Tempting the Devil (32 page)

“Ben Taylor.” His name seemed to echo through the corridor as an officer of the court announced it. She turned and watched as he moved toward the door. His gaze met hers, but it was as indecipherable as it had been the first time she saw him.

Mason watched her face. “You don't think
he's
involved?”

“I don't think so. But I'm not sure of anything now.”

Just then Mason's cell phone rang. He looked at the number. “I have to take this. I'll be back.” He went down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, he returned. “I talked to Reese. We'll go ahead as planned today,” Mason said. “If there is a contempt citation, we'll appeal immediately and talk to the judge.”

Ben left the grand jury room then. He glanced at her, his face softening slightly, then he approached her. “We have someone guarding Mrs. Jeffers,” he said.

His eyes met hers but she couldn't read them, any more than she had read them that first day she saw him. Had he just recommended that she be cited for contempt? Or had he fought against it?

Or was he a conduit for someone else?

“Thank you,” she said, hoping he didn't hear the pounding of her heart.

“How is Damien?”

“Missing his mistress.” Her voice broke slightly. She hated to hand Damien over to someone who was a stranger to him. Daisy as well. And she hated the uncertainty she felt about Ben.

She turned away, back to Mason.

“Robin Stuart.” The same man, the same sonorous voice that had called Ben earlier, called her.

Mason reached out and squeezed her arm. “Remember …”

“I know,” she said. “The paper will support me. Thank you.” Then she turned, stiffened her back, and went inside.

She'd been in the federal courthouse before and had covered several civil and criminal trials. But this room was different. It was meant for the members of the grand jury, not spectators and certainly not anyone on her side.

She was directed to the witness chair and sworn in.

A cold knot formed in her stomach.

Joseph Ames, the U.S. attorney, approached her.

“Miss Stuart. I have an article you wrote.” He handed it to her. “Who gave you the information in that article?”

She thought she was prepared. She wasn't. Still, she parroted the sentence Mason had suggested. “I believe that information is protected under the First Amendment and therefore I cannot answer.”

“I'm going to ask you again.”

She repeated the statement.

“Judge Davenport, I ask that you direct the witness to answer the question.”

The judge turned to her. “Ms. Stuart, I'm sure you've been advised there is no such legal privilege in withholding information. You are directed to answer the question.”

Robin hoped her voice wouldn't waver. She believed in what she was saying, what she was doing. Someone trusted her. Regardless of the threats, she was not going to betray that trust.

She repeated her answer.

The judge's gaze bore into her. “Ms. Stuart, you know the penalty if you do not comply. I can find you in contempt of court and send you to prison until you comply.”

U.S. Attorney Joseph Ames spoke up. “I would recommend to your honor that Miss Stuart be given six days to reconsider her answer.”

“This grand jury has only seven more days of its term.”

“Yes, your honor. There's time. I would rather have an answer from this witness than send her to jail.”

Robin tried to hide her surprise. And elation. Six days of grace. Six days to discover what Hydra was trying so hard to cover. Maybe all her efforts this morning would bear fruit after all.

Federal Judge Davenport looked to the foreman of the grand jury, then back to her. “I agree. I don't enjoy putting reporters in jail. But I will, Ms. Stuart. You have six days to reconsider. You will return here next Monday at nine a.m. Be prepared to go directly into custody if you don't comply.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Relief flooded her. She didn't care why Judge Davenport had relented. She only knew she had six days. Six days to find answers. Six days to make the identity of her source irrelevant.

Now if only her plan would work …

After the hearing, she went to the newsroom. All the staffers gathered around her to hear what had happened. Though the proceedings were secret,
she
could tell what she'd said, and what the judge had ordered.

FBI Agent Bill Maddox had accompanied her there, although the building was well protected and had been since 9/11. Guards checked badges and went through personal belongings as if it were the courthouse.

Then she and Bob Greene wrote the story of the grand jury session together. When they'd finished, she looked at the clock. Two p.m. Traffic would start to pile up in another hour.

“I'll take the story to Mason,” she offered, though it was unnecessary. He could read it on his computer. “I have a few questions,” she added.

She started for the elevator up to the executive offices. The agent followed her. She shook her head. “I'll be right back down,” she said.

“Ben will have my head,” he said.

She shrugged. “Your choice.”

Once on the sixth floor, she got out and headed toward the restroom. “I'll be several minutes. I have to put some makeup on.”

She saw him eye the men's room next door. Just as she had hoped. If he hadn't, she would have had to find another way to escape him.

“Don't leave the restroom until I knock on the door,” he warned.

She agreed and went inside.

She waited about eight seconds and looked outside. He was gone. The stairs were around the corner. She headed for them and went down to the floor below and hit the “down” button, hoping that the agent had returned to his post outside the restroom.

He wasn't on the elevator. She pressed the button for the ground floor, biting her lip while it stopped at two other floors. She wanted to rush out the door, but she didn't want to draw any attention. Instead, she waved at the building's guard, who was signing someone in, and walked out onto the street.

She left the building, went down an alleyway, then into a large bank building and out the back way, exiting on a different street.
One more block to go
. She walked as quickly as she could, trying to make her stride as normal as possible. She passed two more buildings, then entered the third.

She called the friend she'd talked to earlier, a member of the Press Club who'd left a competing paper for public relations. “I'm free for six days,” she said. “Were you able to bring some clothes?”

“I heard. It's all over the television and radio. Yep. One skirt. Two blouses. Two pairs of jeans. And the other things you asked for. All in a big duffle bag, the one we took rafting that weekend.”

“Perfect. I'm in the lobby.”

“I'll leave it in the second-floor restroom. It's to the right when you get off the elevator.”

“You'll never know how much I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. You were there when I needed a friend. Just be careful.”

She took the elevator up and found the restroom. The duffle was in the handicap stall.

She locked the stall door, then took off the brace. It was a sure way to identify her. She looked at it for a moment. She had less than two weeks to go before removing it.
If
, the doctor told her, the bones had thoroughly healed. They were. They had to be.

She removed a long peasant skirt and blouse, then a pair of dark pantyhose and flats from the duffle. A pair of dark glasses. A Braves baseball cap. Patty had done her proud.

She hurriedly undressed, then pulled on the pantyhose. They would help hide the scars on her legs. Then she buttoned the blouse and slipped on the skirt.

She put the pants suit in the duffle, along with the brace. She had to work to fit it in but finally she was able to zip it up. She put on the sunglasses and baseball cap, and opened the stall. She looked at herself in the mirror.

No more businesswoman. She looked like a free spirit in town for a baseball game. Not perfect. But hopefully she'd eluded both the FBI and the bad guys.

Freedom from the brace felt wonderful. Nothing else did. She was taking chances no reasonable person would. Holding on to the railing, Robin took the stairs going down to the street floor.

Then she was on the main floor and out the door. She forced herself to stride casually, trying to correct her limping gait. She tried to look like every other woman walking swiftly down Atlanta's streets.

She reached the underground parking lot where she'd asked Jack Ross to park the car. She knew the size and model and had memorized the license plate. She wanted nothing in writing.

Robin found the car. The key was in a magnetic holder on the underside of the car. She unlocked the door and slid inside. Then she sat there for several moments, wanting to make sure she'd not been followed.

She started the car finally. The parking ticket was in the compartment between the two front seats. She rolled out of the parking facility, paid the parking fee, and turned down the street. Instead of getting on the expressway, she drove two miles east and stopped at a branch of her bank. Ten minutes later she'd taken out six thousand dollars, nearly everything in the account. She didn't want to use her credit card on this trip.

By now, Betsy Meeks, who she knew from an animal rescue group, would have picked up Daisy and Damien, and Naomi, her friend from the Food section of the paper, would have purchased a nightgown and other items for Mrs. Jeffers and be making sure she had somewhere nice to live until Robin returned.

She made her way onto the expressway, and headed south toward Macon and the Georgia coast. If she could find the boat, perhaps she could trace the ownership to Hydra, or to someone who could lead her to Hydra. If the fishing trips were as frequent as Sandy implied, the boat probably had a permanent mooring in Brunswick.

The car she was driving was a twelve-year-old model but Jack had kept it in excellent shape. He had expected to give it to his grandson when he graduated. Instead, he attended a funeral when his grandson and three other students were killed on their way home from spring break.

It had been sitting in Jack Ross's garage since then.

She knew about the car because he'd offered it to her after her first accident. She declined because her insurance would replace her vehicle and she knew exactly what she wanted.

When she had called him this morning, he'd readily agreed to lend it to her. “You know I've always liked your instincts,” he said. “But you're in over your head. I'll go with you.”

“No,” she said. “I've already nearly gotten one friend killed and put my sisters in danger. No one else. Just the car. That's all I need. I know how to dig. You know that.”

“What if the boat isn't there?”

“Then I'll try the ownership of the beach house, but I expect that, like the property in Meredith, it'll be owned by some corporation on an island in the Indian Ocean. But if I can find that boat, and hang around, maybe someone will lead me to an actual person.”

“I don't think …”

“I've gone over and over it,” she said. “They seem to know everyone I talk to, everywhere I go. My source says law enforcement people are involved, and I have to believe them. I'm using a disposable phone, and I'm in a public restroom with the water running. I know how to avoid them, but I must have a car that's not traceable.”

“I still think someone should go with you.”

“Everyone in Atlanta knows you,” she said. “If you drop out of sight, someone will put two and two together. The only thing that works is if I get a car no one knows about.”

A pause on the phone. “Okay, baby girl,” he said gruffly, using his nickname for her since the first day she entered the newsroom. “I've done stuff that would curl my innards these days. Do you have a weapon?”

“I will. I have a license.”

“I don't want you killed,” he said. “I sure don't want to contribute to it.”

“This is the best way I know to keep alive,” she said.

“There's no cop you trust?”

“Even if there was one, he would have to report to his superiors, and I don't know who there can be trusted.”

“No one knows where you're going?”

“No.”

“That scares the hell out of me.”

She made her strongest shot. “You would have gone under the same circumstances. You would have wanted the story.”

Thank God, he didn't.

“I'll never forgive either of us if anything happens to you,” he said. She knew, though, he'd conceded.

“I'll call you.”

“And if you don't?”

“Call this number,” she said. She gave him the well-memorized number of the attorney in California. “I'll keep him posted.”

“Tell me where you want me to leave the car.”

She told him where she wanted him to park it

“It'll be there. For God's sake, be careful, baby girl.”

She would have been insulted by that term if anyone else had said it, but Jack, a legend in Georgia newspapering, was a force of his own.

She looked in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time but saw nothing familiar, only a constant stream of trucks. An exit was coming up. One that led into a small town called Jackson that had the world's best barbeque sandwiches.

Robin twisted around the small town, then stopped for some sandwiches and coffee to go. When she got back into the car, she glanced around. Only local county license plates. She pulled out and took a county road that would eventually hook back up with the interstate ninety miles south.

It was a road that ran through tiny hamlets, towns left to die when the interstate went through. There was no other traffic.

She'd traveled it years ago as a rookie reporter covering the local spelling bee contests.