64

Standing outside the one-way mirror of the cross-examination room, Murphy and McCormack watched the events unfolding inside with great interest. Javitts fired questions at the Swami, who handled them with the same casual confidence he had exhibited the last two weeks. Ando and Kline had already endured their last turn in the room.

“I notice you didn’t vote for yourself as one of the finalists,” Javitts said.

“You noticed correctly.”

“Was it because you were afraid that one of the finalists might die?”

The Swami stared impassively at his questioner as if the Swami didn’t know how much of his own hand he should reveal. “What do you mean?”

Javitts smiled condescendingly. “You know exactly what I mean, Mr. Hadji. The rumors among the contestants that one of the finalists would die. Rumors planted by the producers of the show. Did they affect your decision?”

This brought a big smile and shake of the head from the Swami. “You mean we’ve basically all been punk’d this week? It’s all a big sham, this stuff about a finalist dying?”

“Yes,” Javitts replied sternly. “We wanted to see how you would react.”

“That’s awesome, dude,” the Swami said, chuckling. He looked at the mirrors and gave a thumbs-up. “You guys had me going.”

“And you decided your faith wasn’t worth dying for?” Javitts asked.

The Swami jerked back and gave Javitts an are-you-crazy? look that nearly made McCormack laugh. “That’s not it at all, man. I decided this show wasn’t worth dying for. My faith—now, that’s an entirely different matter.”

Nikki scrolled through a few messages while Randolph looked on, burning holes in the top of her head with his intense stare. Right now she didn’t care. Her partner had come through! It was time to go back on the attack.

“Who is the Seeker?” she asked Randolph.

“What are you talking about?” Randolph’s voice was as steely as his eyes.

“Who is Azrael?”

“Never heard of him.”

She held the phone in front of her as she dialed Byron Waterman’s office number, keeping one eye on Randolph the entire time. He glanced casually around the restaurant as if contemplating his next move.

Answer! Hurry!

Randolph stood and Nikki slid back in the booth. A sneer crossed his lips. “A little jumpy, aren’t we?”

“Nikki?” Byron asked, finally answering the phone. Thank God.

“Did you get the e-mails?” Nikki asked. Wellington had been instructed to send any incriminating information to Waterman’s personal e-mail address. Those messages would show up on both his smartphone and his computer.

Randolph tensed, towering over Nikki, listening to the phone conversation. She felt the goose bumps of her own excitement. Mixed with fear.

“Did I get them?” Byron asked, the excitement obvious in his voice. “This is unbelievable. Huge!”

Nikki placed the phone down on the table. “Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” she heard Byron say, though it wasn’t very clear. “But not as good as before.”

“The phone’s in the middle of the table,” Nikki explained. “I’m here with Preston Randolph.” He eyed her quizzically but didn’t make a move. “If you get cut off, call the police immediately.” Nikki provided the address of the truck stop while Randolph listened impassively, still towering over her.

“Who is that?” Randolph asked.

“An investigative reporter for WVAR,” Nikki said. “A Norfolk television channel.”

“This belong to him?” Randolph detached the mike from the hat and picked up the mike and battery pack from the table. He wrapped the small cord around the battery pack and put the device in his pocket.

“Yes.”

“And you somehow managed to get copies of my e-mails?” And then, as if in answer to his own question, Randolph’s eyes flashed in recognition. “The virus.”

Nikki nodded.

Randolph settled back down into the booth. “You’re good,” he said. “But unfortunately, you’ve played a little fast and loose with the law in the process.”

Before Nikki could respond, Randolph leaned forward, closer to the phone, his attorney instincts kicking in. “As Nikki’s accomplice . . .” He motioned toward the phone. “What’s his name?” he whispered to Nikki.

She hesitated. This was so strange. “Waterman,” she said softly.

“As Nikki’s accomplice, Mr. Waterman, there are a few things you ought to know. And I want you to record every word of this conversation and make sure you play it for your station manager before you get any big ideas about being a hero by breaking a story about me.”

He paused and pulled the mike back out of his pocket. He turned it on and placed it next to the phone. “And if the battery on your recording device wears out, Mr. Waterman, just let me know because I’ll have a backup recording.”

“Are you still there, Byron?” Nikki asked.

“Yes,” he answered, the noise muffled but audible. “And I’m recording every word.”

“Good.” Randolph slid forward so his mouth was less than a foot from the mike. “You may have some e-mails to or from my computer indicating that one of the finalists for Faith on Trial is going to die—quote, unquote—accidentally. But relax, Mr. Waterman; it’s all just part of the game. I financed the show. The whole thing was my idea. I believed at the time, and still do, that the best test of any faith is how well it helps you deal with death. This was a reality show. Therefore, we tried to make the threat of death seem very real . . . and very immediate.”

Nikki couldn’t believe she was hearing this. She suddenly remembered the miniature videocam and checked the angle of her purse. She casually moved it so the camera would point right at Randolph. He was so focused on the mike that he didn’t seem to notice.

“Now, I realize that this information, in itself, is a story,” Randolph continued. As he did, he slyly reached over and turned Nikki’s purse back toward her. A sharp look from Randolph told her to leave it that way. “And under the First Amendment, I probably can’t stop you from airing it. But I’ll give you three compelling reasons to wait until the final show airs before you do so. The first, Mr. Waterman, is the lawsuit I’ll file against you and your station for defamation of character and invasion of privacy. I’ll own that station before it’s over.”

He hesitated just long enough for the threat to sink in. This was Randolph the litigator trying to regain control. “The second is the lawsuit I’ll file against Ms. Moreno and her accomplice for stealing my e-mail messages. Oh, I almost forgot the additional lawsuit I’ll file against Judge Finney for violating his pledge not to communicate about the show with those outside the island. I think the stipulated damages for that are something like five million.

“And third, I’m about to tell you something that might cause even a calloused reporter like you to hold off. If you do, I’ll give you an exclusive interview after the final show.”

He pursed his lips and hesitated as if considering whether he should really take this plunge. It seemed to Nikki that the trial lawyer veneer suddenly melted away, leaving behind a more vulnerable man. “I don’t know you, Mr. Waterman, and I don’t know your station manager. But I know Nikki. And I’m going to take a risk here. Despite what you’ve done to me today, I’m going to assume that you people all have hearts—” he paused, stealing a glance at Nikki—“and that you sometimes use them when making your decisions.”

The hard edge left Randolph’s voice as he continued. Nikki had to remind herself that he was a trial lawyer. Generating pity was part of the craft, like a rapper spouting rage.

“I’ve got an incurable brain tumor, Mr. Waterman. I’m searching for the true God. I thought maybe this show would help.”

Nikki felt the air flee her lungs. What? The man suddenly looked so vulnerable. Just moments ago she had looked into his dark eyes and seen flashing anger. But now there was uncertainty. Randolph’s.

And hers.

Half an hour after Preston left the truck stop, taking Nikki’s hidden mike and recorder with him, Nikki was still waiting for Wellington. She had been on the phone with Byron for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to talk him out of running an exposé on the evening news. She wasn’t afraid of the threatened lawsuits, but she actually believed Randolph’s story. Besides, would anybody try to hurt the finalists now, with the media all over this story?

But Byron wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t need Nikki’s permission to go with the story, he reminded her. Even without video footage or the audio from the hidden mike, he had the phone call and the e-mails. That was enough.

After she hung up with Byron, Nikki tried calling Wellington several times. No answer. He was undoubtedly driving, and even though Nikki had talked him into breaking into a trial lawyer’s computer, he was nevertheless apparently unwilling to assume the fourfold increase in odds of a fender bender that might occur if he picked up the phone.

A few minutes later, Nikki received another e-mail on Byron’s cell phone that made her think Byron might be right after all. As part of the “fix” for Randolph’s computer, Wellington had made sure that every e-mail received by Randolph would be automatically forwarded, without notification, to the e-mail address for Byron Waterman. Most of the e-mails were junk. But one from “Azrael” caught Nikki’s attention.

Seeker:

Things are becoming chaotic on the island. Will assume that the baptism is still a go for Saturday unless I hear from you. This will be my last communication unless you indicate concern.

Azrael

What could that possibly mean—“the baptism”? If it was just a harmless e-mail about Saturday’s show, why did the sender use a code name that Randolph claimed he had never heard before? Maybe this was just another part of the charade, Nikki reasoned. But why send another e-mail now? Maybe they were going to make sure the remaining contestants “accidentally” discovered this e-mail. But if Randolph and his accomplice were trying to use this e-mail to make the contestants think their lives were in danger, why would they use a coded message about baptism?

Byron called almost immediately. “Did you see that e-mail?” he asked. “Give me one possible innocent explanation for that.”

Back and forth they went. But in the end Nikki knew she couldn’t take any chances if there was the slightest chance that Finney’s life was on the line. She could always ask forgiveness later.

“Okay,” she said to Byron. “What do you want me to do?”

“Have you watched the video?”

“Yeah. The picture’s pretty grainy and you can’t really hear anything. Plus, Randolph turned it away from himself during part of the meeting.”

“That’s okay,” Byron said. “We’ll use my recording of the phone call for audio. We just need the video footage for B-roll as soon as possible.”

“How do I make that happen?”

“We’ve got a sister station in Fredericksburg. Got a pen and paper?”

After writing down directions, Nikki called Wellington one more time. After four rings, a minor miracle occurred. “Hello,” he said tentatively.

“Good work on the e-mail,” Nikki said. She knew he was struggling with the legality of what they had done, so she didn’t bother telling him about the threatened lawsuits. She explained the rest of the events in detail, including her need to get to the television station right away.

“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Wellington said.

“How fast are you driving?”

There was a long pause. Nikki thought she heard the sound of her Sebring accelerating. “Over the speed limit,” Wellington said.

“Drive faster,” Nikki said. She couldn’t wait to give her protégé a hug.