Two Women (32 page)

‘To get the evidence you said I needed.'

‘She got it?'

‘She can get it.'

‘Now here's what you're going to do, Martha. You're going to come in, like I've been asking you to all along. Come in, and we're going to sort it all out. And now I want you to bring Jane to the phone so I can talk to her, hear that she's OK.'

‘You can't talk to her. She's asleep.'

‘Martha! You could be in a whole lot of trouble. Serious, criminal trouble. I'm keeping a very tight lid on everything to protect you but …'

‘That's what I want, protection!'

‘I know. And I promise I'll give it to you. All you've got to do is come in. Or tell us where you are and we'll come and get you.'

She'd held on the phone too long. ‘I'll call again, later. I want to think.'

‘Martha! Don't hang up!'

But Alice did.

The Bonanno's Vito Craxi said: ‘I want to put things on notice here. We're looking at a fucking disaster.'

‘A major fucking disaster,' endorsed Carlo Brookier.

No one was admiring the Central Park view or helping themselves to drinks.

Bobby Gallo, the Gambino
consigliere
, said: ‘That's my Family's feeling, too. How we going to get what's in Carver's Citibank box? We don't get it, the system's bust. It's a collapse we don't want and can't have.'

Charlie Petrie knew clearly enough it wasn't general conversation. He, in particular, and the Genovese by unarguable association, were being held responsible. ‘What about Burcher's idea, going to the firm direct, get back what belongs to us after Carver wrote his letters?'

‘We can't be sure we know of everything Northcote held back. Who might be identified,' warned Gino LaRocca. ‘We're over a barrel here.'

‘We gotta shift something,' insisted Gallo.

‘I'll speak to Burcher about a strictly legal approach,' undertook Petrie.

‘I think it's dangerous,' protested Craxi.

‘Let's vote on it,' suggested Petrie.

Craxi was the only objector.

Petrie said: ‘I'll speak to him.'

Craxi said: ‘After this, Burcher is superfluous.'

‘He gets the stuff back from the Northcote firm, he provides a service,' said Gallo.

‘He's still superfluous,' insisted Craxi.

‘He gets the stuff back,
then
he's superfluous,' agreed Petrie. ‘Right now he's got a use.'

Twenty-Three

J
ane awoke in the half light of an uncurtained window, immediately aware of being fully dressed beneath the comforter, and that because of it she was far too hot. It was as she pushed the covering aside, her eyes adjusting to the deeply shadowed room, that she became aware of a woman slumped in a chair beneath the window, breathing heavily, asleep. There was a vaguely familiar smell, from the pillow or from the comforter, but she couldn't decide why she recognized it. There was no city noise outside, just the rustle of trees, ruffled by the breeze. Somewhere in the country then. But where? Who with? Why? Jane didn't feel any fear, any positive threat: she'd never known real fear or threat in her protected life. Her head was clear, which was good. No sensation of it being stuffed with cotton wool, her mind too thick to think properly. So think properly. John's funeral. People, a lot of people, at the hotel. A woman at the apartment. This woman? Maybe. Too dark to see her face. Couldn't remember her face. The woman said … Rosemary Pritchard! That was it! The woman was taking her to Rosemary Pritchard. Why was she being taken? Why not just go by herself? That didn't make any sense. Being here, somewhere in the country, didn't make any sense. Lying fully dressed in bed didn't make any sense. Whose bed? Whose house? Too much that didn't make sense. Jane was desperately thirsty. She eased herself off the bed, from the side furthest from the sleeping woman, steadying herself as she stood, locating a door, ajar, in the wall closest to her. She went out, pulled it fully closed behind her, orientating herself to the now shrouded room but at once wondered why she was staying in the dark, feeling out instead for the light switch and finding it alongside the door.

It was a country cabin, she instantly recognized, blinking in the abrupt light. Rustic plaid furniture grouped around a huge stone fireplace, logs stacked alongside, polished wood floor beneath rug throws. A computer, telephone and a pile of paper on a far-away desk by the door. That door obviously led outside. She guessed the one opposite was to the kitchen. It was only when she was crossing to it that she realized she wasn't wearing shoes. Looking down at herself Jane saw her clothes were concertinaed around her, from their having been slept in. She felt dirty, unwashed, too. Which she doubtlessly was. What the hell was she doing here? She'd wake the woman as soon as she'd drunk some water, find out what it was all about.

It was a functional kitchen, a stove, refrigerator, communal refectory table more than big enough for its six surrounding chairs. Salt, pepper and napkins sat on their island in the middle. Two napkin rings. Jane drank the first glass without pause, only bothering with ice on the second. She drained that too, like the first, and it came up again from a too quickly filled stomach, making her feel slightly sick. She filled the glass again but sipped this time. It was getting lighter outside. Through the kitchen window she saw a beetle-shaped Volkswagen, then she jumped, spilling some of her water, at a sudden animal scream, a victim of something larger.

Jane felt a familiar dampness and thought, damn. She was on her way back to the bedroom and the sleeping woman when she saw the corridor to one side of the fireplace and detoured along it. She found the bathroom first time, wondering if she would have to pad herself, relieved when she found one tampon remaining in its box in the bathroom cabinet. There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom cup and an electric razor, a Remington like John's, on a side shelf. And then Jane saw the cologne, the Cartier that John also used, and realized why she'd recognized the faint smell when she'd first woken that morning, beneath the duvet.

Jane jumped again, although less violently, as she emerged to the unexpected sight of the woman hurrying across the main room, towards the kitchen. Alice saw Jane at the same time and appeared just as surprised. There was a faint smile.

Jane said: ‘I was coming to wake you.'

‘I didn't hear you get up.'

‘Obviously.' The other woman was blonde, about the same height and weight as she was. Probably around the same age, too. She wore jeans and a sports shirt and was barefoot.

‘I'm Alice Belling.' There was no possibility of the name meaning anything so long after the profile of Jane's father. She hadn't rehearsed anything, worked anything out! She'd imagined being up, moving around, working up a passable story in her mind long before Jane awoke. Stupid – stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Like so much – everything – else.

‘I'm due an explanation.' Probably prompted by the reasons for her using the bathroom, Jane remembered why she was so anxious to talk to the gynaecologist.

‘You became unwell after … after yesterday,' floundered Alice. ‘I was taking you somewhere but decided it was better for you to come here until you recovered.'

She was definitely better, Jane decided. Her vision hadn't ebbed and flowed once since she'd got up and her head was still ice clear. ‘When you're ill, you need a doctor, OK? Which is where you said yesterday you were taking me, remember?' She could remember! She was beginning to remember everything!

‘I was going to get one. You went to sleep. I thought it was better to leave you …' Alice made a half gesture back towards the bedroom. ‘I sat up.'

‘And went to sleep. Where the hell are we?' This was unreal: totally unreal. She still didn't feel frightened. She was irritated, annoyed, at being bundled about without knowing why, like a child that didn't deserve an explanation. She'd always explain things to her child, treat it with the respect it deserved.

It wasn't difficult to find the edge to Jane's voice. Alice said: ‘The Bearfort Mountains.'

‘The Catskills!' exclaimed Jane. ‘That's miles from New York! What
are
we doing here?'

Why hadn't she thought it out better! Something, anything! Forced herself to stay awake to get together some half-convincing story! ‘Hiding.'

‘What!
' demanded Jane, incredulous. She shifted slightly, the beginning of uncertainty.

Alice recognized the movement, desperate for a way forward. It had to be a mix of all her half-thoughts and half-ideas and half-truths. ‘Alice Belling,' she repeated. ‘I wrote a long profile of your father, in
Forbes
. He was very flattering about it. Don't you remember the piece?'

‘Kind of …' said Jane, doubtfully. The uncertainty was on her face now, her head intently to one side.

‘He wrote me a couple of times, said he wanted a biography written. I began working on it, researching … I'd met John when I'd written the profile. The arrangement was …'

‘You knew John?' Jane cut her off.

Alice coughed, to cover the need to swallow. Dear God make me think of something better than this! ‘Like I said, we met when I was doing the profile: he handled any queries that came up after my interviews with your father. That was how it was to continue for the book, John acting as liaison when anything came up that your father was too busy to handle or …'

‘Too busy to handle!' broke in Jane, again. ‘My father was semi-retired, for a year!'

It was going horribly, appallingly wrong but it didn't matter. Jane was better now. All she had to do was get Jane back to Manhattan, to the FBI. Once they were safely inside the Federal Plaza building she didn't have to see Jane ever again. Or perhaps more importantly, Jane never had to see her ever again. Alice shrugged: ‘It was the way we worked.'

‘Hiding?' echoed Jane. She spoke loudly, making it a demand.

‘Your father was tricked, a long time ago. The indications came up, in some papers I came upon. Old papers. They referred to some other documents that John found, through them. He put them in his safe-deposit box, in Citibank on Wall Street … The people who tricked your father want them back …' Alice needed to move, to get away from Jane's unremitting, suspicious stare. Alice started to pad towards the desk and her new computer, beside it the most recent printouts that had to go with the rest of the stuff already in the Volkswagen, ready to convince the Bureau. And abruptly saw the photograph! It was the one of John the fisherman, from their first visit, which she'd liked so much that she'd copied it for Princes Street. It was hidden at that moment behind the printouts but it probably wouldn't be if Jane moved any closer. Alice turned at the desk, wedging her hip on its edge, her body a barrier. An idea thrust into her mind and she grabbed it. ‘I know this all sounds …'

‘Preposterous!' refused Jane. ‘My father and I were as close as it is possible for a father and daughter to be. John and I were as close as it's possible for a husband and wife to be. If my father had decided upon a biography, I would have known about it, from him or from John. If there was some problem with the firm, I would have known about it, from my father or from John … I don't know who you are or what you want … what you're talking about, even … I am not frightened of you … You're going to take me to the nearest town from which I can speak to people … do you understand …?'

‘The FBI know you're safe … they want to speak to you …' The telephone was on the desk! She had to get the photograph away, before bringing Jane to the telephone.

‘The
FBI
?'

Federal Plaza. That's all she had to do, get them to Federal Plaza! ‘That's what John was doing, at Citibank on the day of the accident. Going to his safe deposit to get what he'd found, to pass it over to the FBI.' She was too far gone now to worry about – count even – the lies and the deceits. As much for Jane as for herself, Alice thought. Sorry John: I've made a mess of it but Jane will be safe. ‘The agent-in-charge is named Gene Hanlan. It's too early to call him yet. You can speak to him first thing.' Get her out the room, on whatever pretext, just long enough to get rid of the damned photograph! Not a damned photograph. One of the few physical reminders she had of John. She'd take it with her, to her new life. She'd ignore them, whoever gave her the new identity, if they said she couldn't keep it: that she had to surrender and abandon all and every trace of her past. She had to have that positive memento of John.

‘Whose cabin is this?'

Alice's mind was completely skewed by Jane's unexpected change of direction and without thought – without giving herself time to think, as she hadn't virtually throughout this disastrous confrontation – she blurted: ‘Mine.'

‘What about your husband?'

‘I don't have a husband.' The sickness was there again, the churning low in her stomach, growing at the back of her throat.

Jane jerked her head back along the corridor. ‘I had to borrow one of your things … I didn't realize I was due: so much happening, I guess. There was stuff in the cabinet, a razor. Cologne.'

The nausea worsened. Alice said: ‘A partner. Didn't work out. It's only just happened. I haven't got around to clearing away the memories yet.'

‘I haven't even begun to think about clearing away the memories yet.'

‘I'm sorry. About John, I mean,' Alice forced herself to say. Today was the end. After today it would all be over. No embarrassment, about hypocrisy, about anything. Not the end, Alice corrected herself. This was the very beginning. The beginning of the rest of her life, lying, pretending, being someone she didn't want to be but had to be, saying things she didn't want to say, but had to say.