Tyler, Stone. She was bewildered, but the piece of paper had told her
to do it, and she had no choice but to follow those instructions. The
voice that answered after two rings did not belong to anyone at her law
firm, nor was it her recorded voice announcing her absence from the
office. She could not know that the call had been diverted from her
office to another number located nowhere near Washington, D.C. She was
now trying to remain calm while Jason Archer’s voice quietly drifted
over the telephone line.
The police were watching, she was told. She was not to say anything,
especially not mention his name. They would have to try again. She was
to go home. He would contact her again. The words were spoken in a
supremely tired manner; she could almost feel the incredible strain in
the timbre. He ended by saying that he loved her. And Amy. And that
everything would be worked out. Eventually.
With a thousand questions assailing her that she was in absolutely no
position to ask, Sidney Archer hung up the phone and walked off toward
the LaFitte Guest House, deep depression seemingly hitched to every one
of her strides. With a supreme effort at self-control, she held her
head up and attempted to walk normally.
It was incredibly important not to reflect in her physical appearance
the utter terror she was feeling inside. Her husband’s obvious fear of
the authorities had undermined her belief that he was innocent of any
wrongdoing. Despite her intense joy at knowing he was alive, she
wondered at what price that joy had come to her. In this far, she had
to keep going.
The recording machine was clicked off and the telephone receiver was
removed from the special receptacle in the machine. Next, Kenneth
Scales rewound the digital tape. He hit the start button and listened
while Jason Archer’s voice once again filled the room. He smiled
malevolently, turned off the machine, took out the tape and left the
room.
“He climbed in the window from the galleria,” Sawyer was being informed
by an agent stationed on a rooftop overlooking Sidney Archer’s lodgings.
“He’s still in there,” the agent whispered into his radio. “You want me
to pick him up?”
“No,” Sawyer answered, peering out through the blinds onto the street.
The surveillance devices installed next door to Sidney’s room had told
them what Paul Brophy was up to. He was searching her room. Sawyer’s
earlier thought of an assignation between the two law partners had
obviously been way off the mark.
“He’s leaving now. Going out the back way,” the agent reported
suddenly.
“Good thing,” Sawyer replied as he spotted Sidney Archer coming down the
street. After she had reentered the LaFitte Guest House, Sawyer ordered
a team of agents to tail a disappointed Paul Brophy, who was walking
down Bourbon Street in the other direction.
Ten minutes later Sawyer was informed that Sidney Archer had placed a
call from a pay phone during her morning breakfast walk.
It had gone to her office. For the next five hours nothing happened.
Then Sawyer snapped to attention as Sidney Archer walked out of the
LaFitte Guest House. A white cab pulled up in front of the building and
she got in. The cab quickly pulled away.
Sawyer hurtled down the stairs and in another minute was riding shotgun
in the same black sedan in which he had followed Sidney from the
airport. He was not surprised to see the cab swing onto Interstate 10,
or pull off at the exit for the airport about half an hour later.
“She’s heading home,” Sawyer muttered to no one in particular.
“She didn’t find whatever it was she came here for, that’s for sure.
Not unless Jason Archer turned himself into the invisible man.” The
veteran FBI man slumped back in his seat as a new and particularly
troubling revelation crossed his mind. “She’s on to us.”
The driver jerked his head in Sawyer’s direction. “No way, Lee.”
“She sure as hell is,” Sawyer insisted. “She flies all the way down
here, hangs out, then makes a phone call and now she’s on her way back