53

The next morning, Nikki reached Murphy’s legalistic father, but the man wasn’t buying her routine. “Look,” she finally said, “I’m the law clerk for Judge Finney, who is one of the contestants on Paradise Island, a good Christian man like you, and I’ve got to ask you a few questions about your son.”

“You lied to me,” Pastor Martin said, condemnation riding on every word.

“Not really. I lied to your assistant. She lied to you.”

“You’re despicable.”

“A good man could be in danger—” Nikki began. But before she could finish, the phone line went dead.

She tried calling back but couldn’t get past Martin’s assistant, who also accused Nikki of lying. She tried one more time, and when the assistant started in on her again, Nikki trotted out her favorite Scripture verse. Actually, the only Scripture verse she knew by heart. “Judge not or you’ll be judged,” Nikki said, and this time she hung up the phone.

Less than two minutes later, Wellington called. “I deciphered the next message,” he said proudly.

“Tell me quickly about the code,” Nikki said. “I’m running late for court.” It was another white lie, but by now she had quit counting.

“You were right, Nikki. The key was understanding the link between the code and chapter 4. When Jesus was asked for a sign—”

“Wellington! I can’t do this right now.” She had taken the day off to get a manicure and finish some errands that had been piling up. Fitzsimmons had made a snide comment about her work ethic, but Nikki wasn’t worried. Finney would be back soon.

Right now she was on her way to the gym and didn’t want to spend the entire drive listening to code-cracking details.

“Here’s what it says,” Wellington began, the stiff formality in his voice showing his irritation. “‘I have pc evidence of a murder conspiracy. Go to Feds and get warrant. No publicity.’”

Nikki turned off her car radio. “Say that again.”

Wellington repeated the message, then added, “I’m guessing that pc means ‘probable cause.’”

“Um . . . yeah. That’s probably right.” Nikki pulled into the right lane and tried to focus on what this meant. “Are you sure about this, Wellington?”

“When asked for a sign to prove He was the Messiah, Jesus pointed to His own resurrection, which He predicted would occur three days and three nights after the Crucifixion. I finally realized that the small letter t, the most frequent letter in the chapter 4 code, was actually a sign for the cross. After that realization, I made a chart containing every letter and every number that appeared exactly three symbols after each t in the code message. That turned out to be the solution for chapter 4. When I did the same thing with Finney’s Westlaw searches—wrote down the letters that appeared exactly three spaces after each t in his Westlaw searches—I ended up with this message.”

“Okay.” Stunned, Nikki congratulated Wellington and got off the phone, collecting her thoughts as she drove. Finney really was in trouble. This was no ploy to gain a competitive advantage in a game show. Probable cause for a murder conspiracy. Nikki’s stomach tied itself in knots.

Finney was counting on her. But she didn’t know anybody at the FBI. She didn’t even know if the FBI had jurisdiction in the Galápagos Islands. She did have a few contacts in the US Attorney’s office, but then another thought hit her. Of course. If anybody had connections, he would.

She dialed Preston Randolph’s private cell phone and reached him immediately. Without spilling the details of the codes, she explained to Randolph how she had received a coded message from Finney that had been deciphered by Wellington Farnsworth and that she needed to contact the FBI. Within minutes, she knew this had been the right move. Randolph told her to book the first flight to Washington DC on his nickel and take a cab to his office. He would make some phone calls to some connections he had. Nikki could meet with the Feds right in Randolph’s conference room.

“Better have Wellington available by telephone,” Randolph said. “He’ll have to tell the agents how he deciphered the codes.”

It’s who you know, Nikki thought as she hung up the phone. She turned around and headed back to her apartment. The gym and the manicure would have to wait.

Finney sat straight up in bed, then felt his head whir. Where was he? What time was it?

Knocking. Somebody was knocking on the door. He cleared his thoughts and looked at the clock: 9:11. Blood started coursing through his veins, fueled by his frustration at sleeping through his alarm on such a critical day. Then he remembered—he hadn’t set the alarm. The knocking grew louder.

“Coming,” Finney yelled, then started his morning cough. He stumbled out of bed with burning lungs and with intestines that cramped in protest at the forced cleansing of his system. He managed to throw on a T-shirt while hacking and headed to the front door in his gym shorts and T-shirt, stopping at the kitchen sink to cough up a fair amount of phlegm.

He opened the door and found the Swami and Gus standing there, somber faced. Gus didn’t have his huge camera, and Finney’s stomach dropped. He knew immediately the news would be bad; he could see pain written all over the Swami’s normally cheerful face.

“I slept in,” said Finney apologetically. “Of all mornings.”

“Can we come in?” the Swami asked.

“You don’t have to ask.”

The two men walked into the condo and took a seat in the TV room. Finney joined them, and the Swami spoke first. “They think Horace might have had a heart attack this morning.”

Finney went numb, hoping this was still part of some extended bad dream. His thoughts raced to the chubby smile of his friend—the innocent vivacity that made Horace so much fun to be around. “Is he okay?” Finney managed.

“They think so,” the Swami said, and Finney took a breath. “He complained of severe chest pains, and the island physician looked him over. They’re trying to decide whether to send him home or not.”

At that moment it dawned on a still-groggy Finney what had happened. His buddy was trying to get off the island so he could deliver Finney’s message. “You think I could see him?” Finney asked.

“Probably,” Gus said. “They let me talk to him this morning. He actually looked pretty good. It’s probably just the pizza.”

“We’re supposed to be in court in about forty minutes,” the Swami reminded Finney.

Finney stood and stretched. No time to waste. “I better get ready,” Finney said. “I’ll see you guys in court.” He headed back to the bathroom for a shower. This morning he would have to skip the shave.

Finney turned on the faucet and ran the water until he heard the front door shut. Then he went to the kitchen and, blocking the camera with his back, slipped a sharp knife and plastic bag into the waistline of his shorts. He went back into his bedroom, picked up a thick book on Islam he had checked out of the Paradise Island library, and headed into the toilet stall. Once inside, he cut out the middle pages of the book and stuffed inside it the tape Horace had filmed last night. He would return the book to the library later today.

He put the pages he had cut from the book inside the plastic bag, sealed the bag, and dropped it into the reservoir on the back of the toilet. He replaced the lid and smiled.

He took the book back out to his bedroom and placed it on his desk, checking the clock. He had just enough time to log on to Westlaw and see if Wellington had solved his last critical message. Plus, he needed to send another message of even greater importance.

If Nikki and Wellington already had the Feds involved, then Finney would try to get Horace to stay on the island. Finney now believed he was in real danger. He needed an accomplice on site more than he needed someone helping Nikki pressure the Feds. Finney clicked on his Internet browser and stared at the message on the screen in disbelief: “Since all courtroom sessions except the closing arguments for the finalists have now been concluded, you will no longer need Internet research. Accordingly, access to the Internet is denied.”

Finney thought through his alternatives and decided he had to trust Wellington’s code-breaking abilities. Finney would operate on the assumption that Wellington had deciphered the last message and had gone to the Feds with Nikki. That being the case, he would ask Horace to stay with him on the island. At least that way Finney knew he could trust his own cameraman. Somebody to guard his back.

Finney threw on his clothes and paid Horace a visit. Within minutes, the chubby little man’s stomach and chest began feeling better.