　soft　drink。　The　ocean　was　a　mile　away；　with　rows　of　barracks　in　between。　He　was　on　some　type　of　military　base。
　Yes；　he'd　admitted　the　money　still　existed；　he　remembered　that　because　the　shocks　had　ceased　for　a　moment　when　this　came　out。　Then　he'd　passed　out；　it　seemed　now；　because　there　was　a　long　break　before　he　was　awakened　with　cold　water　splashed　in　his　face。　He　remembered　how　soothing　the　water　felt；　but　they　wouldn't　allow　him　a　drink。　They　had　kept　poking　him　with　needles。
　Banks。　He'd　almost　given　his　life　for　the　names　of　some　lousy　banks。　With　hot　current　running　through　his　body；　he　had　tracked　the　money　for　them　from　the　moment　he　stole　it　from　the　United　Bank　of　Wales　in　the　Bahamas；　onward　to　a　bank　in　Malta；　then　to　Panama；　where　no　one　could　find　it。
　He　didn't　know　where　the　money　was　once　they'd　snatched　him。　It　still　existed；　all　of　it　plus　interest　and　earnings；　he　had　most　certainly　told　them　that；　he　remembered　now；　remembered　quite　clearly　because　he　had　figured　what　the　hell…they　know　I　stole　it；　know　I've　got　it；　know　it　would　be　impossible　to　blow　ninety　million　in　four　years…but　he　honestly　didn't　know　precisely　where　the　money　was　as　his　flesh　melted。
　The　orderly　handed　him　a　soda　and　he　said；　〃Obri…gado。〃　Thanks　in　Portuguese。　Why　was　he　speaking　Portuguese？
　There　had　been　a　blackout　then；　after　the　money　trail　stopped。　〃Stop！〃　someone　had　yelled　from　the　corner　of　the　room；　someone　he　never　saw。　They　thought　they'd　killed　him　with　the　current。
　He　had　no　idea　how　long　he　was　unconscious。　At　one　point　he　woke　up　blind；　the　sweat　and　drugs　and　the　horrific　screaming　had　blinded　him。　Or　was　it　a　blindfold？　He　remembered　that　now…thinking　that　maybe　it　was　a　blindfold　because　maybe　they　were　about　to　implement　some　new；　even　more　hideous　means　of　torture。　Amputation　of　body　parts；　maybe。　And　he　lay　there　naked。
　Another　shot　in　the　arm；　and　suddenly　his　heart　raced　away　and　his　skin　jumped。　His　buddy　was　back　with　his　little　play　toy。　Patrick　could　see　again。　So　who's　got　the　money？　he　asked。
　Patrick　sipped　his　soda。　The　orderly　loitered　nearby；　smiling　pleasantly；　the　way　he　did　for　every　patient。　Patrick　was　suddenly　nauseous；　though　he'd　eaten　little。　He　was　light…headed　and　dizzy；　but　determined　to　remain　on　his　feet　so　the　blood　would　move　and　maybe　he　could　think。　He　focused　on　a　fishing　boat；　far　on　the　horizon。
　They'd　blasted　him　a　few　times；　wanting　names。　He　had　screamed　his　denials。　They　taped　an　electrode　to　his　testicles；　and　the　pain　soared　to　a　different　level。　Then　there　were　blackouts。
　Patrick　couldn't　remember。　He　simply　couldn't　remember　the　last　stage　of　his　torture。　His　body　was　on　fire。　He　was　near　death。　He　had　called　her　name；　but　was　it　to　himself？　Where　was　she　now？
　He　dropped　the　soda　and　reached　for　the　orderly。
　STEPHANO　WAITED　until　one　in　the　morning　before　leaving　the　house。　He　drove　down　his　dark　street　in　his　wife's　car。　He　waved　at　the　two　agents　sitting　in　a　van　at　the　intersection。　He　drove　slowly　so　they　could　turn　around　and　follow　him。　By　the　time　he　crossed　the　Arlington　Memorial　Bridge；　there　were　at　least　two　cars　trailing。
　The　little　convoy　slid　through　empty　streets　until　it　reached　Georgetown。　Stephano　held　the　advantage　of　knowing　where　he　was　going。　He　took　a　sudden　right　off　K　Street　onto　Wisconsin；　then　another　on　M。　He　parked　illegally；　and　quickly；　and　walked　half　a　block　to　a　Holiday　Inn。
　He　took　the　elevator　to　the　third　floor；　where　Guy　was　waiting　in　a　suite。　Back　in　the　United　States　for　the　first　time　in　months；　he'd　slept　little　in　three　days。　Stephano　couldn't　have　cared　less。
　There　were　six　tapes；　all　labeled　and　neatly　arranged；　sitting　on　a　table　next　to　a　battery…operated　player。　〃The　rooms　next　door　are　empty；〃　Guy　said；　pointing　in　both　directions。　〃So　you　can　listen　at　full　volume。〃
　〃It's　nasty；　I　take　it；〃　Stephano　said；　staring　at　the　tapes。
　〃Pretty　sick。　I'll　never　do　it　again。〃
　〃You　can　leave　now。〃
　〃Good。　I'm　down　the　hall　if　you　need　me。〃
　Guy　left　the　room。　Stephano　made　a　call；　and　a　minute　later　Benny　Aricia　knocked　on　the　door。　They　ordered　black　coffee；　and　spent　the　rest　of　the　night　listening　to　Patrick　scream　in　the　jungles　of　Paraguay。
　It　was　Benny's　finest　hour。
　Eight
　TO　SAY　it　was　Patrick's　day　in　the　papers　would　be　an　understatement。　The　Coast　morning　daily　ran　nothing　on　the　front　page　but　Patrick。
　LANIGAN　BACK　FROM　THE　DEAD　shouted　the　headline　in　thick　block　letters。　Four　stories　with　no　less　than　six　photos　covered　the　front　page　and　continued　inside。　He　also　played　well　on　the　front　page　in　New　Orleans；　his　hometown；　as　well　as　in　Jackson　and　Mobile。　Memphis；　Birmingham；　Baton　Rouge；　and　Atlanta　also　ran　photos　of　the　old　Patrick　with　small　front…page　stories。
　Throughout　the　morning；　two　television　vans　kept　a　vigil　outside　his　mother's　home　in　Gretna；　a　New　Orleans　suburb。　She　had　nothing　to　say；　and　was　protected　by　two　vigorous　ladies　from　down　the　street　who　took　turns　walking　to　the　front　door　and　glaring　at　the　vultures。
　The　press　also　congregated　near　the　front　of　Trudy's　home　on　Point　Clear；　but　were　kept　at　bay　by　Lance；　who　sat　under　a　shade　tree　with　a　shotgun。　He　wore　a　tight　black　tee　shirt；　black　boots　and　trousers；　and　looked　very　much　the　part　of　a　successful　mercenary。　They　yelled　banal　questions　at　him。　He　only　scowled。　Trudy　hid　inside　with　Ashley　Nicole；　the　six…year…old；　who'd　been　kept　home　from　school。
　They　flocked　to　the　law　office　downtown　and　waited　on　the　sidewalk。　They　were　denied　entrance　by　two　beefy　security　guards　who'd　been　hurriedly　pressed　into　action。
　They　loitered　around　the　Sheriffs　office；　and　Cutter's　office；　and　anywhere　else　they　might　pick　up　a　scent。　Someone　got　a　tip；　and　they　gathered　at　the　Circuit　Clerk's　office　just　in　time　to　see　Vitrano；　in　his　finest　gray　suit；　hand　the　clerk　a　document　which　he　described　as　a　lawsuit　the　firm　was　filing　against　Patrick　S。　Lanigan。　The　firm　wanted　its　money　back；　plain　and　simpl