But it never actually came to that.
Through his sneer—blood from his mouth and nose staining his clenched teeth—LeCur said, “Kill him.”
Bechet looked at the young man. What he had said had made no sense at all, not till Bechet realized that LeCur wasn’t talking to him, was talking instead to someone else, someone behind Bechet. Looking over his shoulder, Bechet saw a figure standing ten feet away, on the threshold of the fog. A faceless figure, his right hand hanging by his thigh, in it the unmistakable silhouette of a handgun. The figure stepped forward, its features suddenly becoming clear.
Falcetti.
Bechet looked down at the firearm, the gloved hand holding it, then back up at Falcetti’s face. There was nothing Bechet could think to say.
“Shoot him,” LeCur ordered. “Now.”
Falcetti didn’t move, just stood there, staring at Bechet. Taking a few steps back, LeCur kept his arm raised, still holding the gun level with Bechet’s head.
“Shoot him,” he repeated.
Again, Falcetti didn’t move. A long moment passed.
“I can’t,” he said finally.
“Just fucking do it.”
“Bobby,” Bechet said. It was as much a question as a statement.
“I’m sorry,” Falcetti said, but Bechet wasn’t clear on who Falcetti was saying it to.
“Prove yourself, right here, once and for all,” LeCur said. “Kill him.”
Falcetti was shaking his head.
LeCur was losing the little patience he had. “You want your share or not?”
“Keep it.”
“Kill him!”
Falcetti raised his gun, aimed it at Bechet. The gun was fitted with a long silencer. Bechet stared at his friend. The only thing he could say was, again, “Bobby.”
His gloved hand shaking, Falcetti winced, his mouth clamped tight, his lips all but seamless. He looked as if he were trying to keep himself from crying.
“Just pull the trigger,” LeCur said. “That’s all you have to do. He’d kill you if he knew the truth, wouldn’t hesitate for a second, trust me. You don’t have a choice now. Kill him or he’ll kill you.”
Falcetti tried to steady his hand, failed. LeCur took another few steps back, just in case, looked from Falcetti to Bechet, and the instant he did, Falcetti swung his arm to the right a few inches, aimed his gun at LeCur and fired fast. The silenced shot was barely audible over the rain. Falcetti had fired too quickly, though, missed his target completely. LeCur spun and aimed at Falcetti as Falcetti aimed once more at LeCur, this time taking the second needed to do so with greater care. Bechet saw the look on Falcetti’s face—fear, an almost baffled surprise—as he and LeCur both fired, LeCur’s gunshot a flat, sharp crack that echoed out over the still water.
Bechet had dropped into a crouch between the first shot and the second two, watched as both men, their legs instantly buckling beneath them, went down. Nothing more happened then; neither man tried to get up or even moved. LeCur was the closest, so Bechet went to check him first. Falcetti’s second aim was much better than his first; LeCur had been shot in the throat, was struggling to breathe as fine, narrow arcs of blood spurted from the gash. Bechet stood and kicked the handgun from LeCur’s reach, then hurried to where Falcetti had fallen. He had been hit, Bechet determined quickly, in the left thigh. By the amount he was bleeding, though, Bechet knew that Falcetti’s femoral artery had more than likely been severed, and that if Bechet didn’t do something, Falcetti would bleed out, at best, in a matter of minutes.
“Shit,” Bechet whispered.
Falcetti looked up at him. His face was already white. “He got me, right? I didn’t just fall down.”
“Yeah, he got you.”
“I thought maybe I just fell. Did I get him?”
“What the hell is going on, Bobby?”
“I’m fucking bleeding.” Falcetti was looking down at his own thigh now. He seemed as much repulsed as he was scared.
“That’s usually what happens.”
“I’m sorry, man,” Falcetti said. He laid his head down on the wet pavement. There were tears in his eyes, his breathing was shallowing. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Bobby.”
Falcetti’s eyes began to flutter.
“Bobby, tell me what’s going on. How long have you been working for Castello?”
No answer.
“Bobby, c’mon. How long have you been working for Castello? Why did he have Scarcella killed? Bobby, c’mon, stay with me, tell me what’s going on.”
Again, Falcetti didn’t answer, couldn’t. He was on the verge of passing out, Bechet saw this. Pulling off his belt, he made a quick tourniquet, secured it as fast as he could around Falcetti’s thigh, as high above the wound as he could get to slow the bleeding. There wasn’t time to be delicate, and Falcetti screamed as Bechet pulled the tourniquet tight. At least he was conscious now. With his good hand, Bechet grabbed Falcetti by the collar of his jacket and dragged him down the street to the Camaro. There was no way in hell that he could carry him. He pulled Falcetti up into a seated position and leaned him against the back tire, then saw there was another car parked twenty or so feet back. It was an unmarked sedan, similar to the one LeCur’s father had been driving, no one visible through the windshield.
Without hesitation, Bechet dragged Falcetti to the sedan, propped him up against it, and looked inside. The car was empty, no keys in the ignition. Bechet opened the back door, then, squatting beside Falcetti and wrapping Falcetti’s right arm around his neck, he stood, got Falcetti to his feet and shoved him through the door and into the back of the sedan. Falcetti screamed out again as he fell upon the seat, his torso inside but his legs still hanging out, his feet still on the pavement. Bechet ran around to the rear passenger door, opened it and leaned inside, grabbing Falcetti’s collar again and pulling him the rest of the way in. Taking off his mechanic’s jacket, knowing that shock was inevitable and that he needed Falcetti alive, at least long enough to tell Bechet what he needed to know, Bechet laid the jacket over Falcetti’s torso. Closing the passenger door, Bechet took a quick look around. No one to be seen, nothing but the same rainy morning quiet, same shifting curtain of fog limiting the world. Nonetheless, it was time to get out of there, Bechet knew that.
Back near where LeCur lay, Bechet grabbed the ice pick, wiped its handle clean of prints with Miller’s T-shirt, then dropped the weapon again. He picked up the Maglite, thought of his muddy boot prints by the wrecker, decided to leave them, take care of that vulnerability by tossing his boots into the East River upon his return. Between now and then, wearing them was a risk he would have to take. He stepped then to where LeCur was lying, looked down at him once more.
They made eye contact again, LeCur’s stare a vague one, not like Scarcella’s stare yet, but that was only a matter of time. Bechet held LeCur’s stare for several seconds, watched as the last bit of cognition faded from the Algerian’s eyes. Finally they went cold, his stare the blank stare of a dead man, his gasping for air done. Bechet watched LeCur’s chest, waited for it to move. When it didn’t, Bechet crouched down, searched through LeCur’s pockets, emptying them. A wallet, another cell phone, a ring of keys. The last thing he found was the key to a motel room. The plastic tag identified the motel and the room. THE VILLAGE MOTEL, ROOM 9. Bechet collected these things together, pocketed all of them except for the ring of keys. He found the key marked GM, the key to the sedan, just to be certain he had it, then looked at LeCur once more before standing and walking finally away.
Back in the sedan, Bechet turned right onto Lee Avenue, heading toward Hill Street. Maybe two minutes had passed since LeCur’s gun had been fired, maybe more, and Bechet knew that it was possible no one had been around to hear the gunshot, but that if someone had heard it, it may have been assumed that the sound had come from the Indian reservation. There were nights—often, actually—when random shots were heard coming from there. Another reason why LeCur had lu
red Scarcella to that very spot? Bechet wondered. As he drove down Lee Avenue, careful not to speed, Bechet listened but didn’t hear any sirens in the distance, was certain he would have, even over the sound of the rain and the hissing of the tires on the wet pavement, if there were any right now to hear. He had pretty much pressed his luck enough for now, though, didn’t count on that solemn peace lasting for very long. One way or another, from one part of town or another, a dead Algerian was waiting to be discovered, and once one or both were, all hell was certain to break loose.
Turning left onto Hill Street, Bechet headed west. A mile later, at the college, he turned onto Tuckahoe Road, followed that to Sunrise Highway. At the train crossing, waiting for the light to change, Bechet looked over the seat and back at Falcetti. Trembling, white, the mechanic’s jacket staining with the blood seeping from the wound, Falcetti met Bechet’s eyes.
Neither said anything at first. The edges of Falcetti’s eyes were red, the skin raw, the eyes themselves already beginning to sink deep into their sockets. The wiper dragged across the wet windshield. The light, a long one, remained red.
“Where are we going?” Falcetti said finally. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“We’re going to get you patched up,” Bechet answered. He spoke flatly, then looked forward again, his eyes on the red traffic light.
“A hospital will call the cops,” Falcetti said.
“I know.”
“So who’s going to patch me up?”
Bechet ignored that. When the light finally turned green, he made the left turn onto Sunrise Highway, continuing west.
“You’ve been working for Castello from the start,” Bechet said.
“There’s so much blood.”
Bechet glanced back at him. “You’ve been working for Castello from the start, Bobby, haven’t you?”
Falcetti shook his head, the gesture a small one. “Not Castello,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m really fucking bleeding, man.”
“Stay with me, Bobby.”
Though he nodded, Falcetti was about to pass out again. There was no way to keep him conscious now; at this point, not even pain—all the pain in the world, all the pain he did or didn’t deserve—would do that. There was no knowing, either, if Falcetti would survive a two-hour drive west, if the one answer Bechet had gotten—not Castello—would be all that he would ever get.
“Why was Scarcella murdered?” Bechet said. “C’mon, stay with me. Why was Scarcella murdered?”
Falcetti didn’t answer.
“Bobby, c’mon, stay with me, man. Stay with me.”
As always, though, Falcetti wasn’t listening. Even when it was obvious that his friend had lost consciousness, Bechet kept calling back to him, trying to wake him. Eventually, though, Bechet gave up, focused his attention instead on keeping the sedan between the lane lines and maintaining an even speed. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for erratic driving in a vehicle that was certainly unregistered, with a man bearing a fresh gunshot wound stretched across the backseat. No faster than the posted limit, then, but no slower, either, and between the two lines. This was all that was required of Bechet now, and yet, after what he’d been through, it was more than enough. He was a little grateful for his injuries, knew they would keep him from caving in on himself like a gutted building, which was what a part of him wanted to do, craved to do. But another part of him, the deepest part of him, knew that this was still so far from over. Bechet would not rest till it was, and only if it meant that Gabrielle was safe once and for all.
Whatever that took.
He followed Sunrise Highway through the desolate Pine Barrens, connecting with the Long Island Expressway at Manorville. From there it was a straight line, more or less, to Brooklyn, where the only hope for keeping Falcetti alive was waiting.
Ten
BARTON PULLED HER THERMAL SHIRT OVER HER HEAD, dropped it to the floor of Miller’s bedroom, then stepped out of her socks and damp jeans, dropped them as well. Standing in that unfamiliar room, the cool air against her bare skin, she pulled her hair into a ponytail, then got into the change of clothes she had brought with her this morning. Back in the front room, Miller still unconscious on the couch, she pulled on her work boots, laced them tight and grabbed her green parka. Slipping the Colt into the right pocket and the fresh pair of galoshes she had taken from the locker at the bottom of Miller’s closet into the left, she walked to the couch, sat on its edge again, and reached out and touched Miller’s hand as it rested on his chest. His eyes fluttered open this time, wandered for a moment, then found her above him. He focused on her as best he could, his eyelids never managing to part more than halfway. Two painkillers meant he’d be like this for a few hours still. She smiled at him but didn’t say anything, and neither did he. There wasn’t really enough time; Miller’s eyes fluttered closed after a few seconds and he was out again, adrift in that murky world he knew too well. Eventually Barton stood and went to the nearby table, took one of the photos of Abby, pocketed it, and pulled on her oversized parka as she headed out the door.
Across the street, at the train station, just as she had done at her apartment last night, she waited for the cab to arrive, did so long enough to start wondering again if it was going to arrive at all. But it finally came into sight, moving toward the train station, and she stepped down from the platform, pulling up the fur-lined hood against the rain—a drizzle now—as she went to meet it. She approached the driver’s door, Eddie lowering the window. Without saying a word, he handed Barton a piece of notebook paper. On it was handwriting that, to her surprise, was elegant and refined.
No record of our drivers picking up a fare in East Hampton. Called a friend’s company in Hampton Bays, had to wait for him to come in to get dispatch information. Told that one of their drivers took a fare from East Hampton to Montauk at the time in question, description of passenger matching one you gave me. Ocean View Motel, Old Montauk Highway.
Barton folded the note, slipped it into her pocket. They had agreed to communicate only via notes; after everything that had occurred, Barton figured that was the only safe thing to do. No conversation, she realized now, was ever totally invulnerable to eavesdropping
She took a look around, surveying the area, saw Miller’s building, saw, too, the building to its right, and the one across Powell from Miller’s place, the old brick feed barn that had been converted into an office building. Nothing, at a glance, unusual there. Looking at the station parking lot, she studied the few cars there; not one of them, from what she could tell, had anyone seated inside. It was the same with the cars parked along Elm Street. No one was watching her and Eddie, at least no one that she could detect.
Looking at Eddie again, Barton nodded her thanks. He indicated that he needed her to wait, wrote something else on the notepad, tore out the page, and handed it to her.
You aren’t the only one asking about a fare in East Hampton.
Barton looked at him. Eddie wrote down a single word on the pad, held it up for her to see.
Cop.
Barton shrugged, as if to say, Who?
Eddie wrote on the same page. This time it was more than just one word. He tore the page out when he was done, handed it to her.
Called my company and company in Hampton Bays. Cop said name was Roffman. Told that both caller IDs read “Town of Southampton.” Number police department number.
Barton folded and pocketed that paper, too. So there it was. How much more did she need? Roffman, or maybe Spadaro, either way the two men, for better and for worse, to whom she had been to one degree or another close. Maybe she was lucky to have gotten out when she did. If she hadn’t, would she, too, have been corrupted? If Spadaro, the Boy Scout that he was, could be, then so could anyone.
Barton said softly, “Thanks, Eddie.” What would it matter who heard that?
Eddie matched her tone. “Call if you need anything,” he said. “And be careful.�
��
He raised the window and shifted into reverse, backing away from the platform. Barton watched as the cab pulled away, turning from Railroad Plaza on Elm Street and heading south. When it was gone from sight she looked once more at Miller’s building, at his row of front windows and his pickup parked at the curb below. She crossed to the pickup, got in, surveyed her surroundings once more, then followed Elm to its end, turning left onto Newtown. Less than a mile later it became Montauk Highway. Watching the rearview mirror as the two-lane road carried her eastward, she made sure, just as Miller had on their way from North Sea to East Hampton, that no one was tailing her.
Montauk, at the very end of the island, was about an hour away, but despite the cautious manner in which she drove, and the intermittent banks of fog that crossed her path now and then and caused her to slow, Barton managed to reach the motel by a little past noon. Its parking lot—cracked pavement, strands of dead sea grass poking through—was empty, and the place itself looked closed. More than that, it looked abandoned. As the name had promised, it was an oceanside motel, a single-story, ten-unit tract set on the Atlantic’s edge, between the low dunes and the narrow beach-line. Though it appeared to be shut down for the season, Barton pulled over to the shoulder and parked. She put on the galoshes, watched the place as she did, then got out and stepped to the edge of the lot. The rain had stopped, but the air, grainy with fog, was still full of moisture, left a cold, thin film on her face.
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