by Tim Green
"But maybe not before Sunday," Hunter said.
"Right, maybe not," Cook replied, taking a coffee-stained styrofoam cup off the dash and slugging down a cold, bitter gulp, "but. . . this is the best thing we got right now. And if it doesn't pan out this week, it'll be next week. Like I said, a lot of this business is just waiting."
"Cook," Hunter said angrily, "you're talking about more than a fucking week! We've got to do something before that."
"Listen, man," Cook said, his nostrils flaring just a bit and his eyes narrowing at Hunter, "I hear what you're saying, but we're doing all we can. Hey, we're here, we're looking for your family, man. We're not even trying to find mine. How you think that makes me feel?"
Hunter was silent for a while thinking about this. "I'm sorry, Cook," he said, and then quietly "I'm going fucking crazy."
"Look!"
The word cut through two days of stale air like a blast of cold wind. Hunter followed Cook's finger across the street to the large, thick frame of a man he instantly recognized. It was Angelo Quatrini. He had popped suddenly from a cab that stopped at the corner. Walking up Fifth Avenue, he disappeared into Tony Rizzo's building.
While Angelo was inside, Hunter was afraid to say a word. He didn't want to hope too much.
"Maybe this is it," Cook mumbled, but more to himself than anything else.
When Angelo emerged, he crossed the street, then looked carefully up and down Fifth Avenue before he began to move.
"Shit!" Cook said, scrambling from the car as Angelo Quatrini hopped over the low stone wall that separated the park from the sidewalk. Without saying it, they had both assumed Angelo would get into another cab.
"You stay on channel two and keep as close as you can!" Cook barked to Hunter as he sped away on foot.
Hunter slammed the car in gear and pulled out onto Fifth. He crawled along. "Cook!" he whispered into the radio. "Cook! Are you there?"
There was a burst of static, and then Cook's voice came over the walkie-talkie in an out-of-breath whisper. "I've got him! Go down to that road that cuts through the park and get to the other side. He's headed that way."
Hunter cursed himself. He'd passed Seventy-second Street, which cut through the park. He checked his rearview mirror. There was a steady stream of yellow taxis heading toward him.
"Fuck it," he said and threw the car into reverse. In a blare of horns, Hunter edged backward up Fifth until he got to the cut-through. Then he threw it in drive and raced off. When he got to Central Park West on the other side, he pulled up onto the curb on the park side of the street and whispered frantically into the walkie-talkie.
"Cook! Cook! What's happening?"
"He's coming out of the park," Cook said. "Do you see him?"
Hunter peered up ahead in the gloom. He did see a big figure waving down a cab about three blocks up.
"Come get me! Come get me!" Cook shouted at the same time Angelo was climbing into a cab.
Hunter was already on his way and Angelo's cab was only a block ahead of them before Cook was back in his seat and they were racing up Central Park West.
"OK, OK," Cook said, "not too fast. Keep it back here. We're close enough, this is just right."
Hunter's hands trembled on the wheel, and his stomach was in a knot. They couldn't let him get away.
It was no trick at all to follow the taxi across the Triboro Bridge, down the BQE, and into the heart of Brooklyn. Angelo Quatrini got out at the curbside in front of what Cook knew was his house, a small light-green two-story with battered screens on its windows and doors and peeling paint on its siding.
"Keep driving," Cook said to Hunter as he slouched down in the seat. "I don't know what he's up to, but it's something. He was at Tony's for a reason. I'm guessing he was sent to get something. If he was, then he'll be going back to take whatever it is to Tony. Stop here."
Hunter parked the car at the curb, and they both looked back through the rear window at Angelo's house. The light went on in the upstairs and stayed on. Cook rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.
"OK," he said, "I know you don't want to hear this, but we've just got to wait."
Chapter 41
Angelo Quatrini holed up for a full day, and when he went, he went fast. Late Friday night a cab pulled up in front of his house. He emerged suddenly and got into the waiting car. It sped off and Hunter, who'd kept his place as the driver, pulled away from the curb in pursuit.
The cab wound its way slowly through Brooklyn and crossed the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to Manhattan.
"I don't like this," Cook muttered.
"What's the problem?" Hunter said. "We're right behind him."
"I know," Cook said. "It's too easy, like he's lulling us to sleep."
The word was no sooner out of Cook's mouth than Angelo burst from the cab, which hadn't even come to a complete stop, and shot down a subway station and into the endless arteries of the city.
For almost an hour Cook was able to stay with Angelo, dodging up into the street for brief moments between train changes so that he could radio his position to Hunter. Cook knew from the start it was hopeless. The bad feeling had been with him before Angelo left his house, and once he got into the subway Cook knew that all else would be desperation. But Cook rode the trains for another hour after he'd lost him because that was how he was beginning to feel, desperate.
Hunter finally picked Cook up in front of Penn Station. Cook emerged from the big, ugly building with a pack of bums that were on their way home for the night. Cook's face looked as downtrodden and hopeless as his toothless companions. The only thing that separated him from them was his clothes. Hunter's chin sank slowly to his own chest and he let out a deep sigh. Cook got in beside him and they just sat.
"What do we do?" Hunter finally said to break the silence.
Cook thought for a few moments, then said, "Start over."
Hunter nodded and put the car in gear. He cut across town to Madison Avenue and headed uptown toward Tony Rizzo's place.
"Do you think he knew we were following him?" Hunter asked.
"Yeah," Cook said, "he knew. He knew someone was following him, but not necessarily us. But Angelo's used to being watched and followed. My team's been following him a lot lately, and I'm sure he's on the lookout. Fellows was obviously keeping the whole Mondolffi family very well informed. I'm sure he didn't know it was you. They still think you're going to work every day."
"We should check on Henry," Hunter said. "Don't you think?"
Cook said, "Yeah, we could do that. You could check on your brother and get a change of clothes. Then we'll head right back here and set up camp again."
Hunter turned the car down a side street and headed for the Midtown Tunnel. The smell of them both from the past four days and the excitement of the past four hours forced him to crack his window. The cold air whistled in as they raced along the Long Island Expressway. Hunter blinked his eyes to keep awake. There was a strange voice inside his head, though, that was lulling him to sleep. In a way, he wanted to. He would welcome the blackness, then the instant flash of light as the car careened off the road and smashed into a concrete embankment, then total darkness and nothing, forever. That was an attractive thought when on the other side was only the pain and anguish of having ruined a life of promise and happiness . . .
"Hunter!" Cook bellowed.
Hunter jerked the car back onto the road and snapped to life. Adrenaline rushed through his veins for what must have been the twentieth time that day, and he marveled at the limits of the human body.
"Why don't you let me drive," Cook said.
Tm OK," Hunter replied. "Really, I am. That scared the shit out of me. I'll get us there."
They first drove past the end of the street to make sure Lonny's Town Car was where it was supposed to be. There was no sign of it, so they approached the house from the front. Hunter slowed as he passed the entrance to his house. In the driveway sat the long black car.
"Keep going," Co
ok said.
"What do you think it means?" Hunter asked.
"I don't know," Cook replied. "Maybe nothing. Maybe they're just reminding you that they're there."
Hunter wove the car around through the dark streets to where they could approach his house from the rear. He worried about the car in the driveway. The idea that they were on to his ruse gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The place looked big and empty sitting there ii^ the dark without either of the people that gave it life. Hunter stumbled through the backyard like a drunk, then let them quietly in the back door with a key.
Cautiously they moved through the house. Henry was sound asleep in Hunter's bedroom. Dull moonlight fell in from the window and Hunter paused for a moment over the form that looked like the man he used to be. Henry bolted up frantically when Hunter put a hand on his leg.
"It's me," Hunter said in a low tone. "Henry, it's Hunter. Is everything all right?"
Henry rubbed his eyes and grunted. Suddenly he raised his eyes to Hunter. "Where've you been? I know where she is," he said excitedly.
Hunter gave Cook a quick glance. He dropped down beside his brother and gripped the front of his T-shirt. "How?" he said. "Where?"
Henry related to them his conversation with Camille Carter down to the last detail. He'd repeated her directions to himself a thousand times during the week, fearful beyond words that he might forget. When he finished, the three of them remained still there, in the dark.
Hunter jumped to his feet, "Let's go!"
Cook caught him by the sleeve. "Hold up," he said. "You got to sleep, man."
Hunter looked at Cook like he was mad. "Are you fucking crazy? We've got to get her!"
Cook held firm. He spoke quietly but forcefully. "If you try to go there now, you'll get Rachel killed."
The word seemed almost to echo down the long hallway outside the bedroom.
Hunter eased back. "Why?"
"Look at you," Cook said. "You can barely stand up. You lie down. I'll lie down. We'll get a good sleep. Tomorrow Henry can go to work and get rid of that car out there."
"What's up with that?"
Henry shrugged and said, "I don't know. That guy just follows me wherever I go, and two nights ago he started pulling right into the driveway after me and sitting there."
"When Henry goes, we'll take some showers and get some new clothes. Then we'll do this thing right. You can't just go running off half-cocked and expect to go into that cabin with guns blazing and come out with your wife in one piece. We need to do it right."
"But we've got to get her by Sunday," Hunter screeched in the voice of a madman. "You said yourself we don't know what they'll do with her after the game. We should go now."
"Listen," Cook said. "I've done this kind of thing before. You have to do it right or people will get hurt. We've got time. We can stake it out tomorrow and get her tomorrow night or even Sunday morning if we have to."
"Hey," Henry interjected, "you've got to do something before Sunday about me, too. I can't play in that game. You've got to be there."
Hunter almost stumbled on his feet. "You're not tired, Cook," he said. "If you're not, then I'm not. I want to get my wife."
Cook led Hunter gently by the arm as he spoke and deposited him on his own bed. "I'm tired, too," he said. "Just close your eyes for a little and we'll go get her. Trust me."
Cook was certain that Hunter was asleep before his head hit the bed.
"It's been a long week," Cook said to Henry without looking at him, "and hard on him."
Together they got Hunter's head up on the pillows and stripped him down to his shorts before covering him up with a blanket. Cook found a guest room and lay himself down. He, too, fell asleep in an instant. No one was there to take his clothes off or cover him up, but Cook never knew the difference.
Saturday morning was chilly and gray. The sun was no more than a pale yellow orb that glowed weakly from time to time through the eastern bank of clouds. The foliage was at its peak colors. Bright oranges and burning reds lit most of the trees that covered the Catskill Mountains. The wind was steady from the west and promising some kind of autumn storm.
Tony slept until almost nine. Even Angelo, who hadn't gotten in until the early morning hours, was up before Tony. Mikey had attended to Rachel and packed his bag in the car already. Both his men were sitting at the rustic plank-topped kitchen table having coffee when Tony came in. All three were dressed in flannel shirts, jeans, and Timberland boots. Tony sat down and watched Mikey pour him a cup, then took a swig before he began to talk.
"Everything OK, Ang?" he said.
Angelo shrugged. "I got the tickets. I can't believe you sent me back there for fucking football tickets. I couldn't get back right away because the fucking FBI was following me again. I took my time to lose them. I wanted to be sure."
Tony nodded. "Good."
For almost anyone else, Tony would have had a barrage of nervous questions to ask to assure himself that they hadn't been followed. But Angelo, he knew, did not make those kinds of mistakes.
"Where's Carl?" Angelo said.
Tony paused for a moment and had another swig of the strong, hot coffee. "I had a job for him Ang, a big job."
Tony saw Angelo's eyes dart at him with interest before he looked away.
"You gonna make him, Tony?" Angelo said, his gaze directed out the window at the colorful trees that encircled the cabin.
That's what you want, Ang," Tony said.
"I want him with me," Angelo said quietly.
Tony allowed himself a smirk. He wasn't worried because he knew Angelo wouldn't look at him. He was pleased that Angelo was so invested in Carl. It would make his acceptance of what was to come much easier. Making Carl a member of the family was the bone Tony was tossing to Angelo to help him forget about his ultimate loyalty to Tony's uncle. He knew Angelo didn't need much more. Besides, once his uncle was gone, he was gone. Angelo would be a big problem only if he were to find out about Tony's plans before they had been enacted.
I'll take care of it," Tony said to assure Angelo that he wasn't going to take Carl away from him.
Angelo did not smile, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly and Tony knew he was pleased.
"I want you to take care of the bitch for a couple of days," Tony said. "Mikey and I have some business with Meeker in Atlantic City tonight, and then we'll be going to the game tomorrow."
"What am I gonna do with her?" Angelo asked.
"I don't know, Ang," Tony said. "It depends how Sunday goes. I'm assuming everything will go OK. If it does, I think I'll give the bitch back to him. That'll cause the least amount of trouble. We can make him happy to have her back and still keep him on a string with the idea that we might just take her again if he pisses us off. I don't know. If there's any kind of fuck-up, I'll probably have you just make her disappear. Either way, I'll be back Sunday night to discuss it with you."
This made the corner of Angelo's mouth pull back in what was almost a smile. Mikey jumped up and pulled a frittata that he had been baking out of the oven. The three of them greedily dug into the traditional Italian breakfast of eggs, sausage, tomatoes, potatoes, and various other vegetables and cheeses all set up in a deep dish pie. After Mikey cleaned up the kitchen, he and Tony loaded themselves into the car. Angelo came out before they pulled away, and Tony rolled down his window.
"This the stuff Carl's been feeding her?" Angelo said, holding up a small prescription bottle.
"Yeah," Tony said. "Just put a couple drops in her drink, but make sure it's only two. That stuffs strong, and I don't want you to kill her right now."
"Who, me?" Angelo said gleefully in a rare display of jest.
Tony chuckled, "Really, Ang, don't fuck around with her. Just keep her drugged and we'll be back."
Angelo nodded, yes, he would do that.
Hunter didn't know where he was. Reality rushed at him like an unexpected wave and he sprang from the bed in a panic. Gray daylight fell in th
rough the window. Hunter saw that the clock read 9:35. He'd fallen asleep! He was worried that Cook had decided to leave him as a liability and gone after Rachel alone. Hunter believed in Cook, but he had no intention of letting anyone go get Rachel without him. He crashed down the stairs three at a time and bounded into the kitchen in just his shorts. Cook looked up at him from the kitchen table.
"What the hell's wrong?" Cook asked excitedly, bracing himself in his chair.
Hunter felt foolish. Of course Cook hadn't left without him. "N-nothing," he said, looking down at his undershorts. "I'm ready to "Hunter," Cook said with a solemn and apologetic air, "I didn't think it was a good idea to go last night. You needed the rest, and so did I."
"No, I know," Hunter said. "You were right. Obviously I needed it. But I'm ready to go now. I want to get her."
"Of course," Cook said, getting up from the table.
"Want a piece of toast or something? I had some with Henry before he left for practice. By the way, I swore on my mother's grave I'd have you at the game tomorrow to step back into yourself. He's very nervous about that."
Thank God for Hank. Did you tell him I'd be there?"
"Yes," Cook said, "I told him that."
Cook convinced Hunter to shower and change while he whipped up some breakfast for him. After he'd eaten, Hunter and Cook packed up some extra clothes and set out through the back door, this time not because of anyone watching the front, but because their car was that way.
"Where's 1212 Peninsula Boulevard?" Cook asked when they got into the car.
"Not too far," said Hunter, "Why?"
"I got the address from the phone book," Cook said. "I want to stop there for some things. It's an army-navy store."
Hunter looked at Cook briefly out of the corner of his eye. "Why's that?"
"You'll see," Cook said.
Cook found gray forest camouflage hunting gear that was weatherproof and warm. They outfitted themselves from boots to hats. Then Cook spoke into the store owner's ear, and the two of them disappeared into the back of the store, returning a few moments later, each carrying a Kevlar vest.
"I don't know what the hell you guys are doing," the store owner said, "and I don't want to know, but you got some damn good gear."