Who also happened to be an assistant federal prosecutor.
It was Haley who ended up taking care of Cat. She led her upstairs to the guest room, started the shower, and gathered together Cat’s clothes after she had undressed.
While Cat showered, Haley waited for Smith to bring the garbage bags. When he arrived with two, she stuffed Cat’s clothes inside one. As Smith stood in the doorway — he seemed to not want to enter their room — Haley recalled him telling Cat and herself to strip back at the farmhouse, then gathering their clothes once they were done.
All just hours ago.
“I’ll come back and get the bags after you’ve showered,” Smith said.
He turned to leave, but stopped when Haley spoke.
“Johnny’s father was carrying an M4, so I’m assuming the rounds were NATO five-point-five-six.”
A little surprised, and then not, as if maybe he knew about her background, Smith nodded and said, “That’s right.”
“Can a level-four vest stop those rounds?”
“It should, but John had fired a burst of three, and at relatively close range. Even if the vest did stop all of them, the transfer of kinetic energy would be enough to cause trauma to the impact points. Damage tissue and internal organs, possibly even break bones.”
“So maybe he’s alive and maybe he’s not.”
“Like I told John, we’ll know soon enough.”
Haley thought for a moment, about the lengths being gone to right now to protect them all, the dangers unknown men were facing.
Richter’s men — not the same ones who had been in the car that Johnny had crashed, she hoped.
The ones who survived, that is.
But had anyone risked more than the man now before her?
“Your real name’s Bill, right?” Haley said finally.
“Bill Kirkland, yeah.”
“Smith’s not exactly an original name for an alias.”
“It was the best identity available. We knew Fiermonte and Morris would look into my background before they tried to recruit me.”
Haley thought about that, then said, “Thanks, Bill.”
He squinted as if he wasn’t exactly sure what she was thanking him for.
“Your sacrifice,” she explained. “Putting your life on the line. Johnny has told me stories about what his father used to do, and what it cost him.” A pause, then she added, “And, I guess, thanks for not looking. Back at the farmhouse, I mean.”
He smiled at that. It was the first time Haley had seen him do so. The man seemed as caught off guard by it as she was.
“No problem,” he said.
They looked at each other for a moment more, then Bill Kirkland nodded and left.
Alone in the strange room, Haley removed the dark-haired woman’s raincoat but kept the sneakers on. She didn’t want to risk transferring the dried blood on her feet to the wood floor. Shoving the raincoat into the garbage bag, there was nothing left for her to do but wait for her turn to shower.
Outside the window, dulled by the low hanging rain clouds, were the first hints of dawn.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Vitali was making his way back to the Chelsea Hotel.
He had watched from the edge of the woods as John Coyle and Smith loaded their wounded.
Two of the M4 rounds had been stopped by the ceramic plate woven into his bullet-resistant vest — a gift from the very man who he’d seen help carry both John Coyle’s son and the man Vitali had mistakenly shot. But the third round had partially penetrated the protective layer, breaking apart as it was designed to do.
Fragments of that slug were now lodged in the thick muscles of his back.
The pain was significant — incredible, really — and he could feel blood collecting in his shirt.
He could also feel the bruises that had been left by the first two rounds.
Every breath he took — he could only take shallow ones — was like a knife in his back.
But these pains weren’t the reasons why Vitali hadn’t attacked the man who had killed his father.
It was the presence of John Coyle’s daughter — the one they called Cat. Armed with her father’s M4, she had kept watch of the surrounding woods for the minutes it took the wounded to be loaded.
The fact that a woman had kept him from taking advantage of this opportunity angered Vitali, but there was no way he could approach the front of the house unseen. And he was certain that despite her injured hand the FBI agent, armed with an assault rifle, would be able to at least hold him off long enough for her father and Smith to bring their weapons to bear and join the fight.
So all Vitali had been able to do was watch them load up and speed away.
He had waited ten minutes — a long time in the rain — before making his way back to the house. He’d thought of going inside to determine who had been killed by the many shots he’d heard.
He had also thought of the possibility of his having left trace evidence behind. He’d worn gloves the entire time he was in the house, and the bloodied rag he’d held to his mouth was in the pocket of his jeans.
The only mark he could have left were latent boot prints, but he would dispose of his boots, along with everything he was currently wearing, soon enough.
He’d decided not to go inside — no, his injuries decided that for him; should he find trouble in there, it wasn’t likely he could do much to defend himself.
A feeling he was not used to.
No, he needed to get away while he could.
Hurrying to the car parked at the end of the dirt driveway, each step spurring excruciating pain, he’d found, as he always did, exactly what he needed — the keys had been left in the ignition.
He had counted the turns that had taken them here, so finding his way back to the parkway wasn’t difficult.
From there he headed south, focused on what he needed to do next.
Get his computer and passport, then gather together the sheets, blankets, and pillowcase.
Everything his body had touched.
Just like he always did.
In the predawn light, in his room in the Chelsea Hotel, Vitali stripped the bedding and laid it on the floor. Removing his outer shirt, which was soaked with blood, he unfastened the Velcro straps of his bullet-resistant vest and dropped it onto the pile of bedding.
He was unable to lift his arms very far, so he couldn’t pull his blood-soaked undershirt over his head, but had to cut it off with his knife.
Standing at the mirror mounted over the bureau, he turned and looked over his shoulder at his back.
He counted four wounds and two bruises. The bleeding had stopped — the vest had held his undershirt to his wound like a compress — but he knew he had to treat the wounds or risk infection. There was no way, though, with his bulky muscles, that he could reach the wounds himself.
He showered, letting soapy water wash down his back, savoring the sting, but that wasn’t going to be enough.
Naked, his back burning, Vitali stood at his window and looked down on Twenty-Third Street.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds were low and a dense fog was rising, as if the two were attempting to meet. Vitali could barely see the street or the tops of the buildings across it.
He was on his own now, but he was far from done.
He had money, and he knew how to hide. He could slip away, keep himself entertained, keep his skills sharp, then come back to the city when it suited him.
The chance to avenge his father would present itself.
He trusted that.
And if he could not kill the man, if he went back into hiding, then he would make the man suffer.
Hurt his children. The one called Cat — he knew where she lived, knew her routine. She had to get back to it sooner or later.
And if not the man’s children, then he’d hurt those his children loved — the redhead came to mind. He’d only glanced at the surveillance photograph of her, and though he could barely remember he
r face, he did remember thinking it was beautiful.
That she had marred herself with the tattoo of a dragon was something he could overlook.
Better yet, something he could punish her for.
He was overdue for a kill.
And the things he did prior to killing.
Needed to do.
All the symptoms were there. In his mind were images of naked women — women he had stripped, or that he had made strip for him. Humiliation, inflicting pain for his pleasure — his thoughts, despite the pain he felt, were pulled toward that.
And he craved a cigarette, craved one deeply, but had none.
He cleared his mind of images and scenarios long enough to wonder if he could make it down to the store on the corner. Could he even dress himself?
For that matter, could he even do the things he desired to do? Could he control a woman in his current state? The idea of being so weak only added to his frustration and increased his deep need to hurt and kill.
It was then that he heard a buzzing sound.
The cell phone in the pocket of his jeans was vibrating.
He’d left them on the bedding. Stepping to it, he bent to pick the jeans up, had to struggle through the pain just to reach them.
Standing straight again took all he had.
Removing the phone, he looked at the screen. The number displayed on it was the number of his benefactor’s cell.
The text read, Where are you?
His benefactor had only just recently begun texting — they had always relied on calls because calls were safer, voices couldn’t be faked the way texts could — so Vitali knew that he needed to be cautious.
But he also needed medical attention.
He waited a while, standing there, staring at the phone in his hand, then finally texted back, Need medical attention.
He got nothing back for a moment, then: Have medic on standby.
Nothing for a long while after that.
Phone in hand, waiting.
Five minutes, then ten, then fifteen.
This was beginning to feel wrong to him, but finally the phone buzzed again.
Where to send her?
Vitali read that text several times, his eye lingering on one particular word: her.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Haley was at last clean and dressed, though these were small comforts at best. She was lying on top of one of the guest room beds, Cat on her side on the other, neither of them willing to sleep, despite the fact that their minds and bodies were screaming for it, when the pregnant woman appeared in the doorway.
She was dressed in scrubs, her pinned-up hair matted with sweat.
“Martin would like to see you now,” she said.
Haley sat up. Cat, too. They looked at each other.
It was obvious they were thinking the same thing.
If the news were good, the woman in the scrubs would have told them herself.
Haley followed the woman down to the ground floor, Cat close behind. They made their way through the house to another set of stairs off the kitchen, this one leading to the basement.
The fieldstone walls were weeping from the heavy rain, the cement floor slightly uneven in places from decades of frost heave.
The woman led them to a concrete-block corridor that made several mazelike turns before ending in an area that was nothing less than a state-of-the-art minihospital.
It was divided into two separate areas — glass-enclosed operating theater and recovery room. The recovery room had a large hospital bed and a smaller rollaway bed, not unlike the one in the farmhouse.
Both beds were occupied, but Haley could not yet see by whom.
The gray-haired man — Martin — approached her and Cat. He was still in his scrubs as well, though his were bloodstained. His eyes were tired-looking and bloodshot.
“Everything went well,” Martin said. He was speaking to both Haley and Cat, his tone professional and calm. “We stopped the bleeding, were able to remove his spleen, and close the entrance and exit wounds. He was lucky the bullet passed through muscle without hitting anything.”
Haley sensed that there was more, though, and braced for it.
“However,” Martin said, “Johnny is currently unresponsive.”
“What does that mean?” Cat half-asked, half-demanded.
Martin was speaking to Haley now. “Johnny’s in a coma. I’ll be honest, I’m not surprised by this, considering the amount of blood he lost. He may come out of it in a matter of hours, and let’s hope for that. But there’s always the risk that it could go on for a while. Possibly even indefinitely. We’ll watch him very closely, do everything we can, I promise you—”
Haley had heard enough and moved around the doctor fast, heading for the recovery room door. As she approached it she could see through the glass that it was, in fact, Johnny on the large hospital bed.
Breathing tube taped to his mouth, monitor relays attached to his arm and chest. Two IV bags, both filled with clear liquids, hung on a stand by the head of his bed.
His eyes closed, Johnny was motionless except for the rising and falling of his chest.
Haley entered the room, had to pass the smaller bed on which Jeremy lay, still unconscious. Reaching Johnny’s bedside, she carefully but quickly took his hand.
The pregnant woman brought a chair and placed it bedside, then exited. Haley sat down, leaning forward, getting as close to Johnny as she could, her face just inches from his.
Cat entered the room and stepped to the foot of Jeremy’s bed, but Haley didn’t look at her. She sensed, though, that Cat was uncertain how to approach her brother. Or maybe reluctant to see him in his current condition.
It wasn’t long before Haley heard voices.
She recognized them: Johnny’s father and the doctor. They were talking in hushed tones — no, Haley realized, they were talking in full voices that were muffled by the glass.
That went on for a few moments, and then the door to the recovery room opened and Haley heard Johnny’s father say softly, “Cat, can we see you out here?”
Haley could feel Cat looking at her, but she wouldn’t turn away from Johnny. She was gently stroking his forehead when Cat left the room and closed the door.
There was more muffled talking, but Haley didn’t even try to listen.
Alone, she leaned closer still and began to whisper into Johnny’s ear.
“I know you can hear me, Johnny. I know you’re still in there. Don’t even think about leaving me, okay? Don’t even think about going where I can’t follow. You said you’d always be there for me, and I’m going have to hold you to that. If you hear me, Johnny, squeeze my hand, okay? Squeeze my hand, just the tiniest bit, okay?”
Haley felt nothing, held his hand even tighter, had to close her eyes and hold them closed to clear them of tears.
When she opened her eyes again, she turned her head and looked through the glass. She saw that Smith — Kirkland — had joined Cat and her father. The doctor was gone.
Whatever the trio was talking about was clearly serious business.
Haley then saw someone else emerge from the mazelike corridor and join them.
Richter McVicker.
Tears in his eyes, too, but standing straight, and with an expression of determination on his hard face.
While the others continued their discussion, Richter was looking at Haley through the glass.
He spoke, nodding toward her, and then, briefly, everyone else looked at her, too.
Haley sensed for some reason that they were about to come get her — something was happening, or about to happen.
She turned back to Johnny and whispered, “There’s something I need to say to you. Something I realized recently that you need to know. So listen to me carefully, okay?” She took a breath, then said, “When we first met, you looked so lost. There was so much…pain in your eyes. When I finally asked why that was, you told me that you’d been deprived of your destiny. Of what you were born to do. I
’d never heard anyone talk like that before. But that was exactly how you looked. Like a man whose world had been shattered And then yesterday I heard your sister say that to you back at the hotel, when you were waiting for the elevator, right before Jeremy took off. I could hear everything you two were saying. I never doubted you, Johnny — never doubted that that was what you thought and how you felt. But I need to tell you now that I think you’re wrong. The way I see it, if you hadn’t lost everything, you wouldn’t have ended up in Thailand. You wouldn’t have been there exactly when I needed you. And if we didn’t need to hide from what happened there, we wouldn’t have gone to Dickey, and if we hadn’t gone to Dickey, you wouldn’t have been there when your sister and brother needed you. So the way it looks to me, everything that happened to you, as terrible as it was, got you to where you needed to be — to where we all needed you to be. If that isn’t fate or destiny or whatever, Johnny, I don’t know what is. So maybe you were born for a reason after all, just not the reason you had grown up thinking. Maybe you were born to save your family, to bring them back together. As far as destinies go, how could that be bad, right? How could that not be a reason to live? And go to on living?”
She paused, then whispered, “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Johnny. Okay? Please just squeeze my hand.”
She waited but felt nothing.
Something made her glance toward the glass door again. The quartet was still in conference — Richter and Kirkland talking, Cat and her father listening.
Intensely, gravely.
And Kirkland was holding something in his hand.
A cell phone, which he held up so Cat and Johnny’s father could read the display.
After a moment, Johnny’s father spoke. Then he and Cat broke away and stepped toward the recovery room door.
As they did, Kirkland began pressing the cell phone keyboard with two thumbs.
Composing a quick text, then sending it.
Entering the recovery room, Cat and Johnny’s father studied Jeremy as they quietly filed past his bed, Cat first, her father behind her.
Reaching the foot of Johnny’s bed, they studied him, too, with matching expressions of concern, then finally looked at Haley.
The Betrayer Page 45