The Water's Edge

by Daniel Judson

  “What do you mean all over? What are you going to do?”

  Bechet climbed in behind the wheel and laid the jacket containing the handgun onto the passenger seat, then cranked the ignition till the motor caught. He pulled the door shut without another word and tore like a shot across the empty parking lot.

  On Montauk Highway, heading west, he checked his watch. It was 1:01. Even on a clear night the ride from Wainscott to the Shinnecock Hills took longer than a half hour. But, again, Bechet had no choice now. He worked through the gears, taxing the old engine, shifted finally into fifth, then gripped the wheel with both hands. He was doing eighty, the old Jeep shuttering around him as wildly as his heart was shuttering within.

  There wasn’t much fog till Bridgehampton, but when it finally did appear, shocking white in the beams of the Jeep’s headlight, it was like a barricade. There was nothing Bechet could do but slow down and inch his way through. He was doing twenty now—even that was too fast, but he didn’t care, and it took him several long minutes to reach the other side of town. There the fog broke, and Bechet once again worked up to fifth gear, pushing the Jeep to its limits on the still-slick roads. He tried to make up for the time he had lost, but just before the village of Water Mill, just as he felt he was regaining precious moments, he came to another barricade of shifting fog and was forced to slow to a crawl again. Halfway through that village he checked his watch. It was now 1:14. Shit. By the time he was out of that village and on the long, straight stretch of road that would take him to Southampton, it was 1:17. Less than ten minutes now till the phone call from LeCur to his father was due, and South Valley Road was, at best, still fifteen minutes away.

  Just outside of Southampton, Bechet turned from Montauk Highway onto Sunrise Highway, a route west that would take him around the heart of the village, but also away from the water, so there would be, he hoped, less fog to slow him. He pushed the Jeep well past the speed limit, aware of the places cops were likely to be waiting for speeders, though he hardly slowed for them, how could he? At the crossroads along Sunrise he got lucky, caught some green lights, and the few red lights he came to, after stopping and looking all around for the sign of a cop, he jumped, racing through the empty intersection. At the college he turned onto Tuckahoe Road, followed that south to Montauk Highway, turned right onto it and continued west. He was close to the water again, and though the patches of fog that crossed the road here were significantly less than the barricades he had encountered farther east, they were still enough to require him to drive much more slowly than he wanted, than his heart required. He was only five minutes away now, just the winding, two-lane road through the Shinnecock Hills, a road with which he was very familiar, but it was already 1:26. Time was up.

  He thought then of calling in a fire, giving the address not of Gabrielle’s cottage but of one of the other cottages on her road. The presence of fire trucks and cop cars might scare LeCur off, or at the very least delay him from making his move against Gabrielle as scheduled. But that, along with the absence of the phone call that was at this moment due, would certainly appear to LeCur as a clear indication that something had gone wrong with their A plan and that it was time for him to carry out their B plan. There was no knowing exactly what LeCur would do then. Play it smart and slip away? Or, at the first sign of the fire trucks, storm the cottage and wait inside—with Gabrielle—for Bechet to arrive? Anyway, it was too late now; it would still take several minutes at least for the fire trucks to reach South Valley Road, and by then LeCur would be well into plan B.

  Still, Bechet had to do something. Something. He grabbed the field jacket, found the cell phone in the top pocket, dug it out and scrolled through the outgoing calls, stopping on the second-to-last call made. The last call had been to Castello’s driver, but the one before that had been to LeCur’s father. It was a gamble, a bluff, and a poor bluff at that, but it was the only hand that was his to play.

  Bechet hit REDIAL, placed the phone to his ear. Two rings, and then a voice from his past, instantly familiar.

  “Oui.”

  Bechet saw LeCur in his mind now, the father, not the son, saw his face. He was in his late forties when Bechet had left, so he would be in his mid-fifties now. An early model of the man Bechet had just taken apart. Bigger, too, and more experienced. In many regards, age only made a soldier better. Youth, the power that comes with it, these were all well and good, served their purposes, but a veteran was always worth more than a new recruit, no matter what the situation. LeCur, when Bechet had last seen him, had nine nickel-sized stars tattooed on his inner forearm. One dark mark shy of a double ace, if he were a fighter pilot. How many more, Bechet wondered, would LeCur have now? How much more experience had he gained?

  Never an easy thing, killing a man in cold blood.

  Bechet kept the phone to his ear but said nothing. The sound of LeCur’s voice had triggered a dozen different memories, none of which he had time for now. Still, these memories—fragmentary non sequiturs—ran around in his head like echoes. That life long ago. Bechet had barely known his own father, hadn’t had much need or time for father figures, but the closest anyone had come, really, to filling that role, to being a surrogate father, were the two men who had trained him—his manager, who had taught him to box, and the older LeCur, who had taught him, among other things, to fight.

  Bechet held the phone an arm’s length away from his mouth, said in French—he knew a little—“Can you hear me?” He tried to muddy his accent, sound like—or enough like—LeCur’s son. He repeated himself, then hit the button marked END. His heart was in spasms now, his blood pure adrenaline. He waited a few seconds, then hit REDIAL again. This time LeCur answered on the first ring. Bechet held the phone an arm’s length away again but said nothing. He hoped that the noise of the Jeep—wind racing around a square, fiberglass top—would sound enough like the static of a bad connection. After a few seconds he hung up again. He was just minutes from South Valley Road now, approaching the curvy section where just hours before Falcetti had gone off the road. He opened the center console, dug out his winter gloves, pulled them on as he steered, then unfolded the field jacket and removed the Desert Eagle, laid the heavy gun on the floor between his seat and the pedals. The last thing he needed now was to hit the brakes for some reason and have the loaded gun go flying off the seat. He picked up the cell phone once more, pressed REDIAL again but hung up halfway through the first ring, then laid the phone on the console between his seats. His only hope was that these seemingly dropped calls had caused enough confusion to buy him the minutes he so desperately needed.

  In the sharp curves he twice lost control of the Jeep, almost fishtailing off the road. But he couldn’t let up now. Gabrielle was a half mile away. Each time he nearly spun out, he’d fight to regain control of the Jeep, then press on, his heart pounding, each hard throb just another dose of adrenaline for his blood.

  The minute it took him to cross the remaining half mile, down the stretch of road that ran along the edge of Shinnecock Bay, was the longest minute he’d ever known.

  He killed the headlights as he pulled to a stop on the shoulder at the foot of South Valley Road. If he had made the turn onto the road, his headlights would have been visible from anywhere above. If this was going to work, LeCur couldn’t see him coming. Bechet got out, hurried to the road, careful to remain out of sight, and looked up the long incline. All he could see, of course, was darkness, the very darkness to which he had awoken tonight. He had to assume that LeCur was in his vehicle, and that his vehicle was parked close to the cottage. That was what Bechet would have done, where he would have parked, so no one could see his vehicle from the main road below. If Bechet thought this way, then the man who had taught him to think that way—who had taught him how to hunt others—would have thought this way as well.

  Back at the Jeep, Bechet removed his corduroy jacket, tossed it onto the rear seat, then grabbed the black field jacket from the passenger seat and put it on fast. It fit him
well enough. He then took the Desert Eagle from the driver’s side floor, ejected the clip, checked to see that he had a full load, then slapped the clip back into the grip and pulled on the slide, chambering a round. Just as he did that, the cell phone on the console began to ring. He grabbed it, checked the display. It was the older LeCur, calling back. Bechet found the volume button, pressed till he silenced the ringer, then pocketed the phone. It vibrated against his wild heart as he grabbed the Maglite off the floor and started up the incline, heading for the darkness at its end.

  He stuck close to the edge of the dirt road, making use of the cover provided by the thick scrub and crowding trees that lined it. The phone in his pocket vibrated two more times, sounding like the buzzing of some giant insect, then stopped. Bechet hurried up the gutted road, eventually leaving the influence of the lights that lined Montauk below and entering the near total blackness that was by now so familiar to him.

  His eyes adjusted as best as they were going to, but it was enough for him to see the dull shine of a car bumper up ahead. An older Ford sedan, nondescript, probably stolen or bought at an auction and registered to a false name and address. Castello had access to a fleet of those. It was parked on the other side of the road, only twenty feet down from Gabrielle’s cottage. He couldn’t tell if there was anyone in the car, but as he got nearer he made out the shape of someone sitting in the passenger seat. He understood, if this was in fact LeCur, why he would be in the passenger seat and not behind the wheel. A man sitting in the passenger seat of a dark car was likely to appear to anyone who might see him as someone who was waiting for the car’s driver. Every little diversion helped. But Bechet couldn’t be certain yet if the man in the passenger seat was LeCur. For all he knew, LeCur was inside, this man had stayed behind to keep watch. Bechet continued forward, as quickly as he could while still being careful, till he was in a position to see the cottage through the trees. Its windows were as dark as they had been when he’d left it. Certainly, if someone was inside, moving through the unfamiliar darkness, there’d be some hint of light visible from the outside, the flicker of a searching flashlight in one of the windows, something.

  But nothing, just the stillness and darkness of a place so far from the heart of things.

  With someone seated on the right side of the car, Bechet knew he would have to enter the scrub that ran along the road or risk being seen. If the waiting man had been in the driver’s seat, Bechet could have continued up the edge of the road, confident that he was safely within the car’s blind spot. Moving through the scrub was slow and noisy, but there was no other approach that he could make. It took him two minutes to get close enough to where he could cross the open road quickly enough to surprise the passenger. Once there—once alongside the car, the man a dark profile in the passenger window—Bechet waited for an opportunity to show itself.

  As he waited, though, the phone in his pocket started to vibrate again. The noise was, in the silence that surrounded him, nearly as loud as a ring would have been. If the car’s windows had been open, the man inside would certainly have heard it. Bechet clutched at the phone in his pocket to quiet it, though that did little good. The phone went still after the third vibration, but Bechet didn’t need to look at the display to know who had called. He could see the passenger taking his cell phone away from his ear, see his face by the glow of the display. It was LeCur. His features, visible for a few seconds only, disappeared when he flipped the lid of the phone closed. He sat still for a moment, thinking. Bechet knew what it was the man was considering. Stick to plan A or switch to plan B. It wasn’t long, though, before the decision was made and the passenger door clicked open.

  No interior light came on. LeCur would have disconnected it. The door hung ajar for a few seconds, open by only an inch or so, then finally swung out on well-oiled hinges. LeCur emerged, stood by the open door, his eyes fixed on the cottage. After a moment he swung the car door till it was almost closed, then stopped and gently nudged it with his knee till it clicked shut. He reached inside his jacket, removing his gun, looked down the length of the dark road for a moment, then back at the cottage. Bechet held his breath as he waited for LeCur to start moving, needed LeCur’s motion to cover the sound of his own. Finally, LeCur took one step, but before he could take another, Bechet was rushing out from the cover of the brush. He crossed the dirt road with two long strides, came up beside LeCur, put his left hand on LeCur’s right shoulder and pressed the muzzle of the gun against LeCur’s right temple, did both things with enough firmness not only to make his intent clear but to edge LeCur off balance.

  LeCur stiffened.

  “Face the car,” Bechet hissed.

  Nothing for a moment, no movement or words, and then, softly, LeCur’s voice: “Pay Day, that you?”

  “Face the car.”

  LeCur turned slowly. Bechet was now behind him, the muzzle of the Desert Eagle pressed hard against the base of LeCur’s skull. Bechet knew he couldn’t leave it there for long.

  “Grab your gun by the barrel with your left hand, then hand it back to me butt first.” Bechet spoke in a whisper. So far not enough noise had been made to awaken Gabrielle. Bechet wanted to keep it that way.

  “That was you who called all those times,” LeCur said. He made no effort to match Bechet’s whisper.

  “Shut up.”

  “That was brilliant. You really had me guessing.”

  “Just give me the gun.”

  LeCur handed the gun back to Bechet as instructed. Bechet ejected the clip, then tossed the gun into the woods. He stepped back, putting himself just beyond LeCur’s reach.

  “Take off the coat, toss it over there.”

  LeCur was wearing a midlength leather coat. He slipped it off, tossed it toward the edge of the road. It landed heavy. There was probably a flashlight and some spare clips in the pockets.

  “Hands on your head, palms down, fingers locked.”

  “You must have flown back here,” LeCur said.

  “Now spread your legs.”

  LeCur widened his stance, was leaning now with his full weight against the passenger door.

  “Cross your thumbs.”

  LeCur did. Bechet stepped to him, wedged the inside of his left foot against the inside of LeCur’s right foot, then grabbed hold of LeCur’s thumbs with his left hand. He tucked the Desert Eagle into the waistband of his jeans and quickly searched the man. In his pockets was a folding knife, identical to the one Bechet had taken from the younger LeCur, and a wallet. He tossed them in the direction of the leather jacket.

  “Is my son alive?”

  “For now, yeah,” Bechet said. “Do what I say and you’ll see each other again. You understand?”

  LeCur nodded. Bechet looked toward Gabrielle’s cottage. It was still dark. Right now all he wanted was to get LeCur away from her. He stepped back two paces, drew the Desert Eagle.

  “Open the door and get the keys out of the ignition,” Bechet ordered.

  “What for?”

  “We’re going for a ride.”

  “Then why do you need the keys?”

  Bechet didn’t answer. LeCur glanced toward the trunk, then looked back at Bechet.

  “Get the keys,” Bechet said.

  LeCur opened the passenger door, reached across the seat, climbed back out with the keys in his hands.

  “Open the trunk,” Bechet said.

  LeCur walked to the trunk, opened the lid. Bechet removed the Maglite from his back pocket. Its dull bulb was still flickering, but it was enough to do a quick search of the trunk. A spare tire, jack, and tire iron. To the left of the tire was a stack of large, heavy-duty garbage bags. On top of them was a hacksaw.

  The sight of it made Bechet’s gut tighten.

  He looked at LeCur. Carry only what you need for the job—this LeCur had told him years ago. Travel light, don’t overprepare. He had stressed that. The garbage bags and hacksaw, then, were there for a reason, for this job, for what would have been done with Gabrielle wh
en she was dead.

  Bechet looked at LeCur for a long time. He wanted to kill the man right now, right there, drag his dead body to the woods beyond the train tracks at the end of the road, leave it there to rot. The urge to do just that was powerful. But Bechet forced himself to keep still, keep his adrenaline in check. Now wasn’t the time for emotion. Now wasn’t the time for mistakes. He needed to stay cool, think, do what needed to be done to get Gabrielle away.

  It was his only concern. Nothing else in the world—nothing at all—mattered.

  Finally he reached inside the trunk, never taking his eyes off LeCur, and grabbed the hacksaw with his gloved hand. He flung the saw into the woods, heard it land with a thump, then grabbed the tire iron, just to be safe, did the same with that.

  “Get in,” he said.

  “Pay Day, c’mon.”

  “Get in.”

  LeCur climbed into the trunk. His weight significantly compressed the rear shocks.

  “On your side, hands behind your back.”

  LeCur complied, curling into the fetal position, his knees to his chest. Bechet pulled the roll of duct tape from the pocket of the field coat, secured LeCur’s wrists together, then closed the trunk. He removed the keys from the lock and hurried in behind the wheel of the sedan, starting the engine and turning on the headlights.

  There were no dashboard lights—the fuse had probably been pulled—so the interior of the Ford was dark. The only light was the glow flowing back from the headlights.

  LeCur never left anything to chance.

  Neither, now, would Bechet.

  At the bottom of South Valley Road Bechet eased down on the brakes, bringing the sedan to a stop. He looked both ways several times, just to be careful. The last thing he needed was to get into a fender bender while driving a car with dubious registration, if any at all, and a hired killer bound up in the trunk. Visibility was limited still, but better than it had been earlier. Bechet would have preferred the fog to be heavy now, a thick blanket to conceal him as he made his way to his destination, but what remained would have to do. Besides, there was no one out tonight, not at this time of year, at this hour, no waking souls except for himself and this one connection to his past.