The Betrayer (21 page)

At their motel room in Jersey City, Johnny sat on the bed while Haley locked the door, then drew the curtain.

It was a chilly June morning, but the room was downright cold. Despite this, Johnny removed his shirt so Haley could take a look at his ribs. One long oval bruise, the colors of a summer sunset, had erupted on his skin. Though Haley was no stranger to bruises — she
was
a daughter and sister to professional boxers — she nonetheless winced at the sight of Johnny’s wound.

“If your ribs are broken, we need to get you to the hospital,” she said.

“They aren’t broken.”

“You can’t be certain.”

“I’d know. Trust me.”

“You’ve broken your ribs before?”

Johnny nodded.

“Let me feel them, at least.”

Johnny told her to go ahead, and she proceeded to carefully touch each rib, lightly feeling along the length of every one with the tips of her fingers. When she reached the injured ribs — there were three of them — Johnny flinched and drew in sharp breaths through clenched teeth. She checked both sides of his rib cage, not just the side with the bruise, and found no indications of breaks.

When she was done, Johnny said, “We’ll get some tape and wrap them up.” He knew that she knew how to do that.

Haley looked at him and nodded. “Okay.” She saw that his eyes were watering — from the pain of her touch, no doubt. A single tear fell from one eye, but she pretended not to notice it. She hated the idea of her touch causing him anything other than pleasure.

“I need a bath,” Johnny said.

“You should probably just rest for now.”

He shook his head and said quietly, “I pissed myself when I hit the dashboard.”

Haley nodded. “Okay. You’ll need some clean clothes, then.”

“We’ll worry about that later.”

“I should at least go out and get the tape. And something for the pain and swelling. I saw a CVS on the corner.”

“No, not without me.”

“We’re safe, Johnny. No one knows where we are. I think I can risk a trip to the CVS in broad daylight.”

Johnny shook his head but said nothing.

“I’ll just wait till you’re asleep, then, that’s all,” Haley said. Her tone was a mix of assurance and defiance.

He knew that there was no point in arguing with her. And she was right — no one knew where they were, and it
was
broad daylight out.

“I’ll need you to give me a hand first,” Johnny said.

She helped him stand, then undressed him. It wasn’t easy. When she led him into the bathroom, they noticed that there was no bathtub, only a shower stall. Johnny obviously couldn’t stand up for too long without help, so Haley told him that she’d go to the CVS later and began to undress, too. It was quicker for her — she wasn’t injured, and she never wore underwear. As she undressed, Haley thought for some reason of those porn actors at Dickey’s bar last winter, stripping themselves for a night’s work as Johnny and she quickly closed up, the woman with a sleeve of tattoos very much like her own.

That woman was to Haley as Richter was to Johnny — men, when desperate, have their violence to sell, and women, when desperate, have their sex.

In the shower Haley washed Johnny. It was all he could do to stand there. Nearly every move caused him pain, sometimes severe. And though Johnny bore it, Haley could tell it was draining him. All men, she knew, had their limits.

She was careful to keep her head out of the stream of hot water; her long red hair took hours to dry on its own, and it was unlikely that this cheap motel provided hair dryers. She and Johnny had nothing but each other, the clothes on their backs, and what their pockets contained, which was little more than three grand in cash and their respective prepaid cell phones. They would travel to wherever it was they were going with only these things, then accumulate — just as they did upon their arrival in Brooklyn — only the things that they needed.

After the shower Haley eased Johnny down onto the bed and covered him with the blanket. It was a thin motel blanket with no real weight, but the steam from their shower had warmed the room up significantly.

Johnny watched Haley as she reached for her clothes. Even in his condition, the sight of her fully naked body — full breasts, strip of red pubic hair, pale ass, and well-muscled back — caused his gut to tighten.

He thought of his vow —
no man will ever harm you.
He was as committed to that as ever.

But the thought of his vow caused him to wonder about the man whose trachea he had fractured. Was he dead? Was there now yet another killing from which they would need to run?

A justifiable killing, yes, but there was too much to explain — too much to easily explain, anyway, too much to be certain that the truth wouldn’t be lost or ignored.

It was the same fear he felt as they escaped Thailand.

Even the best-case scenario of several hours in a police station, making a statement to the cops, would be too many hours spent away from Haley.

Even the next-best scenario, a single night in jail — certainly either Donnie Fiermonte or Dickey McVicker would get him released quickly — would be one night too long.

And of course a prolonged trial, not to mention the possibility of prison, were out of the question.

No, they would run.

Johnny couldn’t help but wonder what his father would think of what had become of his eldest son and namesake.

An army washout turned drifter turned fugitive.

Hardly a continuation of the Coyle tradition of service and sacrifice.

Johnny liked to think, though, that his father would take one look at Haley and understand. John Coyle Sr. had gone to great lengths to protect those he loved. He had, in fact, married relatively late in life — a sworn bachelor for his first ten years in the FBI, married to his work, until a certain woman came along, a woman who changed everything, a woman for whom he created a secret world in Ossining.

So maybe I’m continuing at least one Coyle tradition, Johnny thought. And maybe that’s the only one that really matters.

Haley was balancing on one foot, about to step into her jeans, when Johnny said, “Don’t leave yet.”

She lowered her foot and looked at him. “You need something for the pain and swelling.”

“Just lie next to me for a while.”

She stood there for a moment, then tossed her jeans on a nearby chair and approached the bed. She climbed in next to him, careful not to jostle the mattress, and lay as close to him as she dared. He was flat on his back, couldn’t even put his arm around her, but they were under the same blanket together, and that was enough.

It wasn’t long before Johnny’s exhaustion caught up with him and he fell asleep. Haley slipped out of the bed as carefully as she had slipped into it, then quietly dressed. She removed Johnny’s KA-BAR knife from his boot and placed it on the nightstand so he could easily reach it. Then she took his box cutter from the back pocket of his jeans and pocketed that. Johnny had taught her to fight with a knife, had spent long nights shortly after their return to Brooklyn doing so. She had taken to it quickly; the footwork wasn’t unlike a boxer’s footwork, the slicing motions not unlike a hook punch, the sticking motions not unlike a jab.

She was confident that she could protect herself if the need arose. She was not the woman she was when she had met Johnny in Thailand. She wasn’t even the woman she was hours ago, when Richter had knocked on her door and told her that Johnny had sent him to take her somewhere safe.

She would not fall for that again.

Exiting the motel, Haley paused to have a look around, checking the doorways that she could see and the few parked cars lining the long city street. She was doing everything Johnny had taught her to do, and would do that and only that from now on.

When she was satisfied that all was well, she headed toward the CVS.

She got everything they needed — first-aid supplies, food, bottled water, a travel-sized packet of detergent. She looked for prepaid cell phones, didn’t see any, asked a clerk, but was told the store didn’t carry any. As she headed back toward the motel she scanned the street, looking for anything out of the ordinary in general and Richter in particular. She happened to spot a small convenience store with a sign in the narrow storefront window indicating that prepaid cell phones were for sale there. She entered and bought two.

Johnny was still asleep when she entered the room. She picked up his jeans and underwear and took them into the bathroom, removed the wad of money from his pocket, then washed the two items of clothing in the sink with the detergent she had bought. When she was done she hung them over the shower rod to dry.

There was nothing else for her to do now but wait. The room had gotten chilly again, so climbed into bed next to Johnny with her clothes and boots still on.

Just in case.

She laid still, the box cutter resting on her stomach. She let her eyes close but didn’t dare sleep.

Cat was wearing one of Fiermonte’s T-shirts, which fit her like a dress. Her head was buzzing, her brain a gyroscope that was spinning a little out of whack, but she was clean now, and that helped.

She enjoyed the feeling of being high, she had to admit that much. She drank to get numb, and she slept with men to numb desire whenever it rose to an intolerable level. Her career came first, so relationships and all their inevitable troubles and distractions were out of the question. But the fact that she found most men to be lacking, in one way or another, made that sacrifice easy enough to make.

Years ago a boyfriend of hers — back when she was still making occasional attempts at having boyfriends — had told her that no man stood a chance with her because she was so hung up on her father. She had thought about that, agreed with him, and sent him packing. There was, she knew, no point in denying the truth, or hiding from it. There wasn’t a day that she didn’t think of her father a dozen times, that she wasn’t reminded of him by some little thing or didn’t recall something he had taught her. There wasn’t a day that she didn’t mourn him, if only for a moment, or crave his presence, or quietly wish she could be next to him just one last time…

Even now, high on painkillers, her mind reeling, the man was in her head.

And she wouldn’t want it any other way.

Cat made it to Fiermonte’s bed just as the full effect of the painkiller took hold. She relished its grip on her and freely resigned to slipping in and out of consciousness. She was aware of little, but somehow she was able to keep track of Fiermonte’s comings and goings — he left once to get her prescription filled, then a second time to get a replacement battery for her phone, which, he told her upon his return, needed to be charged. He then made several phone calls, but she had a difficult time keeping track of what he was saying.

At one point she reached consciousness — it was like drifting upward through still water and breaking the surface — and heard a solemn silence. After a few moments she realized that Fiermonte must have left on yet another errand. She looked at the nightstand and saw her prescription bottle. She saw, too, that a battery had been connected to her cell phone, and that the phone was connected to a charger. The phone itself was powered down, but she didn’t feel any urgent need to turn it on yet.

The next thing she knew, she was being awakened by Fiermonte.

“You should take another pill,” he said.

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost six hours.”

He was holding out his hand. In it was a pill. She took it and swallowed it without any water, then laid down again.

Jeremy was seated on a stool at the window counter of a bagel shop on Bedford Avenue. He had downed several cups of coffee in hopes of fighting off the lethargy he knew so well. All he wanted was a place to lie down. He thought of heading back into Manhattan and crawling into his bed at the Gershwin Hotel, but he was afraid that in his stupor he wouldn’t hear his phone ring. He had left a message on Cat’s voice mail, asking her to call him back. He had tried to sound as lucid as he could, but he doubted he had pulled it off. He ended the message by telling her that it was important. His call had gone straight to her voice mail, and that meant her phone was shut off. Maybe she turned it off when she went to bed. Maybe today was her day off and she was sleeping in. Any minute now she’d wake up, get the message, and call him. He didn’t doubt that — couldn’t doubt that. He trusted her, and not because she was the only person left for him to trust.

He trusted her because she was Cat.

But hours passed and his cell phone did not ring. Eventually the owner of the bagel shop grew tired of the half-asleep kid with a freshly beat-up face slumped at his window counter and threw Jeremy out.

After wandering for a block, Jeremy found a bench and sat down. But he didn’t feel safe out in the open, so he walked till he found a pub that was opening up for lunch. The wide-screen TV suspended above the bar was tuned to a news program, the volume set higher than it needed to be. Jeremy sat in a booth in the back, and a waitress came to take his order, but she stopped short when she saw him. He knew by the look on her face that she was about to tell him to leave.

“Please,” he said softly. It was all he could say.

She glanced around quickly, then looked back at him. She was conflicted, obviously, and Jeremy was grateful for that much, at least, for this small amount of compassion being displayed by a stranger. He was grateful, yes, but it also made him miss Elizabeth. The waitress nodded and told him to order something and try to eat it.

“If you fall asleep in your food, my boss is going to be pissed at both of us.”

Jeremy thanked her, promised he wouldn’t let her down, and ordered a burger and fries. When the waitress left, he took out his cell phone and tried Cat’s number again.

Like before, his call went straight to her voice mail.

He ended the call without leaving a message but kept the phone in his hand. Once, not too long ago, a cell phone was his only connection with Elizabeth — not this phone, but the one it had replaced. Still, Jeremy remembered holding that phone as he lay in the dark of his father’s apartment, hearing her voice, telling her things he’d never told anyone. He remembered the night he had received the naked cell phone photo — she had decided finally to send him one, wanted him to have it, had even undressed as they spoke, but they needed to end their call so she could take the picture. He had lain still on his bed, the phone tight in his hand, waiting for the pic to come through.

A cell phone had become his only human connection.

Despite the heroin dulling every nerve, he felt a wave of sorrow rise inside him.

Elizabeth had not called him back, hadn’t even sent a text.

He was now alone.

Utterly alone.

Cat was pulled from a dream by the rising sensation inside her.

She opened her eyes, looked at the ceiling above, and knew by it where she was. She was coherent enough for that, but it still took her a moment to comprehend the source of the building pressure in her groin.

A fullness, and an overwhelming need to burst.

Someone’s mouth was on her. Her own mouth opened and she gasped slightly. Lifting her head off the pillow, she saw that Fiermonte’s head was between her parted thighs.

He was dressed, and the T-shirt she’d been wearing had been pulled up to expose her breasts. He had one finger inside her, was touching her nipples with the fingers of the other hand, and the motion of his tongue on her was soft but steady.

Her initial instinct was to pull away, but she didn’t move. She was simply, suddenly, too close to coming to tell him to stop.

Greed for relief — and pleasure — took over.

As she came, she clutched the back of his head with her one good hand and pulled herself up to a seated position. Her orgasm was long, and when it finally subsided Cat lingered upright for a moment before lying back down.

Her eyes were closed, she was adrift, half-conscious at best, but she could hear Fiermonte undressing himself. Her current state made it easy for her to surrender to what was next.

Fiermonte pulled the T-shirt off Cat and tossed it aside, then placed her left hand above her head and, balancing above her, held it with his right hand. Using his left Fiermonte guided himself inside her. Cat gasped again. He was large. Hey, if I’d known that, she thought jokingly. But it was a fleeting thought.

He moved slowly, which surprised her. He was teasing her with controlled, deliberate thrusts — just the tip, then the whole shaft at once, then just the tip again, then the whole shaft. Even when he was on the verge of coming his motion remained steady, the emphasis on mutual pleasure.

When she finally felt his heat filling her, she pulled him close with her one arm, wanted all his weight pressing down on her, wanted his body to cover hers from head to toe.

They stayed like that for a while. Then at some point Fiermonte was gone, and Cat, naked on his platform bed, drifted gradually into unconsciousness.

Jeremy was staring at his uneaten burger, struggling against a deepening stupor, when a news report came on the pub’s TV.

Three words caught his wavering attention.

Murder in Chappaqua
.

He lifted his head, didn’t care who saw his beaten face, and looked at the TV mounted above the bar. He was holding his breath.

It took a long moment, but the female reporter finally got to what Jeremy was desperate
not
to hear.

A couple murdered in their home.
The on-scene reporter was interviewing a neighbor. Jeremy didn’t care about that. He listened, forced himself to focus, waiting for the reporter to say what it was he needed right now to hear.

The names. Say the names.

But don’t say hers.

He knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. How could it be? But he had thought Elizabeth would be safe up in Chappaqua. He was certain of that. He had done everything he could to keep her safe, wouldn’t have gotten her involved if he wasn’t convinced his plan was foolproof. Thirty miles outside of the city, in a home equipped with a security system, nothing connecting them but his cell phone. The last-minute clue he had left Cat, just in case — could someone else have found it and understood it?

No. Not possible. So maybe a coincidence after all. Maybe just a strange coincidence. Elizabeth was fine. She was fine.

The prerecorded interview with the neighbor ended, and now the reporter was standing on the edge of a tree-lined street, talking to the camera. She was holding notes in one hand and a microphone in the other. A live report, with a banner at the bottom of the screen running those three words again.

Murder in Chappaqua.

Jeremy stood, took a few steps toward the bar. The bartender looked at him.

And then the reporter was about to come to what Jeremy was waiting for.

“You okay, man?” the bartender said.

Jeremy said nothing, just stared at the screen. The bartender turned to look at what was so captivating.

The police have now released the names of the murder victims…

Despite the heroin, a wave of dread rushed through Jeremy. Cold, gut-wrenching terror.

They are Jeffery and Elizabeth Hall.

Jeremy bolted past the long bar, heading for the door. He was wild, out of control, clipped an empty stool and knocked it over but kept going. The bartender called after him, told him to take it easy, then realized this crazy kid hadn’t paid his tab and called “Hey!” in a loud, stern voice. But Jeremy didn’t stop. He burst through the door and out into the late morning. The June sun hurt his eyes, but he ignored the bright light. He walked at first, then broke into a run.

Stumbling, lumbering, heading nowhere, toward no one, just
away
.

Rage and sorrow twisted together inside him. His heart was about to explode and his eyes were streaming hot tears.