Just a handful of turns and they were at a motel on the very eastern edge of Southampton Village. Clarke had watched Cal in the rearview mirror more or less the entire way. He had simply looked out the window, thought only of Heather.
He waited alone in a room that felt to him as though it hadn’t been used for a long time.
Cold, dormant, foreign.
Off-season in Southampton, so maybe it hadn’t been.
The motel, a single-story building with twelve units, was on Hampton Road. He occupied the last room, farthest from the street. Clarke’s patrol car, the officer seated behind the wheel, was parked right outside the door. He was as safe here as in the garage, perhaps, but it was the wrong kind of safe.
He hadn’t known till now that there even was such a thing.
His eyes on the bedside clock, Cal watched the minutes pass. He’d been there for maybe ten minutes—a long ten minutes—when he heard the sound of a car pulling into the gravel courtyard, slowly approaching the rear unit. Parting the drawn curtain, he looked out the window and saw that it was a patrol car. He watched as it parked beside Clarke’s unit. Spadaro got out from behind the wheel, stepped to the rear door, and opened it. Amanda emerged, was immediately escorted by Spadaro to the room. Clarke met them there, unlocked the door with her key, and let the girl in. Cal felt a little like a prisoner getting a visitor. Amanda was dressed in the clothes Cal had removed from her purse last night and searched for a tracking device—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt. They looked at each other for a moment. It took him a bit to get used to seeing her with clothes on. She asked about Heather, and Cal told her that she was on her way. Amanda nodded, said nothing more. The room had two beds, and, turning away, Amanda removed the bedspread from one and wrapped it around herself, then sat down on the edge of the mattress.
Cal walked to the other bed, sat on its edge. Amanda wasn’t looking at him, seemed to be drifting off into her own world. Still hungover from whatever it was she had been slipped the night before.
After a moment, though, she spoke. “Is it him? Has he found us?”
Cal said, “No. This is something else.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded but didn’t ask what that something else was.
Moments later, deeply restless, he stood and stepped to the window again, parting the curtains and watching as Clarke and Spadaro, standing by Spadaro’s car, talked. Five minutes went by, then five more. He thought of the night his brother had disappeared, thought of the long hours of waiting that turned eventually into two terrible days. A living hell that only ended when Detective Messing showed up to deliver the news.
Having tried to avoid that very same situation with Lebell, he had only re-created it with Heather.
Close to a half hour passed, and there was still no sign of Heather. A sick feeling made its home in his stomach. It grew till eventually it felt as if someone were tugging at his insides, each tug more violent, more urgent, than the one before it. Finally, though, a car turned from Hampton Road into the courtyard, its headlights swinging like a pair of searchlights.
A patrol car, heading toward the other two.
Cal held his breath, couldn’t help it, waited, unwilling to exhale, as the unit parked and its driver got out from behind the wheel and opened the back door.
Heather emerged then, was led right away by Clarke—quickly, as though they were at risk of coming under fire—to the motel room door.
No routine to hide himself in, no ritual to ease his mind, Cal was adrift.
In the dark, he listened to breathing—Amanda’s, Heather’s, his own. Amanda was asleep, Heather he wasn’t so sure about.
He had told her what was going on, had answered all her questions, the two of them speaking in hushed voices while Amanda, still wrapped in the bedspread, lay motionless on the other bed. It had been a short conversation; Cal only knew so much. Listening carefully, Heather seemed to him like someone formulating an opinion. This was confirmed when she, after running out of questions, said about Lebell, “I never did like him all that much.”
“Why not, exactly?”
“He always seemed ... up to something.”
Cal had said nothing to that; she was right, Lebell had always been up to something, on his way to somewhere, coming back from somewhere. Motion to Cal’s stillness, chaos to his order.
“Besides,” she’d added, “he was a bad influence on you.” She’d smiled knowingly. “All those women, those torrid one-night stands, before I came along.”
Cal, feeling a blush begin, had smiled but said nothing.
Now they were trying to get some sleep. It wasn’t late, not even nine, but with Amanda asleep, and nothing left to tell her, what else was there for them to do?
As tired as he was, though, Cal couldn’t sleep. Every so often he’d glance at the beside clock, note the time. 9:30, 10:00, 10:30. He made a point of not moving, not allowing himself to toss or turn. Even though Heather was on the other bed, in a room as small and as silent as this one, she would no doubt hear the noise. If she had found sleep, he didn’t want it to slip away from her because of him.
It was at a quarter to eleven that this silence was broken by the sound of a phone ringing.
Not the room’s phone but a cell phone.
Heather rose from the other bed quickly and crossed to the desk, where her new cell lay. She’d needed to charge the battery, and the only available outlet was there. The ringing was muffled and continued even after Heather had reached the desk.
Then, out of the darkness, came her voice.
“It’s not my phone,” she whispered.
Cal realized then that the ringing was coming from the pocket of his peacoat.
It was Heather’s old phone, its sound muffled by the thick wool.
He scrambled for it, reached deep into the pocket, and took hold of the phone. It was vibrating wildly, like a frantic animal.
It wasn’t an incoming call but rather a text message. Cal told Heather this.
“What’s it say?”
They were both speaking in hushed voices. ‘“Need to see you,’” he read. “‘Can you meet friend of mine tonight? Please reply. Lebell.’”
“Jesus,” Heather said.
Cal heard her searching for the desktop lamp. She found it finally. The room was lit up suddenly with the pale white glow of a fluorescent reading lamp.
The number the text had been sent from Cal didn’t recognize.
“What should I do?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“He says he needs my help.”
“First of all, how did he get that number?”
The question slowed Cal, but only slightly. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Ronnie, trying to trick you,” she concluded. “Angstrom was the only other person besides you that I gave this number to. And you didn’t give it to Lebell, did you?”
Cal couldn’t remember doing so. Maybe drunk one night, he thought. Possible, but not likely.
“No,” he said.
“So then it has to be Ronnie. We need to get rid of that thing. Right now.”
Cal wasn’t giving up so easily, though.
“But how would he know Lebell’s name?”
“He has his ways.”
“Yeah, but how?”
“I don’t know.”
Cal studied the phone. If it was Pamona, it was unnerving to be connected to him, even in such an intangible way. He out there on Shelter Island, they hiding in a motel on the edge of Southampton Village.
If it wasn’t Pamona, if it really was Lebell, and Cal had done nothing . . .
“I’m going to respond,” he said.
“Don’t. Please.”
“I can’t just sit here, Heather.”
“Even after everything you’ve just learned about him.”
“I should at least hear his side, don’t you think?”
She said nothing to that.
“We’re safe,” Cal reminded her. “You guys will be safe. There’s a cop outside the door, the police station is only, what, three minutes away.”
“A lot could happen in three minutes.”
“It’s Lebell, Heather. I know it is.”
She thought for a moment, watching him, then finally nodded. “Do what you have to do,” she said.
Cal looked at the phone, then back at her. “I’m not sure how to text.”
“Give it to me.”
She walked to him; he handed her the phone.
“What do you want to say?”
Cal paused, then said, “How do I know this is really you?”
Heather entered the text, pressing the keys with one thumb, then sent it. Fifteen seconds later the phone rang again.
“’62 Benz,’” she read.
“That’s the car I stayed home to work on last night,” Cal said. “It’s him.”
The phone rang again. Heather read this text.
‘“Angelica, at Long Wharf, Sag Harbor.’”
“Tell him I’ll be there.”
“How are you going to get there?”
“I’ll figure out a way. Tell him I need an hour.”
Heather nodded, composed the text, sent it off. They waited, saying nothing till a reply came back. As before, it did so quickly.
“‘Thanks,’” Heather read. She handed the phone back to Cal. “So now what?”
Cal wasn’t all that sure. He returned to the front window and looked out. Clarke was behind the wheel, talking on her cell phone. He stepped away, looked toward the bathroom at the back of the room.
Its small window was his only other way out.
He grabbed his peacoat, put it on. “I won’t be long.”
“He’s not your brother,” Heather said. “You know that, right? He’s not Aaron. He’s nowhere near it.”
“I know that. I just think I should see what he wants.”
“Why?”
It wasn’t only the people who had tried to kill Lebell—or Pamona and his men, for that matter—that Cal needed to be careful of now. There was Carver and his recent suspicious activities, details of which Lebell had promised to attempt to uncover last night. If there was a chance Lebell had in fact learned something, Cal couldn’t really just sit there.
Anyway, it occurred to him that it might be best, knowing what he now knew, if he determined the manner by which Lebell had come to possess Heather’s number.
Cal didn’t say any of this. He answered her question with a simple “I just think I should.”
“I really don’t feel good about this,” Heather said. “Not one bit.”
“It’ll be okay, I promise. Trust me, I wouldn’t go if I didn’t believe you were safe. Messing’s an okay guy, for a cop. He gave me his word he’d take care of us.”
Heather waited a moment, watching him closely, then said, “Hang on.” Back at the desk she tore off a piece of paper from a notepad, wrote something down, then handed the paper to him. “This is my new number.”
Cal looked at the paper, then folded it and slipped it into his pocket with Messing’s business card.
“I want you to call me in two hours,” she said, “no matter what. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m going out there and telling that cop that you left. And where you went.”
“Fair enough.”
“Please be careful.”
“When am I not?”
Heather stood at the front window, serving as lookout, while Cal opened the narrow window in the bathroom. He began to climb through, and it was easy enough to get into, but there was nothing on the other side for him to hold on to or climb down on. Losing his balance, he fell to the cold ground, but it didn’t matter, he was out.
Getting to his feet, he looked around, made certain no one was watching, then closed the window and hurried away.
Moving blindly at first, he realized finally that he was actually heading north, the direction in which he needed to be going. He cut through a few backyards, then was standing on Elm Street.
At its far end, three blocks away, stood the Southampton train station.
Too late for trick-or-treaters now, so most of the porch lights were unlit. No eastbound train was due till much later, but there was a pay phone on the platform, and from it Cal called for a cab.
It arrived in less than five minutes, and in the warmth of its backseat, watching the dark scenery flash past, Cal felt a little relieved to be in motion, heading somewhere with something specific to do. Nothing routine about this, and yet, right now, he didn’t really give a damn about that.
He had the cabbie drop him off at the Bridgehampton train station, just a stop away from the East Hampton station, where Heather had abandoned her SUV. As he waited for the cab to roll away he wondered if Heather’s husband had found her vehicle yet. He imagined the man flying into a rage, but there was no reason to waste time on that now.
Once the cab was out of sight, Cal began retracing his steps back to Scuttlehole Road. He looked around as he approached the garage, just as he had done when he left it hours ago. Carefully, methodically. He didn’t see a single car parked anywhere along that dark back road, was as certain as he could be as he crossed the pavement that it was, maybe even for miles, just him and this dilapidated building and the night.
Unlocking the office door, he entered and saw right away that the alarm was inactive. Amanda, despite her promise, had forgotten to turn it on before leaving. Cal passed through the office, into the first and then the second work bay. His old Triumph motorcycle was parked at the end of the third bay. He removed the canvas cover, pushed the bike to the third bay door, switched the ignition on and off to quick-check the battery, then pushed on the tires with his thumb to make certain each had the proper air pressure.
Hurrying upstairs, he took off his peacoat, laid it on his bed, then grabbed his steerhide jacket and helmet from his closet, pulled a scarf from a hook on the back of the closet door, and tossed them all onto the peacoat.
In his bathroom, he quickly washed his face, more from a need to brace himself than to clean himself up. His hands once again were shaking. When he was done, as he dried his face and then his hands, looking at himself in the mirror, he heard a noise, or thought he’d heard one. Stepping into the doorway, pausing there, towel still in hand, he looked into his large living room, saw, though, nothing but the usual shadows.
He waited for the noise to repeat but heard nothing more. The wind, then, pushing against the rotting wood.
A moment later, back in his bedroom, he put on the steerhide jacket, then the peacoat over that, wound the scarf around his neck. Grabbing the helmet and removing the heavy leather gloves from inside it, he hurried back down the plank stairs.
He opened the third bay door, rolled the bike out into the night, and switched the ignition again, this time starting the engine. It caught right away. Leaving the bike to warm up, he reentered the garage, closed and locked the bay door, and inserted its pins.
He exited through the office, making sure this door was locked, then reactivated the security system from the outside keypad. He put on his gloves and helmet as he crossed gravel, then mounted the saddle, pulled in the clutch, and stepped down on the shifter lever with his toe, dropping the transmission into first gear.
It was chilly, forty-five degrees, tops. A year-round rider, Cal was used to this. On a motorcycle, at forty-five degrees, doing forty-five miles per hour, the wind chill brought the temperature for the rider down to thirty, at least. The higher the speed, the greater the drop. Thirty wouldn’t be unbearable; he’d ridden in worse, and anyway what other choice did he have? He had pressed his luck with the Citroën already, didn’t dare try that again.
He pulled out of the garage, leaving it behind in the night. Less than a half mile down Scuttlehole Road, Cal pulled up behind a Ford sedan that was traveling just below the speed limit. He didn’t dare pass it, though, not on this winding road, and not at night, so he r
emained behind it till Scuttlehole’s end.
There the sedan turned right, heading south toward Bridgehampton, and Cal turned left. Opening up the throttle, he moved up through the gears quickly, reaching sixty-five in a matter of seconds and maintaining that speed till, a half minute later, he realized that he was being reckless and eased back sharply on the throttle till the needle on the speedometer dropped down to forty-five.
Tucking himself into a racer’s crouch, more to limit the effects of the steady blast of night air rushing past him than anything else, Cal kept an eye on the horizon ahead, saw it grow gradually lighter with each mile nearer to Sag Harbor he got.
It was just shy of midnight when he reached the edge of the village. Crossing its border, he eased back on the throttle even more, downshifting to second gear and following that narrow, well-lit Main Street till the empty pier that marked its end was finally within his sight.
Long Wharf.
Eight
In her room at the end of the hall, Evangeline Amendora waited for Janssen to arrive. He was to be there at eight, was always prompt, but it was only half past six now. An hour and a half more, then. Her only window faced south, so she didn’t have to watch the actual sunset, but that was a small consolation at best; around her darkness grew gradually till she was, sitting on the edge of a bed that was still strange to her after so many nights, surrounded by complete blackness.
It was difficult in these particular moments for her to remember that she had grown tall and powerful, possessed legs and arms that were roped with lean muscle, a stomach that was tight and trim, and a back that was strong yet still sleek, still feminine. The heart and body of an Olympian, that was what she was now, nothing short of that, all the skills that she could possibly need burned deep into her muscle memory. No one could do to her what had been done to that slum child long ago. No one but he would ever get to touch her, and ever expect her to touch him in return.
Too much time to sit around and think. She was beginning to deteriorate, could feel it. The scuffle with Militich, those few but significant blows he had managed to land before bolting—this carried more than the loss of pride at having been bested, more, too, than just the sting of failure. It had stirred something deep inside her, touched a nerve she had thought would never be touched again, that she had buried beneath an armor of musculature, that was guarded by an array of techniques.
[2010] The Violet Hour Page 12