Camino Island

by John Grisham

  Oscar looked around. They were indeed alone. He glanced at the small surveillance camera high above, aimed at the register. Denny said quietly, “Don’t worry about the camera. I disabled it last night. And the one in your office isn’t working either.”

  Oscar took a deep breath as his shoulders slumped. After he had spent months living in fear and losing sleep and peeking around corners, the dreaded moment had finally arrived. He asked, in a low, shaky voice, “Are you a cop?”

  “No. I’m avoiding cops these days, same as you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The manuscripts. All five.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that the best you can do? I was hoping for something a bit more original.”

  “Get out of here,” Oscar hissed, trying to sound as tough as possible.

  “I’m leaving. I’ll be back at six when you close. You’ll lock the door and we’ll retire to your office for a little chat. I strongly suggest you play it cool. You have nowhere to run and there’s no one who can help you. And we’re watching.”

  Denny picked up the coins and the paperback and left the store.

  2.

  An hour later, a lawyer named Ron Jazik stepped onto an elevator in the federal building in Trenton, New Jersey, and pushed the button to the ground floor. At the last second, a stranger slid through the doors and pushed the button to the third floor. As soon as the doors closed, and they were alone, the stranger said, “You represent Jerry Steengarden, right? Court appointed.”

  Jazik sneered and said, “Who the hell are you?”

  In a flash, the stranger slapped Jazik across the face, knocking off his glasses. With an iron grip, he grabbed Jazik’s throat and rammed his head against the back wall of the elevator. “Don’t talk to me like that. A message for your client. One wrong word to the FBI and people will get hurt. We know where his mother lives, and we know where your mother lives too.”

  Jazik’s eyes bulged as he dropped his briefcase. He grabbed the stranger’s arm but the death grip just got tighter. Jazik was almost sixty years old and out of shape. The guy with the grip was at least twenty years younger and, at that moment, seemed incredibly strong. He growled, “Am I clear? Do you understand?”

  The elevator stopped at the third floor, and as the door opened the stranger let go and shoved Jazik into a corner where he fell to his knees. The stranger walked past him and left as if nothing had happened. No one was waiting to get on, and Jazik quickly got to his feet, found his glasses, picked up his briefcase, and considered his options. His jaw stung and his ears were ringing and his first thought was to call the police and report the assault. There were federal marshals in the lobby and maybe he could wait there with them until his assailant emerged. On the way down, though, he decided it might be best not to overreact. By the time he reached the ground floor, he was breathing again. He found a restroom and splashed water on his face and looked at himself. The right side of his face was red but not swollen.

  The physical sensation of taking such a blow was stunning, and painful. He felt something warm in his mouth and spat blood into the sink.

  He had not spoken to Jerry Steengarden in over a month. They had little to discuss. Their meetings were always brief because Jerry had nothing to say. The stranger who had just slapped and threatened him had little to worry about.

  3.

  A few minutes before six, Denny returned to the bookshop and found Oscar waiting nervously at the front counter. The clerk was gone, as were the customers. Without a word Denny flipped the “Open/Closed” sign, locked the door, and turned off the lights. They climbed the stairs to the small cluttered office where Oscar preferred to spend his days while someone else managed the front. He took his seat behind the desk and waved at the only chair not covered with magazines.

  Denny sat down and began with “Let’s not waste any time here, Oscar. I know you bought the manuscripts for half a million bucks. You wired the money to an account in the Bahamas. From there it went to an account in Panama and that’s where I picked it up. Minus, of course, the percentage for our facilitator.”

  “So you’re the thief?” Oscar said calmly. With some pills, he had managed to settle his nerves.

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “How do I know you’re not a cop wearing a wire?” Oscar asked.

  “You want to frisk me. Go ahead. How would a cop know the price? How would a cop know the details of the money trail?”

  “I’m sure the FBI can track anything.”

  “If they knew what I know they would simply arrest you, Oscar. Relax, you’re not going to get arrested. Nor am I. You see, Oscar, I can’t go to the cops and you can’t either. We’re both guilty as hell and looking at a long spell in a federal pen. But it’s not going to happen.”

  Oscar wanted to believe him and was somewhat relieved. However, it was obvious there were a few immediate challenges. He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t have them.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “Why did you sell them?”

  Denny crossed his legs and relaxed in the old chair. “I got spooked. The FBI grabbed two of my friends the day after the theft. I had to hide the treasure and skip the country. I waited a month, then two. When things settled down, I came back and went to see a dealer in San Francisco. He said he knew a buyer, a Russian who would pay ten million. He was lying. He went to the FBI. We had a meeting scheduled and I was supposed to deliver one manuscript as proof, but the FBI was waiting.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because we tapped his phones before we went in. We’re very good, Oscar. Very patient, very professional. It was a close call and we left the country again so things could cool off. I knew the FBI had a good description of me so I stayed out of the country.”

  “Are my phones tapped?”

  Denny nodded and smiled. “Your landlines. We couldn’t hack your cell phone.”

  “So how did you find me?”

  “I went to Georgetown and eventually made contact with Joel Ribikoff, your old pal. Our facilitator. I didn’t trust him—who can you trust in this business—and I was desperate back then to unload the manuscripts.”

  “You and I were never supposed to meet.”

  “That was the plan, wasn’t it? You wired the money, I delivered the goods, then I disappeared again. Now I’m back.”

  Oscar cracked his knuckles and tried to stay calm. “And Ribikoff? Where is he now?”

  “He’s gone. He died a horrible death, Oscar, it was awful. But before he died he gave me what I wanted. You.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  “Fine. So what did you do with them?”

  “Sold them. I flipped them as fast as possible.”

  “Where are they, Oscar? I’m going to find them, and the trail is already bloody.”

  “I don’t know where they are. I swear.”

  “Then who has them?”

  “Look, I need some time to think. You said you’re patient, so just give me some time.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be back in twenty-four hours. And don’t do anything stupid like try to run. There’s no place to hide and you’ll get hurt if you try. We’re pros, Oscar, and you don’t have a clue.”

  “I’m not running.”

  “Twenty-four hours, and I’ll be back for the guy’s name. Give me his name and you get to keep your money and go on with your life. I’ll never tell. You have my word.”

  Denny jumped to his feet and left the office. Oscar stared at the door and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs. He heard the door open, heard its little bell ring, then it closed quietly.

  Oscar put his face in his hands and tried not to cry.

  4.

  Two blocks away, Denny was in a hotel bar eating pizza when his cell phone rattled. It was almost 9:00 p.m. and the call was late. “Talk to me,” he said as he glanced around. The place was almost empty.

 
Rooker said, “Mission accomplished. I caught Jazik in an elevator and had to slap him around. Quite fun, really. Delivered the message and all went well. Petrocelli was more of a problem because he worked late. About an hour ago I caught him in the parking lot outside his office. Scared the shit out of him. A little wimp. At first he denied representing Mark Driscoll but he backed down quickly. Didn’t have to hit him but came close.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “None. Clean getaway with both.”

  “Nice work. Where are you now?”

  “Driving. I’ll be there in five hours.”

  “Hurry up. Tomorrow should be fun.”

  5.

  Rooker entered the bookshop at five minutes before six and pretended to browse. There were no other customers. Oscar busied himself nervously behind the front counter but kept his eyes on the man. At six he said, “Sorry, sir, but we’re closing.” At that moment Denny entered, closed the door behind him, and flipped the “Open/Closed” sign. He looked at Oscar, pointed at Rooker, and said, “He’s with me.”

  “Is anyone here?” Denny asked.

  “No. Everyone’s gone.”

  “Good. We’ll just stay right here,” Denny said as he stepped toward Oscar. Rooker joined him, both within striking distance. They stared at him and no one moved. Denny said, “Okay, Oscar, you’ve had some time to think. What’s it gonna be?”

  “You have to promise me you’ll protect my identity.”

  “I don’t have to promise anything,” Denny snarled. “But I’ve already said no one will ever know. And what would I gain by revealing your involvement? I want the manuscripts, Oscar, nothing else. Tell me who you sold them to and you’ll never see me again. Lie to me, though, and you know I’ll be back.”

  Oscar knew. Oscar believed. At that awful moment the only thing he wanted was to safely get rid of this guy. He closed his eyes and said, “I sold them to a dealer named Bruce Cable, owns a nice bookstore on Camino Island, Florida.”

  Denny smiled and asked, “How much did he pay?”

  “A million.”

  “Nice job, Oscar. Not a bad flip.”

  “Would you please leave now?”

  Denny and Rooker glared at him without moving a muscle. For ten long seconds Oscar thought he was dead. His heart pounded as he tried to breathe.

  Then they left without another word.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE FICTION

  1.

  Entering Noelle’s Provence was like walking into the middle of one of her handsome coffee-table books. The front room was filled with rustic country furniture, armoires and dressers and sideboards and armchairs arranged comfortably on ancient stone tile flooring. The side tables were loaded with old jugs and pots and baskets. The plaster walls were peach colored and adorned with sconces and smoky mirrors and dingy framed portraits of long-forgotten barons and their families. Scented candles emitted the thick aroma of vanilla. Chandeliers hung in clusters from the wood-and-plaster ceiling. An opera played softly in the background on hidden speakers. In a side room, Mercer admired a long, narrow wine-tasting table set for dinner with plates and bowls of sun yellow and olive green, the basic colors of rustic Provençal tableware. Against the wall near the front window sat the writer’s table, a beautiful hand-painted piece that she was supposed to covet. According to Elaine, it was being offered for three thousand dollars and perfect for their needs.

  Mercer had studied all four of Noelle’s books and easily identified the furniture and furnishings. She was admiring the writer’s table when Noelle entered the room and said, “Well, hello, Mercer. What a nice surprise.” She greeted her with the casual French salute of obligatory pecks on both cheeks.

  “This place is gorgeous,” Mercer said, almost in awe.

  “Welcome to Provence. What brings you here?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just browsing. I love this table,” she said, touching the writer’s table. There were at least three featured in her books.

  “I found it in a market in the village of Bonnieux, near Avignon. You should have it. It’s perfect for what you do.”

  “I need to sell some books first.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you around.” She took Mercer’s hand and led her from one room to the next, all filled with furnishings straight from her books. They climbed an elegant staircase of white stone steps and wrought-iron handrails to the second floor, where Noelle modestly showed off her inventory—more armoires and beds and dressers and tables, each with a story. She spoke so affectionately of her collection that she seemed reluctant to part with any of it. Mercer noted that not a single piece on the second floor had a price tag.

  Noelle had a small office downstairs in the rear of the store, and beside its door was a small flip-top wine-tasting table. As she described it, Mercer wondered if all French tables were used for wine tasting. “Let’s have some tea,” Noelle said and pointed to a chair at the table. Mercer took a seat and they chatted as Noelle boiled water on a small stove next to a marble sink.

  “I adore that writer’s table,” Mercer said. “But I’m afraid to ask its price.”

  Noelle smiled and said, “For you, dear, it has a special price. For anyone else it’s three thousand, but you can have it for half of that.”

  “That’s still a stretch. Let me think about it.”

  “Where are you writing now?”

  “At a small breakfast table in the kitchen, with a view of the ocean, but it’s not working. I’m not sure if it’s the table or the ocean, but the words are not coming.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trying to start a new one but it’s not going too well.”

  “I just finished October Rain and think it’s brilliant.”

  “You’re very kind.” Mercer was touched. Since coming to the island she had now met three people who spoke highly of her first novel, more encouragement than she had received in the past five years.

  Noelle placed a porcelain tea service on the table and deftly poured boiling water into matching cups. Both added a cube of sugar but no milk, and as they stirred Noelle asked, “Do you talk about your work? I ask because most writers talk too much about what they’ve written or want to write, but a few find it difficult for some reason.”

  “I prefer not to, especially about what I’m doing now. My first novel feels old and dated, like I wrote it many years ago. In many ways, it’s a curse to get published so young. Expectations are high, the pressure is on, the literary world is waiting for some great body of work. Then a few years pass and there’s no book. The promising star is slowly forgotten. After October Rain, my first agent advised me to hurry up and publish my second novel. She said that since the critics loved my first one they would certainly hate my second, whatever it was, so go ahead and get the sophomore jinx over with. Probably good advice, but the problem was I didn’t have a second novel. I guess I’m still searching.”

  “Searching for what?”

  “A story.”

  “Most writers say the people come first. Once they are onstage, they somehow find a plot. Not you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What inspired October Rain?”

  “When I was in college I read a story about a missing child, one who was never found, and what it did to the family. It was an incredibly sad, haunting story, but also beautiful in many ways. I couldn’t forget about it, so I borrowed the story, fictionalized it thoroughly, and wrote the novel in less than a year. That seems hard to believe now, working that fast. Back then I looked forward to every morning, to the first cup of coffee and the next page. It’s not happening now.”

  “I’m sure it will. You’re in the perfect place to do nothing but write.”

  “We’ll see. Frankly, Noelle, I need to sell some books. I don’t want to teach and I don’t want to find a job. I’ve even thought about writing under a pen name and cranking out mysteries or something that might sell.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that
. Sell some books and then you can write whatever you want.”

  “That plan is slowly taking shape.”