The Betrayer (15 page)

Cat didn’t like
thinking about those first long hours, hours that eventually grew into days. Nothing
for her — for any of the three Coyle children, each in their own way — to do but
wait.

And fear for the
worst.

Such a helpless
feeling.

“I’m hoping this
is different,” Cat said.

Elizabeth nodded.
“Me, too.”

After a moment
Elizabeth Hall stood, told Cat she’d be right back, then exited the coffee shop.

It was only after
Elizabeth had left that Cat noticed that the young woman who had been seated
near the door was gone.

Cat hadn’t even
seen her go.

Whomever the
woman had been waiting for must have shown up.

Cat also realized
she hadn’t noticed that the teenage male had moved out from behind the counter
and was beginning to stack the chairs on the surrounding tables, preparing to
sweep out before closing up.

As Cat worked on
finishing her coffee, she looked at the name she had written down on the
napkin.

Robert Sumner.

She thought of
calling Fiermonte and sharing with him all that she had learned up to this
point. But she decided to wait till she actually had everything — the name of
office supply shop in the city, the box number, and the key.

Elizabeth Hall had
been gone maybe a minute, so Cat looked at her watch and started a countdown in
her head.

Fourteen
minutes.

She took a few
more sips.

Thirteen.

Two more sips,
and then her cup was empty.

Twelve minutes.

The woman in the black field
jacket was making her way through the thick woods surrounding the house. The jacket,
aside from concealing the Czech-made CZ 75 in her shoulder holster of ballistic
nylon, was also protecting her from the branches that clawed at her as she
strove steadily toward the open yard ahead.

She had purchased
the jacket, as well as the jeans and boots, back in Detroit, where she worked
for a Serbian crime boss to whom she was greatly indebted, and had been since
she was a child. She had not worn these clothes on the flight in, but had instead
shipped them directly to the hotel she was to stay for the duration of this
job. Upon her arrival this morning she had changed into them, so no one but the
Russian boy, a handful of workers and guests at the hotel, and now that woman
at the coffee shop had seen her in this particular get-up.

When this job was
done, she would change into yet another set of new clothes — with a
completely different look — and leave these items in the rental car she had acquired
at the Newark Airport with a fake driver’s license and stolen credit card. After
that she would abandon the vehicle and set it ablaze. Whether the dead body of
the Russian boy would be inside the vehicle at that time had yet to be
determined. That decision, she’d been told, would be made later. She was, if
anything, adaptable, so not knowing whether or not she needed to kill the boy
wasn’t a problem.

Regardless of
the fate of that obviously troubled Russian, as the rental vehicle burned, any
evidence linking her to this place and these events — trace fibers from the
jacket or jeans, impressions the treads of her boots were now making in the soft
dirt — would be destroyed as well. She had learned long ago the importance of
knowing all the steps of any operation — the ways in and ways out, even if the
way out was days or even weeks away. And she kept in her mind always, day and
night, the details of all that was to occur between her arrival and departure. Her
employer had never “leased” her out before and if this went well, there might be
other jobs like this one in the future.

Jobs that would
take her out of Detroit.

Jobs that might
even allow her to see the world and get paid for it.

Not bad for the
daughter of a mobster’s mistress.

So while she was
eager to impress tonight, she made a point of keeping herself aware of the precautions
that needed to be observed.

The steps from
here to there, the countless things that needed to be done.

As she ran
through the barrier woods — a difficult and dangerous thing in the darkness
when one couldn’t use a flashlight — she didn’t let her adrenaline get the
better of her. She could feel it pumping wildly through her blood, but she was
good at containing and channeling the resulting energy. She was getting better
at it, in fact, with each job.

Still, she had
left the train station parking lot just moments ahead of her target, at best,
and had managed to find the house and then a suitable place to park the rental
car — not too close, but also not so far away that she couldn’t make it to the
house on foot before her target had the chance to arrive.

A lot of running,
then a lot of feeling “under the gun,” but pressure as such was the nature of
the job.

The sensation she
always felt prior to a killing was here now in full force. A cold tingling that
started between her legs and rose up through her chest and into her throat. Her
mouth was dry, her heart throbbing like a wound. Despite the mild June night,
the air she drew into her lungs felt ice cold. And she was already sweating,
the cotton T-shirt under her jacket growing damp and chill.

These were, she
knew, the symptoms anyone would — should — feel in the minutes leading up to
calculated murder.

Few things in
life, after all, were as thrilling.

As she reached
the edge of the dark woods, she paused to study the house. It was a modern
design — well, modern back in the sixties, maybe. Narrow, vertical planks
painted gray, lots of tall windows, only two stories but a sprawling plan.

The best thing
about this location was that the house was set on two acres that were all but
completely enclosed by thick woods. The only opening through them was the
entrance to the driveway, a good hundred yards from the house itself.

She’d have, then,
all the privacy she would need to extract the information she had come here for.

Privacy made all
the difference.

Some lights were
on inside the house, and a Volvo station wagon was parked on the gravel driveway
not far from the front door, but this was as it should be.

She didn’t dare
pause for much longer than a few seconds; she needed to get inside before the
woman returned. Whatever head start she may have had was certainly gone by now.

As she thought
this, she heard in the distance the sound of an approaching car on the road
beyond. She knew that it was now or never.

Slipping out of
the woods, she crossed the open yard swiftly and approached the front door. Of
course, she would get inside easily. That was the advantage she had over the
men who did the same kind of work — doors that wouldn’t be opened for a strange
man were opened for her. And she was almost always invited inside without
hesitation.

My car broke
down and my cell phone is dead.
Or,
I can’t get any reception here.
What
man, or woman, would say no? The fact that she was a little out of breath from
her run — and from the adrenaline — only helped to sell her story.

She rang the doorbell.
The car was close now, the hiss of its tires on the pavement getting louder, the
pitch growing higher and higher.

The husband
finally answered. Handsome, with dark hair and eyes. The build of a man who
worked out. She could smell scotch. It was a matter of seconds before he was
stepping aside and letting her into the foyer.

And it was as he
was closing the door with his back to her that she quietly but quickly removed
her CZ 75, fitted with a suppressor, and put two rounds between his shoulder
blades and a third into the back of his head.

As he hit the
floor she was already crouched and picking up the ejected casings with her
gloved hand.

And she was pulling
his lifeless body into the living room when she heard from outside the sound of
gravel shifting beneath slowly rolling tires.

The sound got
louder and louder, and then finally ceased.

The first thing Jeremy did before
leaving the Sprint store with his replacement cell phone was to pause long
enough to send a quick text to Elizabeth, letting her know that he was okay and
apologizing for his delay.

He waited for her
reply, phone in hand, as he walked back toward the Gershwin Hotel. Just as he
had done earlier, he watched the faces of the people around him — in front,
behind, to his left and right. He felt exposed — nighttime in the Flatiron
District
was
just as good as daytime — so after one block he headed up
to Twenty-Sixth Street, which was quieter than Twenty-Seventh, less traveled
and darker, if only slightly.

He moved at a
steady pace for the remaining two blocks. Once inside the lobby, he didn’t wait
for the elevator, but instead took the stairs. When he reached his floor, he
paused before exiting the stairwell. Opening the door slightly, he looked down
the hallway, sensed it was clear, then hurried to the door to his room and
slipped quickly inside.

Not an easy way
to live, this moving carefully, always being aware, but he would endure it for as
long as he needed.

He would get good
at it.

He looked out his
window, still waiting for Elizabeth’s reply. Finally, he sent another text, asking
that she please answer, then waited again. Minutes passed, and still nothing. He
knew that valuable time was slipping away, but it killed him to think that she
was worried about him. More than that, it killed him to think that she could be
angry with him — and why else would she be ignoring him? Well, there were other
possible explanations for her silence, but he didn’t want to go there. And doesn’t
the mind always go first to what it fears most?

He decided to
risk it and call her cell, but after four rings he got her voice mail. He ended
the call without leaving a message, was considering trying her landline — he
would block his number this time — but in the end didn’t dare.

He had to trust
that she would get back to him when she could. He had to trust that if she were
angry, it would pass when she learned about what he had done.

Just as Johnny
and Cat’s anger would pass, too.

It was time now
to get some answers.

He closed his
eyes, took in a breath, then punched Morris’s cell number into his phone. He
wasn’t sure what to do if he got the detective’s voice mail, but that didn’t
turn out to be a problem; his call was answered before the end of the second ring.

Morris was full
of questions — was Jeremy okay, where had he been, why was his phone off, why hadn’t
he called? Jeremy wanted, however, to keep this as brief as possible.

Still, there were
things he needed to know.

Jeremy said in an
even voice, “What happened to you last night?”

“I told you I was
on duty. I got called to a crime scene right as I was leaving to meet you. I
tried your cell but I kept getting your voice mail. I’ve been calling all day.”

“Someone else
showed up.”

“I know.”

Jeremy was
curious exactly how Morris knew that — which precaution of his led them to the
preschool’s surveillance camera — but he couldn’t afford to get distracted.

He went straight
to the only question that mattered.

“Any idea how he
knew I was going to be there?”

“No, none,”
Morris said. He sounded frazzled, and there was a lot of commotion in the
background. Phones ringing, the murmur of voices. “My first guess would be
someone was watching your place and followed you.”

“Why would
someone be watching my place?”

“Yeah, that’s the
question, isn’t it?”

Jeremy said
nothing.

“Listen,” Morris
said, “this isn’t really a good time for me, but I can maybe get away for a
half hour or so. Our mutual friend wants to talk to you.”

It was obvious
that Morris didn’t want to say the man’s name over the phone. Jeremy understood
why.

“We’d need to
meet somewhere out of the way, for obvious reasons. He’s out in Brooklyn. Would
you be able to go out there?”

Jeremy was aware
that he had erred by letting Morris pick the location of last night’s meeting. As
a means of preparing himself for what he would need to do, Jeremy had read Sun
Tzu’s
The Art of War
.
It was Johnny’s copy, a birthday present
from their father when Johnny was a teenager. By the condition the book was in,
it was obvious that Johnny had read it over and over again. Jeremy, true to his
obsessive nature, had read it three times through in one night and twice again
the next morning.

The passages that
had been highlighted were like glimpses into Johnny’s mind.

It was an
intimacy the brothers hadn’t shared since they were children.

Before the
differences between Johnny and Jeremy emerged and solidified.

Johnny was their
father’s son; Jeremy belonged to their mother.

Jeremy had
trusted Morris — had no choice
but
to trust him — so he hadn’t considered
him an enemy. Because of this he had ignored what Sun Tzu had written about
always being the one to choose the location.

That trust, while
not completely broken, was now in question. There was, Jeremy knew, nothing to
be gained by letting Morris know about his doubts. There was, in fact, everything
to gain from hiding them.

War, after all,
was deception.

“What did you
have in mind?” Jeremy said.

“There’s a place
down by the waterfront. Our friend could probably make it there easily enough.”

Jeremy didn’t
like it simply because he had never been there before and would therefore be at
a disadvantage.

He thought of a
place he did know. A place with a few ways in and a few ways out. A place where
there would be people at this time of night.

“How about
McCarren Park?”

“Williamsburg?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if
that’s a safe enough place for our friend to meet us.”

Jeremy held firm.
“It’ll take me a half hour to get there. I’ll wait for one hour.”

“I’m trying to
help you, kid.”

“Then be there. You
and your friend.”

Jeremy pressed End
and closed his cell phone. He felt adrenaline bolting through his blood. The
room was suddenly very cold. Though he was on the verge of shivering, he noted
as he slipped the phone into his pocket that his hands were steady.

On his way
through the lobby he checked his backpack with the front desk clerk, using a
fake name and room number. The computer it contained was inoperable, but that
didn’t necessarily mean that the information stored on its hard drive was completely
lost.

A fail-safe, in
case Elizabeth hadn’t come through.

Which itself was
a fail-safe.

Thinking like
a Coyle.

He walked south a
few blocks to the subway entrance just east of the Flatiron Building. He
paused at the top of the stairs to check his cell phone. Still no text from
Elizabeth.

He was growing
concerned that her lack of response might be due to something other than anger.
Something worse than her being with her husband at this moment, maybe even
sleeping with him. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since he last spoke with
her. A lot could happen in that time.

Her home, though
secluded, was equipped with a security system. He remembered the two of them
talking for hours on the phone those nights her husband was away on business,
the comfort he’d felt in knowing that she was safe and sound. He remembered,
too, them joking that even if he did make his way up there and knock on her
door, at least the armed system would act as the final safeguard that kept them
from giving in.

And anyway, the
only person who might know about Elizabeth was Cat.

And he trusted
Cat, trusted that she would do, as she always did, the right thing.

More than that,
he trusted in her abilities.

Johnny may have
been his father’s son, the soldier in the family, but Cat was her father’s
daughter.

As much of a
Coyle as Johnny, as much bound to the Coyle tradition of service and sacrifice
as he — and in some ways, in her own way, more so.

Jeremy pocketed
his cell phone and hurried down the stairs. Once through the turnstile, he
moved to the edge of the platform and waited.

Cat glanced at her watch.

The fifteen
minutes Elizabeth Hall and she had agreed upon had elapsed. The coffee shop across
from the Chappaqua train station had closed, so Cat was standing out front and
looking steadily into the direction Elizabeth Hall had driven her Volvo after
exiting the parking lot.

Cat decided to
give her another five minutes, but after only three she couldn’t stand it any
longer. She broke into a fast walk toward her Mustang. The growing sense of
helplessness was simply too much for her to bear. She called Fiermonte’s cell
as she walked.

“What’s going
on?” he answered. He sounded hushed but hurried, his tone abrupt.

A man
interrupted.

Cat immediately wondered
if he was with his wife — or someone else, for that matter. But she pushed that
from her mind.

“I’m heading to
Elizabeth Hall’s house right now,” Cat said.

“She didn’t meet
you?”

“No, she did. But
she went home to get something and should have been back by now.”

“She could have
gotten hung up. Maybe give her a few more minutes.”

“I’m done
waiting.”

“Could she have
ditched you?”

“I don’t think
so. She seemed to want to help.”

“I’ll come up, Cat,
we’ll go to her house together. I’m uptown, just a block from the West Side
Highway; it wouldn’t take me long to get there.”

“No, I’m going
now.”

“At least tell me
what she told you.”

“Jeremy went for
hypnosis to beat his addiction and recovered some repressed memories.”

“Memories of
what?”

“The night he was
used to bait our father. The sessions were recorded onto CD, and a few days ago
Jeremy sent the CD to a post office box he rented in the city. Elizabeth Hall
went to get the name of the store and key to the box.”

“Jesus,”
Fiermonte said. “I don’t understand. Why did he go to all that trouble? Why
didn’t he just come to us?”

Cat was just a
few more strides from her Mustang, so she didn’t really have time to answer
that question. She said instead, “I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, Donnie.”

“I’m notifying the
Chappaqua police, Cat. If there is trouble, I’d rather you not walk into it alone.”

“I don’t want to
fuck up her life if I don’t have to. If there’s a problem, I’ll handle it.”

“Are you even
armed, Cat? You took a leave of absence, which means technically you shouldn’t
be carrying your service weapon.”

Cat didn’t have
time for this, either. “I’ll call you in fifteen, Donnie.”

“Just wait for me,
Cat. I’m leaving now. Tell me where you are and I’ll meet you. I’ll be there in
a half hour, tops. All right? Cat, are you there? Cat, are you—”

Cat closed and
pocketed her cell phone.

Once she was behind
the wheel of the Mustang, she entered Hall’s home address into her GPS
navigation system and took off.

ETA, three
minutes and forty seconds.

The road leading
from the train station was poorly lit. Cat nonetheless gunned the engine and
barreled into the long stretch of darkness.