He closed the cell phone, held it in his fist as he stood there in the darkness. He listened to the silence that he still wasn’t used to, then sat on the edge of Gabrielle’s bed, the phone still in his hand, the cold and the pure dark of her room all around him. Something about the call bothered him. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, though. Maybe it was just the bad connection. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was Falcetti, the fact that he was speaking very quickly, quickly even for Falcetti. Manic, almost. Or maybe it wasn’t even any of that. Maybe Bechet was just bothered by the fact that he was being bothered again and was looking for something other than that. Falcetti had always been an excitable boy. There were times when Bechet wondered how the hell the guy, being the way he was, won even a single hand of poker.
From behind him, Gabrielle said, “Who was that?” She sounded more alert than she had the first time the phone had awakened her.
“Bobby. He needs my help.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.” Bechet stood, gathered together his clothes, pulled them on. His skin was cold to his own touch.
“How long will you be this time?”
“He’s out in Wainscott. An hour, at least. I just have to hand him something. Why don’t you sleep some more?”
“Maybe I will. I’m so tired. I don’t know what my problem is.”
“It’s stopped raining,” Bechet said. He figured he’d let her know that, in case she hadn’t noticed, so she wouldn’t worry about him out on the roads. He didn’t know about the fog waiting for him on the bayside road below.
“Has it stopped for good?” Gabrielle said.
“I don’t know. Probably not. I’ll listen to the weather on my way.”
Bechet was dressed now—jeans and a T-shirt, socks. He seldom wore more than that, even on the coldest night. All that was left now were his jacket and boots. His jacket was on the back of a chair in the kitchen below, put there to dry. His boots were on a piece of newspaper inside the downstairs door. He hadn’t wanted to track in any of the mud that had collected in the treads as he ran from his Jeep to the cottage. And there was always the chance, as thorough as he had been prior to leaving the canal, that something from the parking lot had remained, something that might indicate that he had been there. This way, if it came to it, all he would need to do was get rid of his boots and the single page of newspaper and he’d be as good as gold.
An old way of thinking, old skills that would always be there, just below the surface.
He sat on the bed once more, facing her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
He leaned down, found her lips in the darkness. They kissed.
“You taste good,” she said.
He kissed her again, could feel her smiling. He waited till her smile eased, then kissed her once more. Finally, he stood. She held on to his hand, her fingers wrapped around his. They lingered like that for a moment, in the dark, a man fully dressed, a woman naked between expensive sheets.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too, Elle.”
Downstairs he pulled on his boots and jacket, buttoned it up, then hurried to his Jeep. Under the backseat was the lockbox containing the lug keys. He opened it, found the one that belonged to the cab Falcetti drove, slipped it into his jacket pocket, then closed the lockbox and laid it on the passenger seat.
It wasn’t till he was halfway down the dirt road, gutted severely by these months of winter rain, that Bechet saw the fog below. It clung to the narrow two-lane road, looking as he approached it like the very edge of some mythical world.
He descended into it.
Forty-five minutes later Bechet reached Wainscott. The fog, close to nothing in places, was like a winter whiteout in others; it all depended on how near the water Montauk Highway happened to curve at the moment. Driving through the whiteouts was nothing short of treacherous, Bechet unable to do more than creep along at ten miles an hour. He was glad he hadn’t known about that fog, that he’d left Gabrielle with the impression that the bad weather had passed. The last thing he needed right now was to think of her alone and worrying about him, waiting nervously for his return—or lack of return. Doing so would only have made the trip feel even longer than it was already turning out to be.
Helenbach’s parking lot—paved, thankfully—was surrounded on all sides by a line of trees and bushes. Its single entrance, off Montauk Highway, was just wide enough for two cars to pass through side by side. The lot, unlit, looked empty to Bechet when he first turned into it. Like most places this time of year, Helenbach was closed on Mondays, so Bechet didn’t think twice about the total lack of cars. But he had expected to see Falcetti’s cab right off. There was no sign of it at all.
Bechet coasted into the lot, crossed twenty feet or so, then came to a stop and looked around. The building was designed like a fort—two separate structures, one a two-story restaurant, the other a single-story dance club, both surrounded by one six-foot wall. The entrance to the complex was a gate that, when closed, was all but indistinguishable from the wooden wall. Bechet saw that the gate was open—no, more ajar than open. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of this. After a moment he shifted into first gear and continued deeper into the lot, passing the entrance to the complex, then running the length of it till he was past the compound all together. Now, to his right, was an extension of the lot that ran behind the restaurant. He spotted Falcetti’s cab there, parked at the far end of the extension, well out of sight of the road. Bechet wasn’t sure what to make of this, either. Nor was he sure what to make of the fact that, just like before, there was no sign of Falcetti anywhere.
He could see as he approached the cab that the back tires were fine. The damaged tire more than likely would have been one of the front tires, so he steered around and came toward the cab head-on. One of the front tires—on the passenger side—didn’t appear so much flat as simply underinflated. Still, Falcetti had been right not to drive on it, particularly tonight. Bechet killed the lights and the motor, stared at the cab through the windshield. Could Falcetti have fallen asleep as he waited for Bechet? Bechet took his heavy Maglite flashlight from under the seat and got out, walking toward the cab. He switched the light on, and the bulb flickered, then glowed dully. The batteries were dying. He reached the cab and shined the light inside. It gave enough illumination for him to see that there was no one in the front or backseats. There was nothing unusual at all that Bechet could see—excepting, of course, the absence of the cab’s driver. The keys hung in the ignition, and Falcetti’s jacket, which he often removed when driving, was on the passenger seat. No sign of a struggle, though of course that didn’t mean anything one way or another.
Bechet looked around the lot once more, then looked toward the back of the restaurant. Nothing to see there. He went to the bad tire, knelt down and spit on his index finger, then rubbed the spit on the tire stem. No bubbles, so the stem wasn’t leaking. Or wasn’t leaking anymore. This could have been a case of higher pressure inside the tire causing it to leak, then stopping when the pressure ran low. There was only one way to be sure.
Bechet returned to his Jeep, opened the back hatch and searched through the tool bag he kept behind the rear seat for a can of Fix-A-Flat, a large aerosol canister that contained compressed air that inflated flat tires but also contained a thick foam that sealed any small punctures or leaks. He found a can, removed the lug key from his jacket pocket, tossed it onto the console between his front seats, then closed the hatch. He didn’t want the lug key to fall out of his pocket as he worked. Back at the flattened tire, Bechet attached the clear plastic tube to the stem, then pressed down on the nozzle and watched the white, foamy liquid rush into the tire. He studied the stem as it did. No bubbles, no leaking foam, nothing. Could someone have let the air out of Falcetti’s tire? For what reason, though? And how, exactly, without Falcetti knowing? It took more than a minute for the tire to in
flate, and during that time Bechet could think of no answers to his questions. He only, in fact, thought of more questions.
When the canister was empty, Bechet detached it from the tire stem and tossed it into the back of his Jeep, closing the hatch door. The tire was inflated enough that the cab could be driven. Bechet had half-expected to see Falcetti wander now from the dark edge of the lot, as he had earlier. But there was still no sign of him. Bechet stood at the rear of his Jeep for a moment, watching the restaurant now. Where else could Falcetti have gone but in there? The gate was ajar. But from what Bechet could see there were no lights on anywhere inside the small complex. What did that mean? What reason could Falcetti possibly have had to go inside?
Bechet switched off the flashlight but carried it with him as he approached the entrance. He wanted to spare the batteries, but he also knew that the last thing he needed was for someone passing on Montauk Highway to see him—a man with a flashlight—lurking around a darkened restaurant. Bechet reached the entrance, which was open just wide enough for him to pass through if he turned sideways. He looked through it, saw the brick courtyard between the restaurant and the dance club. It was empty. He slipped through, stopped just inside the gate and listened. There was enough light from the streetlamps that lined the road for Bechet to see by. Halfway down the courtyard, to his left, was the door to the restaurant. The door to the dance club was on his right, almost directly across from the restaurant door. He walked down the center of the courtyard. The restaurant was glass—double glass doors, an atrium dining room that looked out onto the courtyard—so Bechet could easily see that there were no lights on inside. He doubted there was anyone there but thought he’d better check. He stepped to the door, used the cuff of his jacket as a glove as he pulled on the handle. The door was locked. He turned and looked at the dance club.
This building had no windows at all, was built solid like a bunker, no doubt to keep down the sounds of the music that boomed within when the club was in full swing. There was no way, then, to have a look inside except by opening the door. Bechet crossed the courtyard, used the cuff of his jacket sleeve again and pulled on the handle. This door was unlocked. Bechet opened the door just enough to look in. All he saw, though, was a darkness as total as the one into which he had awakened tonight back in Gabrielle’s cottage.
He switched on the failing flashlight, aimed the weak beam inside, following it with his eyes as he moved it around the room. To the left of the door was an elevated DJ’s booth, to the right a small bar, between them a sunken dance floor. The walls were mirrored, the glass smoked, the room only big enough for maybe eighty people if they stood shoulder to shoulder, which, of course, they did on busy summer nights. Bechet stepped inside, guided the door slowly closed, didn’t want it to slam shut behind him. He made another sweep with his flashlight, held it on the DJ’s booth for a moment, then on the bar. Nothing, no one. He listened for a moment more, just to be certain, was about to turn and get out of there when he finally heard something.
His name, said in an urgent whisper.
“Jake.”
Bechet stopped.
“Jake, that you?”
He shined his light in the direction of the voice. A door just past the bar, in the corner at the far end of the room. He had to take two steps forward to see it fully. This door, like the gate, was only partially open.
“Bobby?” Bechet said.
“I’m in here.” The same urgent whisper.
Bechet crossed the room, stepping down into the sunken dance floor, then back up again. The air inside the club, particularly down in the dance floor, was cool and damp, like a cave. Bechet stepped to the door, pushed it the rest of the way open, shined his light into what looked to be a storage room. It wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Falcetti was seated in a chair, toward the back of the narrow room, blinking against the bright light shining in his eyes. Bechet could see right away that Falcetti’s face was bruised and swollen. His hands were tied behind his back, his feet to the legs of the chair. He was naked, his chest and stomach streaked with dried blood that had dripped from his battered lips and nose.
“Jesus,” Bechet said. He hurried into the room, removing his jacket and placing it over Falcetti’s lap. He knelt down beside Falcetti, laying the flashlight, flickering again, on the floor. Falcetti was shivering, from the cold, yes, but from fear, too. Bechet could sense it, had learned a long time ago, as a boxer, to recognize when another man was feeling terror.
Falcetti muttered, “I’m sorry, Jake.” His voice cracked; he was on the verge of tears.
“It’s all right,” Bechet said. He reached behind Falcetti, began to untie the ropes around his wrists. It was nylon-coated rope, military-spec. “Who the hell did this?”
“Just get me out of here, man.”
“I will.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“It’s all right, don’t worry.” They were still whispering. Bechet did his best to keep urgency from his voice. “How many?” he said.
“What?”
“The people who did this to you, how many are there?”
“Two.”
“You sure?”
“That’s all I saw.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
“No. They just put me in here and left.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know.”
Bechet got Falcetti’s hands free, started on the rope binding his feet.
“They took my clothes,” Falcetti said.
“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
“Hurry, man. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”
“Is this about money you owe?” Bechet said.
“Just get me out here.”
Bechet got one foot free, began work on the remaining one.
“I need to know what’s going on, Bobby. I need to know how serious these people are. Are they punks or are the professionals?”
“I don’t know. I never saw their faces. I have no idea who they are.”
“What do you mean?”
“All they wanted was for me to call you.”
“What?”
“They kept hitting me, telling me to call you, get you to meet me.”
Bechet stopped.
“Who kept telling you to call me?”
“They did. I don’t know who.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they speak with accents?”
“I’m sorry, Jake.”
“Did they speak with accents?”
The flashlight blinked out then, leaving them in total darkness. Falcetti said, “Shit.” His voice was urgent like before, but it wasn’t a whisper this time. Bechet had thought Falcetti was panicking because the flashlight had gone out, but when Falcetti said again, “Shit, Jake, shit,” Bechet knew that it was more than the darkness that was causing his friend to panic. Bechet looked up at Falcetti, couldn’t see him but could sense somehow that Falcetti was looking toward the door behind him. He could sense, again, the deep fear. Bechet’s attention quickly shifted, and he knew that someone was there now, in the doorway. His heart began to pound, adrenaline hitting his blood, but before he could move, before he could think to move, he felt something press against the back of his head. It was cold and hard, and he knew instantly that this was the muzzle of a gun.
“Don’t move,” a voice said. It spoke calmly, but there was an edge to it, too, a contempt. Bechet ignored that, had nothing but his hearing now, listened for the accent and recognized it—Algerian—at once. He had expected to hear exactly that, but he didn’t recognize the voice at all, and that stumped him. Still, he didn’t dare let himself think that this could be anything other than what it seemed to be. There was no reason to do that. He’d been half-expecting to hear or see something from his former life since he’d learned of the bodies at the canal—some sign of the man for whom he had once worked, or worse even, the man’s son, som
e stirring in the air to indicate that Castello was near, or getting near. Expectations or not, Bechet was nonetheless surprised by the swiftness with which his past had apparently found him, had come up behind him like this. What did they know? How long have they known it? If not the Algerian he had once known, then who was the man behind him? But more than all this, more than surprise and a flood of questions, Bechet was angered by how suddenly years and years of meticulous precautions could be rendered so pointless, so utterly and sadly pointless . . .
Bechet calmed his heart, kept his adrenaline from pushing him into panic. He could do that, the boxer in him, the man he used to be, knew how.
“I will put a bullet through your head if you do not do what I say,” the Algerian said. A young voice, Bechet thought, not sure why, exactly. “Do you understand me?”
Before Bechet could react, the muzzle of the gun was gone, removed from his skull. Only an amateur would have left it there any longer. Bechet heard footsteps, and then lights came on, not in the storage room but outside it, overhead spots mounted above the dance floor. Dim, shining through colored filters, these lights made a gloomy mix of reds and blues and greens that didn’t really reach into the small storage room, couldn’t make it past the Algerian in the doorway. The Algerian’s shadow fell across Bechet and Falcetti, was large enough to cover the both of them. A second shadow appeared in the room as the man who had turned on the lights joined the Algerian in the doorway. Bechet looked over his shoulder at them—his first act of defiance—but lit as these two men were from behind, it was impossible for him to see anything more than their respective shapes. Two shadows standing side by side, one stout but solid, maybe an inch or two shorter than Bechet, but easily as wide, the other as tall but slighter. Bechet scrambled for every detail his senses could collect.
Even though he hadn’t been told to—because he hadn’t been told to—Bechet rose to his feet. His second act of defiance, to let the Algerian know that even though he was the one holding the gun, he wasn’t necessarily the one in charge. It was the only hand Bechet had to play. It was, of course, one he would have to play with care, even when it looked otherwise.
The Water's Edge Page 12
