The Betrayer

by Daniel Judson

  “He’s still out,” she said.

  “Asleep or unconscious?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “If he’s asleep, we can wake him.”

  “If carrying him upstairs didn’t do that, then I don’t think we could.”

  Had whatever intimacy that occurred between them given Fiermonte the insight to recognize a lie when Cat spoke it?

  She stood there, waiting for Fiermonte to see right through her.

  But he didn’t. He simply nodded and said, “Let me know when he comes around, okay? I think we should be the first faces he sees, don’t you?”

  Cat nodded.

  “And if I am going to get a warrant for McVicker’s arrest, I’d rather not have to rely solely on the word of a junkie when I’m standing before a judge. So I’ll need to hear those recordings. And I’ll need a clean chain of evidence, too. So this has to be by the book from now on. Do you understand?”

  Cat nodded again.

  “In the meantime, I’ll head out. I need to make some phone calls. And I’ll arrange for a unit to be parked out front.”

  She thought again of her brother’s words.

  What had not long ago felt like protection — the idea of a cop car parked outside — felt now like the complete opposite.

  “I think we’ll be okay here,” Cat said. “I’ll lock up. And I have my Sig.”

  “I’m not taking any chances. And anyway, Cat, you shoot righty, don’t you?” He glanced at her broken arm.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Sorry, this isn’t negotiable. Nothing can happen to either of you. Sit tight, take care of Jeremy, call the moment he’s awake. Okay?”

  Cat knew it would take a while — thirty minutes, maybe longer — for Fiermonte to make the necessary calls and get a watch car here.

  She decided to let this go.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Fiermonte was pocketing his cell phone and looking at Cat. Again, she just stood still, saying nothing.

  She could care less that he had seen her sprawled out naked on his bed. She could care less that he had gone down on her, then fucked her.

  More than that, she could care less what he might be thinking right now, what this meant in his mind — would he get to fuck her again, did she now have feelings for him, was this maybe the start of something?

  All that mattered now was Jeremy.

  It had been a long time since anything had mattered as much.

  Or at all.

  Finally, Fiermonte said, “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few hours. I’ll call if it looks like it’s going to be longer.”

  Cat nodded.

  Fiermonte looked at her for another moment. It seemed as if he wanted to say something. Or maybe he was waiting for her to say something.

  Eventually, though, he turned and left, did so without saying good-bye. Cat locked the door behind him, then hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a folding chair. Before heading into the bedroom, she stopped at the window that looked out on West Tenth Street.

  Fiermonte was walking toward his sedan, parked across the street, and talking on his cell phone — talking fast, no doubt giving orders. She watched till he got in and drove off, then entered the bedroom and placed her Sig on the bureau top, where it would be out of Jeremy’s sight but within her reach.

  Stepping to the bed, she set up the chair, pulled it close, and sat.

  She remembered suddenly about how Jeremy had rejected her as a surrogate mother when theirs died all those years ago.

  The first of the many wedges to come between them — wedges that had ultimately driven them apart, she to her world, he to his.

  But that was the past, and the past was long dead, so she let the memory go and whispered, “He’s gone. It’s just us now.”

  Jeremy had his forearm draped over his eyes. He removed it and looked up at her. His eyes were filled with tears.

  Cat wanted to touch his face and console him, but she didn’t dare. She didn’t want to risk driving him away, as she had done before, when they were kids. And she didn’t want to risk further rejection.

  So she just sat still in the muted light of their father’s bedroom and waited.

  When Jeremy finally spoke, he began with a question.

  What did she know about an undercover cop named Smith and a detective named Morris?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Johnny looked at the phone in Haley’s hand.

  “Dickey scares me, Johnny, he always has,” she said. “And that son of his. What if whatever is going on sets off another one of his rampages? What if your brother and sister get caught in the middle and get killed?”

  “Cat can take care of herself,” Johnny said. His answer sounded prepared, even to his own ears. He paused, then added, “Anyway, she’s FBI.”

  Haley’s response came fast. “Your father was FBI, wasn’t he? That didn’t stop him from getting killed.” She waited a moment, then said, “I hate to play this card, Johnny, but I don’t think your father would want you to keep your sister in the dark like this. I don’t think he’d approve one bit. And wasn’t he trying to bring his son home when he got killed? If Jeremy dies, then won’t your father’s death have been in vain?”

  Johnny said nothing. Haley laid the phone on the bed between them. He looked down at it, then back at her.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Johnny, and I’ll love you whatever you do. You’ve kept your promise to me for a year now, helped me feel safe again, put that above everything else. I was a basket case when we got back, jumping at every sound, but it looks like I’m over that now. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me, but it’s not about me now. You can’t run from this, Johnny. You can’t run from your family. You can’t run from your name. And you can’t run from what happened to your father. Not anymore.”

  “And what if Thailand catches up to us?”

  “We’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it. But I think the risk might be worth it.”

  Johnny gave her a puzzled look. Did she know something he didn’t? “What do you mean?”

  “It’s time you knew what really happened that night.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Maybe you’ll finally find a way to forgive your brother.” She paused. “And who knows, maybe you’ll finally find a way to forgive yourself, too.”

  Johnny gave her the puzzled look again but said nothing.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Haley said. “It’ll warm me up. And the room, too. If you call her, you call her. If not, then we’ll figure out our plan and leave as soon as we can. No questions asked, no looking back, whatever it takes.”

  Haley kissed him, then got up and crossed to the bathroom. She stood just inside the door and began to undress. Johnny watched her, remembering the night they met. He remembered, too, their first night together not long after that.

  Johnny’s long hair cut off, his beard shaved, Haley smelling of rose water, the two of them making do with the confines of her narrow guesthouse bed.

  Right there in front of him, back then and at this very moment, too — something that mattered.

  Someone he’d die for, if it came to that, which it did just two weeks later.

  And what was a Coyle without that?

  Without something bigger than himself.

  Something to which to devote himself, if even blindly.

  Johnny waited till the shower was running before he powered up the phone. He still had no intention of risking his life for his kid brother, but he would do what he could to help Cat. He could tell her what he knew and listen to what she had to say.

  Cat was seated in the back of a cab when her cell phone rang.

  She saw on the display a number she did not recognize. At first she had no intention of answering, but then something made her rethink that instinct.

  In the seat beside her, her kid brother was staring silently out the window, awake but still in a stupor.
Beaten, worse for wear, yes — alive, though.

  And clearly not the kid he used to be.

  Not the boy that she remembered, the boy hell-bent on self-destruction.

  A man now, fighting for his life.

  Cat looked again at the display. There was, she knew, no point in hiding from whoever this may be — or whatever it was the caller had to say. She was running, that much was still true, but toward something now, not away, or in circles.

  So at the tail end of the third ring she pressed Answer, raised the phone to her ear, and said, “Yeah?”

  A voice spoke, and she recognized it right away.

  “It’s me,” Johnny said.

  She let out a sigh. “Thank God. Are you okay?”

  “More or less. You?”

  “More or less.”

  Because of the presence of the cabbie, Cat thought it best to say as little as possible.

  “I found him,” she said quickly. “He’s right here with me. You need to hear what he has to say.”

  “Can you fill me in?”

  “Not now. And anyway, you need to hear it from him.”

  Cat got back only silence to that. At first she thought the call had been dropped, but then Johnny’s voice returned.

  He said simply, “Where are you?”

  The cabbie was clearly listening now. Cat had walked with Jeremy for several blocks before hailing the cab. Luckily, the unit Fiermonte had promised to send had yet to arrive. Once inside the cab, Cat had given the driver an address that was several blocks from their actual destination.

  So no one could track them.

  More than ever now, she had to play it smart.

  There was no way, then, that she was going to say aloud where it was they were going.

  “Does your phone receive texts?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  Another span of silence, but shorter this time.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Johnny said.

  The call ended, and Cat pocketed her phone.

  She couldn’t help but remember the last time she and her brothers were together in the same room.

  In those days that followed their father’s abduction and murder three years ago.

  The children of John Coyle — first waiting for any word on the man, then receiving the terrible news, then making the necessary plans.

  Donnie Fiermonte with them for nearly every moment, day and night.

  Jeremy was the first to disappear — he didn’t even show up at the memorial service.

  That was the quiet before the storm.

  Johnny hung around for longer, was there when the accusations began — accusations that exploded quickly into an all-out scandal. Eventually, though, he disappeared, too, on his trip to Vietnam and his quest for…what?

  It was a long time ago, yes, but the hurt was still there for Cat.

  The only one who didn’t — who couldn’t — run from the Coyle name.

  The only one who was left to suffer for the “sins” of their father.

  She noticed that the cabbie was looking at her. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror and held his stare till he finally looked away.

  Haley was pulling off long strips of surgical tape when the text came through. She paused to pick up the phone and read the text aloud.

  “Gershwin Hotel, Twenty-Seventh and Fifth, room 729.”

  Johnny nodded and immediately began calculating the best route there.

  Haley proceeded to wrap his ribs. She knew what she was doing, and he was grateful for that. He sat on the edge of the bed with his arms raised and stared at the wall, willing away the pain. He could do that — well, up to a point.

  When Haley was done, she helped Johnny stand but remained beside him at first, then gradually supported him less and less till he was finally on his own.

  He took a few steps, stopped, and drew a quick breath to test the tightness of the tape. Then he turned and looked at her, nodding a few times to indicate that he was good.

  It was, at best, a half lie.

  “I’m coming with you,” Haley announced decisively.

  “No.” It was all he could say — he could only take shallow breaths, just didn’t have the air for more than that.

  “It’s either that or I go for you.”

  “I’ll be fine once I get moving.”

  “Maybe, but I’m still going with you.” She paused. “You won’t make it without me, Johnny. We both know that.”

  Johnny had no other choice but to relent.

  But he wouldn’t do so without first establishing the rules.

  “If anything happens, Hay, you do what I tell you, the minute I tell you to do it. Okay? If I tell you to run, you run, no matter what. If I tell you to leave me behind, you leave me behind, no matter what. Go to Chicago and stay with your brother. If I’m not there in two days, I’m not coming, so go on to your father’s and just forget about me. Deal?”

  Haley nodded once — yet another half lie, obviously, but what could Johnny do about that?

  The clothes she had washed in the sink were almost dry. Almost was good enough. She helped Johnny dress — not an easy or even quick thing, considering his condition. Afterward they gathered their weapons — the box cutter for Haley, the KA-BAR knife for Johnny, not in his boot now but clipped to his belt so he could reach it without bending. He wore his black T-shirt untucked to hide it.

  Pocketing their new cell phones, they opened the door and paused to take a quick look around.

  A bright June day, breezy and cool.

  A small parking lot filled with cars, a busy Jersey City street beyond that.

  It was against Johnny’s instincts to surrender the safety of their anonymity like this. Nonetheless, they exited the motel, Haley beside Johnny, her right arm around his waist and her hip pinned against his for leverage, his left arm around her shoulder in a way he hoped looked simply casual. Who did they think they were fooling? Johnny knew they should take a roundabout route to their destination — as elaborate as they could come up with — but he also knew he had only so much time before the pain would drain what was left of his diminishing strength.

  Each step they took, and each agony that rose from it like a sharp echo, were seconds ticking away in a fast-running countdown to helplessness.

  And once that countdown reached its end, once his body finally failed and he could do no more, what then?

  Who would protect them?

  Where would they find shelter?

  Who would they trust with their lives?

  Appear where they cannot go, head for where they least expect you.

  — Sun Tzu

  EPISODE FIVE

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Vitali was dreaming, not of home but the long journey to it, which he hoped to begin any day now.

  Or maybe even sooner than that. Maybe even any hour now.

  Just a phone call away.

  Waking from his dream, he had to look around to remember where he was. For a second he thought he was still in that hotel in Portsmouth, but then he realized this was his room in the Chelsea Hotel. He checked his watch; it was two in the afternoon. He had only managed to sleep a few hours, but he didn’t need more than that. He had returned to his room around eight this morning and had been told by his benefactor to sit tight and wait for his call. Vitali had hoped that the call would be what woke him — It’s time, we’ve flushed him out, here’s what you’ve been waiting for.

  Kill the man who had killed your father.

  But that didn’t turn out to be the case. Sitting up, he reached for his cell phone and checked to make sure it was working. It was. He checked the battery status, saw that it was fully charged. Standing, he grabbed the pack of cigarettes he had borrowed from Smith and crossed to the window that overlooked Twenty-Third Street. He opened the box, removed the slim disposable lighter and the last remaining cigarette, placed the cigarette between his lips, and lit
it.

  He was frustrated and smoking helped ease that, at least to a point. Smith’s brand — Camels — were as terrible tasting as all the other American brands he’d been forced to smoke these past three years, but that was the trade-off he was required to endure, wasn’t it? Smoking brought some relief to the tension building steadily inside him, but it also reminded him of the French and Spanish brands he sorely missed.

  And that would be available to him when he was finally able to leave this place, when he was free to strike out on his own and wander Europe and relax, at least till it was time for him make some real money again.

  Beating the Coyle boy this morning, while enjoyable in itself, wasn’t satisfying, not in the way he needed it to be. He was, therefore, edgy, and didn’t like the feeling. Edgy led to mistakes, edgy meant his urges could overrule his intellect, and that was dangerous. Even the slightest infraction — the slightest oversight due to impulse — could lead to his undoing. He knew he would need to do something about that, and soon. He thought of the many videos at his disposal — viewing one would help take the edge off, that was true, but making a new one would calm him in the way he needed to be calmed.

  He wondered if there was a maid somewhere in this hotel, cleaning a room at this very moment, her supply cart in the hallway, the door left ajar. A young thing, perhaps, small enough to dispose of easily once he was done with her.

  Would her employers think she simply walked off the job? How long before they got the police involved?

  But he couldn’t take that risk, not now, no matter how much he craved the act that drove his every waking moment.

  Taking and killing and slipping away.

  Attack, sustain, release.

  He would have to live with the frustration a little longer. He would have to wait.

  But then he thought of the woman in the room below his. The blonde with the Slavic face. She had said her name was Rachel when he had met her in her room shortly after she had arrived. Professional courtesy — get to know each other, size each other up. Her face was a glimpse at what awaited Vitali upon his return home. Broad, prominent cheekbones, angular jaw. A hard face. He’d had his first woman when he was thirteen, and had killed his first woman two years later — all of them possessed some variation of that face.