Then, finally, the sound of someone coming up the plank steps, moving with purpose.
There was no time for her to make her way back into either of the bedrooms, so she hurried to the darkest corner of the living room, at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. She backed into it and, once she was there, removed one of her Spyderco knives. As she opened it, the blade clicking into place, the apartment door opened.
She listened as whoever had entered moved through the kitchen and into the living room—moving right past her and heading straight for the bedroom to the right.
She got only a glimpse of him, saw enough, though, to recognize the kid.
Had the cops let him go? she wondered. Had he somehow sneaked out on his own? If so, why? The moment the kid entered the bedroom, she stepped from the dark corner and slipped into the kitchen and took cover in there, on the other side of an old refrigerator.
She waited only a few seconds, then leaned out a bit so she could see around it. She watched as this kid, visible through the open bedroom door, took off his peacoat and tossed it onto the bed. Then he disappeared, returning into her line of sight a moment later with the leather jacket and helmet in his hands. He was obviously going somewhere, and in a hurry. Maybe he would lead her to Militich?
To make her move to the door would mean leaving the cover of the refrigerator and risking being seen, so she held steady, waiting for the right time. After a moment the kid left the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom. He was out of sight, but she heard water running and knew that now would be her best bet; the sound of the water would cover whatever sounds she could not avoid making.
She hurried across the kitchen to the door, opened it and moved through, closing it as quietly as she could. She crept down the rotting plank steps, using her flashlight to find her way. Once she reached the bottom, she saw that the motorcycle had been uncovered and moved to the bay door.
It was exactly what she had been hoping for.
She stepped to the bike, dropped to her knees, and removed the hard plastic case from her mechanic’s bag. She opened it, grabbed the tracking device, searched the motorcycle for a good place to attach it. The underside of the primary cover on the left side of the engine, she decided. A good hunk of metal here for the heavy magnet to cling to.
Once done, she packed up and hurried for the exit. The security system was still unarmed, so she opened the door and stepped through, was in the process of closing it as carefully as she could when a sudden wind hit it, pulling the knob from her gloved hand.
The door closed with a slam, but there was no time to worry about that. She took off down the dark road, in an all-out run, the sound of the wind filling her ears.
Her powerful legs pumped beneath her, her strong lungs held. She could run like this for miles if she had to.
Inside the sedan, she laid the gear on the seat beside her: the small notebook computer, satellite antenna, power adapter. Plugging the adapter into the cigarette lighter, she started the engine but kept the lights off, then powered up the computer and attached the antenna. Within two minutes she had the program running and was looking at the signal from the tracking device, set within a detailed map of the area.
She waited, and it was only a matter of minutes before the signal began to move, heading in her direction. She switched on the headlights and pulled out onto the road, just as the motorcycle appeared in the rearview mirror. She didn’t speed, there was no reason for that, simply followed the road to its end. The bike stayed behind her the entire way.
She had a fifty-fifty choice—turn right or left. She chose right, saw as she headed south the motorcycle turn left, heading north. She waited till it was out of sight—the kid had opened up the throttle, was over the crest of the long rising road in seconds—and then turned around.
Driving slowly, she monitored the signal, making a point of staying a good half mile behind it.
It was only a matter of minutes before the signal, after making a series of turns, came to a stop.
The map indicated a town called Sag Harbor was ahead. She could see it now, a nest of lights emerging out of the darkness.
Nine
Cal reached the end of Main Street, paused at the stop sign long enough to satisfy any cop that might have been watching and to determine that the pier directly ahead was empty. Then he turned right, and right again, heading up a narrow and dark backstreet that ran behind Main.
He traveled a few hundred feet, then pulled into the parking lot of a deli, which was closed, along with almost everything else on this street. The only exception was Murph’s Backstreet Tavern, a run-down watering hole directly across from the deli.
Switching off the motor, Cal swung the kickstand down with the heel of his boot and dismounted. His helmet hid his face, and he found suddenly that he was just a little reluctant to give up this mask. Still, he couldn’t walk around like this—or could he? It was, after all, Halloween. As he removed his gloves, he focused on the tavern, watched as a couple exited—arm in arm, clearly drunk and happy, the man dressed in a top hat, white tie, and tails, the woman in a leopard print dancer’s leotard, fluffy cat ears, and thigh-high leather boots with four-inch stiletto heels. As they approached their vehicle, the couple suddenly stopped and embraced, kissing passionately. The woman reached up under the tails of the man’s tail coat and aggressively grabbed his buttocks with both hands, pulling him closer. The man removed his top hat and placed it on her head, where it stayed for a moment before falling off. Laughter interrupted their kiss, and their embrace was broken as the woman bent down to pick up the hat. She began to lose her balance, but the man caught her just in time. As she stood up straight, she placed the hat back on her head, then playfully grabbed the man’s crotch and, laughing loudly, pulled him by it as if he were a dog on a leash. He happily let himself be led.
This couple only had eyes for each other, so they didn’t see Cal, didn’t even look up and down the dark backstreet as they crossed it. Cal nonetheless waited in the deli’s parking lot till they had gotten into their vehicle and driven away.
The street quiet again—virtually lifeless, it seemed to him, like an unused movie set—he unfastened the chin strap and removed his helmet, stuffed his gloves inside it, then hung it on the right-side foot peg and began to backtrack down the half block toward the water.
He reached the marina first, which was to the right of the pier. There were only a few sailboats moored at its docks tonight, all of them covered with tarps and bobbing out of sync with one another in the steady chop. Beyond them, a little over a mile away, Shelter Island loomed. Cal looked at it briefly before turning and making his way over to the foot of the pier.
It jetted out one hundred yards into the harbor. No one was waiting upon it—no one was anywhere—so he headed toward its end. Upon reaching it, he found he had nothing left to do but wait alone in that rushing wind, only the short span of dark and turbulent water between himself and Shelter Island.
Were they still there? he wondered. Heather’s husband; the man who worked for him; Angstrom; those guests; the women brought there to serve them? Or had Heather’s husband, enraged at having been beaten by Heather, beaten at his own game, called the party off and sent everyone away?
Eventually he turned and studied the brightly lit Main Street ahead. The woman he was to meet would, of course, come from this direction. He saw no one on foot, though, and no vehicles in motion. It wasn’t long before he heard from somewhere the sound of a car door close. It echoed, then was gone. He couldn’t pinpoint where it had come from, but soon enough a figure emerged from a dark side street just a little ways up Main and began walking in his direction.
It moved with steady gait, on an unwavering path, and reached the pier in a little under a minute. By then Cal could see that it was, in fact, a woman.
She was wearing a dark wool coat, with an old leather belt around the waist and a paisley scarf around her neck. Holding her hands deep within the pockets of the co
at, she carried no purse. The heels of her boots clicked on the pavement, a sound, due to the wind, that Cal only heard after she had crossed onto the second half of the pier.
When she reached him he saw that she was an older woman, maybe forty, maybe fifty. Twice his age, at least. She had long dark hair, stray strands of which blew across her face, getting caught in the corners of her mouth. She removed her right hand from her coat pocket and pulled the hairs free, first from one corner, then the other. There was enough light at Long Wharf for Cal to see that she was fair-skinned and had dark brown eyes—a beautiful woman, but there was no surprise here, Lebell had always attracted those. It would not have surprised Cal at all if he were to see, should she at some point remove her left hand from her pocket, a band of gold around her ring finger.
Composed, almost serene, she showed no hint of apprehension about being on the end of that pier, on the edge of a desolate town, with someone she didn’t know—and, clearly, she was in no hurry. She smiled warmly, making Cal feel they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Or, he thought suddenly, maybe that was for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. When she spoke, her voice was clear and steady and surprisingly deep.
“I’m guessing you’re Cal. I’m Angelica.”
Cal nodded, tried to offer a smile that matched hers. “Hi,” he said.
“We’re supposed to wait a few minutes and make sure you weren’t followed,” she explained. “Mickey gave me a long list of things we should and shouldn’t do.”
“Mickey?”
“Sorry. Lebell. I still can’t get used to his new name.” She looked over her shoulder toward Main Street, studied it for a moment, then faced Cal again. “I didn’t realize you were so young,” she said. “He said you were, but I didn’t know you were this young.”
Cal wasn’t really sure how to respond to that. His first instinct was to tell her that he was twenty-two, but he couldn’t think of a way to say that without sounding defensive and, therefore, young. In the end he simply asked how Lebell was.
“He needs a doctor, but he refuses to go to the hospital. Maybe you can help me with that. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“He’ll tell you.” She nodded toward Main Street. “My car is around the corner. We’ll go in a minute.”
“I have my bike.”
“You rode here on a bike?”
“A motorcycle.”
“Oh. You’re probably going to need to leave that here.”
“Why?”
“He told me specifically to drive you to him in my car.”
“The thing is, I didn’t bring a cover or lock. If I leave it, it might get stolen. If I’d known, I would have found another way to get here. I don’t own a car.”
Angelica thought about that, glanced once more toward Main Street. “I guess you’ll follow me, then,” she said. “I guess that’ll have to be okay.”
“Where exactly are we going?”
“Don’t worry, it isn’t far. Just stay behind me.”
Moments later they were crossing over the bridge to North Haven, just as Cal had done the night before on his way to the Shelter Island ferry. Angelica’s vehicle was a brand-new silver Lexus with tinted windows. Perhaps, Cal thought, this was the reason Lebell had wanted him to ride with her—dark windows would mean no one could see who was inside.
Angelica paused at the end of North Haven Road. A right-hand turn would have taken them down the long incline to the ferry landing, so Cal was relieved when her vehicle turned left. She led him through the back roads of Noyac and North Sea, keeping at all times to the posted speed limit. She had suggested that Cal keep an eye on his rearview mirrors as they went, be on the lookout for any sign that they were being followed. He did so, saw, though, not one indication of a single soul in the darkness behind them the entire way to Southampton.
They took the long way through the village, a circuitous, precautionary route that ended at the entrance to a property guarded by tall hedges and a wrought-iron gate on Ox Pasture Road.
So, walking distance, more or less, from Lebell’s apartment, just like Tierno and Messing had said.
The electronic gate, triggered by Angelica inside the Lexus, swung open. The Lexus proceeded through, and Cal followed, moving from the smooth pavement to a driveway of loose white stones that shifted beneath his tires. To the right of this driveway stood an old house—a classic Long Island mansion, four-story Nautical. Angelica, however, didn’t head for that; instead, she made an immediate left turn and came to a stop beside a small cottage located just beyond the gate.
No, less than a cottage, Cal noted. A gatehouse. A square, single-story structure, its walls fieldstone, its roof dark overlaying shingles. Like the mansion—like most of the homes on Ox Pasture—it was easily close to a century old.
Cal parked beside the luxury car, dismounted, and removed his helmet and gloves. None of the property’s many outside lights were on, and none of the windows of the main house were lit. The only source of light, aside from what strayed onto the grounds from a distant streetlamp beyond the tall hedgerow, was the flickering glow inside the gatehouse.
Like candlelight, Cal thought, but brighter, and with an orange tint. A fire, maybe.
Angelica emerged from behind the wheel, smiled her warm smile again, and waved for him to follow her. She led him inside the gatehouse, through a small living room, and into an even smaller kitchen. The place was warm and cozy; it smelled of burning wood. Cal immediately located the source of that smell, and of the dancing light he had seen from outside: an old stone hearth in the center of the kitchen, two halves of a log burning within it, a pile of glowing embers beneath.
Beside the hearth was an array of tools—black iron tongs, various pokers, a small ash shovel, even an old brass bed warmer. Antiques, every one of them, just like everything else around them.
Beyond the kitchen was a bedroom, the only possible remaining room in this tiny place. Before taking him to it, though, Angelica stopped. Facing him, she stood a foot or so away. He could see now the fine lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, could smell her perfume and shampoo. Her presence, her closeness to him, held him for a second like a spell. She undid the old leather belt and removed her overcoat, was wearing a black knit turtleneck sweater and jeans. A slender woman, he could see now, with a swimmer’s build. Or maybe the build of someone who practiced yoga regularly. That would explain the poise, he thought.
“He’s in pretty bad shape,” she whispered. “You should prepare yourself, okay?”
He nodded, and Angelica led him to the doorway of that final room, which was lit only by the glow of a digital clock. It was, though, more than enough.
On a bed with a high brass headboard lay an unconscious Lebell. He was shirtless, his muscular torso a patchwork of bloodstained bandages—across his stomach, his chest, his left shoulder and right forearm. A white sheet and comforter covered him to his waist.
Angelica stepped to the side of the bed, reached down gently to wake him. Cal glimpsed both of her hands then, saw long fingers with manicured nails, prominent tendons and veins, and soft, slightly freckled skin.
Not a single ring, however.
Lebell stirred, opened his eyes, looked up. He seemed confused for a moment, almost recoiled, then, gathering his wits, recognized the woman leaning over him.
Like a man pulled from a nightmare.
“We’re back,” she whispered.
Lebell nodded once, searched for Cal in the dimly lit room, spotted him in the doorway. He smiled as best he could. “Thanks for coming, bro,” he said.
The edges of his eyelids were red and swollen, like skin that had been freshly peeled. This, plus the bloodshot eyes themselves, set within a face that was gravelly pale, was more than enough to tell Cal that his friend was in constant pain.
Cal smiled back the best he could. He needed, though, a moment to adjust to the shock. He ha
d never seen anyone so badly injured, and the thought that all this damage—so many cuts, so many slices—had been inflicted upon one person by the hand of another simply stunned him.
There wasn’t time to dwell on that, he told himself.
“Cal and I need to talk for a little bit,” Lebell said to Angelica.
“Of course.” She stood up, turned to Cal. He was still lingering in the doorway. “Do you need anything?” she asked. “Coffee? A drink, maybe? You look like you could use something.”
“No. I’m good, thanks.”
She stepped to the doorway, then stopped, waiting with a patient smile for Cal to realize that he was blocking her way. When he finally did, he immediately moved into the small room. He had taken, though, only a single, tentative step.
Angelica touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. Talk to him.”
He looked at her. As dimly lit as the bedroom was, this was the brightest light they had so far shared. He could see more clearly the lines around her eyes and mouth, make out, too, a pattern of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Delicate features, a pristine beauty. She was—whoever she was—a well-tended woman, in that way wealthy women can be. Fit, polished, centered. For some reason it wasn’t till this moment that he’d realized she was not only old enough to be his mother but Lebell’s as well.
“I’m going run up to the main house,” she said. “There’s an intercom in the kitchen here. If you need anything, just press the talk button.”
Cal nodded.
“Try to talk some sense into him, if you can. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She glanced at Lebell, then left. Cal watched as she moved through the kitchen and living room. Once she was out the door, he and Lebell—the man he had known for this past year as Lebell—were alone.
Lebell had removed a cigarette from a pack and placed it between his lips, was lighting it with a slim silver lighter.
“Could you hand me that ashtray?” he said. His voice was both a gasp and a grunt.
[2010] The Violet Hour Page 14