The Betrayer (31 page)

Dickey McVicker’s home in Great Neck was guarded at all times by a team of four armed men. A wrought-iron gate, manned by two, was the only entrance for both vehicles and pedestrians, and the wall that surrounded his four-acre estate was made of eight feet of fieldstone and mortar, and topped with its own two-foot wrought-iron fence, each fang-like post wrapped with black-coated barbed wire.

One of the two remaining armed guards walked the grounds continuously, while the other sat in a small guardhouse and monitored a bank of video screens that displayed what the dozen-plus, high-resolution surveillance cameras placed around the property captured.

Nothing less than a fortress for a man who needed nothing less.

A single black SUV with tinted windows exited the four-bay garage and headed toward the gate, which was opened hurriedly by the two men guarding it. Dickey McVicker seldom drove himself anywhere, couldn’t remember the last time he had done so. He rarely went anywhere without a bodyguard — his son Richter or some trusted soldier in his regime — so where he was headed now, no one could know.

Not even his own blood and heir apparent, whom he had sent into the city with a crew of five to await orders.

So McVicker was alone as he departed his compound and drove westward. He watched the sky grow more and more crowded with menacing clouds by the minute and was crossing the Whitestone Bridge when it finally began to rain — light at first, then a downpour that slowed traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway to a crawl. Though it was only four in the afternoon, it had quickly become as dark as twilight.

Forty-five minutes later he reached his destination — the town of Yonkers. More specifically, a modernist home turned restaurant perched above the Hudson River.

Two stories of glass and plank wood were surrounded on three sides by a deck that offered a view of the river and, just a few miles to the south, Manhattan’s western skyline.

Though the restaurant was open for business — McVicker co-owned it with a one-time celebrity chef — he had no intention of entering. He remained behind the wheel of his SUV and watched the upper-floor windows.

They were lit; a man passed in front of one, and then the windows went dark.

A moment later a man came down a set of plank stairs attached to the side of the building like scaffolding — a separate exit that McVicker had ordered be constructed just a few years ago, when the upper-floor office space had been converted into living quarters for a newly hired dishwasher.

McVicker’s partner and chef did not object when his office space was taken away, nor did he question why McVicker was providing living space for a lowly dishwasher.

One didn’t question Big Dickey McVicker, and it was obvious that this dishwasher — intelligent, clearly educated, built like a bull — was more than a mere minimum-wage laborer.

A man in hiding, perhaps. Or a man biding his time, an asset of some kind — a secret weapon, maybe — waiting for any and all orders from McVicker.

Or maybe just one order, maybe this was an asset that McVicker wanted to keep tucked away like some doomsday device, only to be brought out at the most dire of moments, and as a last resort.

It was this very man who was heading for the black SUV now.

He was dressed in a black mackintosh and carrying an umbrella. But neither of those items could hide his size. He crossed the gravel parking lot with a fast and determined stride, but McVicker knew this man was driven by more than a need to get out of the torrential downpour.

The mackintosh man opened the passenger door of McVicker’s black Mercedes and climbed in. The drops hitting the roof above sounded more like the furious drumming of hail than rain.

Without wasting any time, the man said, “Where is he?”

“The Gershwin Hotel.”

“How long?”

“He entered about an hour and a half ago.”

“Is your team in place?”

McVicker nodded. “Yes.”

“Have they seen anything?”

“He and Cat and Jeremy left together. They walked around the corner to a UPS Store, then returned to the hotel.”

“You’re sure it was them?”

“My men forwarded photos to my phone.”

The man paused, then said, “You trust these men of yours?”

“For this, yes. They have a long-distance listening device aimed at the room right now, are recording everything that’s being said. And they have a cell phone ready, will put it on speaker so we can listen in.”

“Do it,” the man said.

McVicker pressed a single key on his cell phone, then pressed the Speaker button. The call was answered on the first ring by a male, and McVicker told him to put them on speaker.

Within seconds the sound of a voice filled the car.

McVicker looked at the man seated beside him and pressed the Mute button on the phone.

“That’s Jeremy’s voice,” he concluded.

The man nodded and listened.

Jeremy was speaking slowly, and in a strange, droning tone. Another voice came over the speaker after a moment — a male voice, soft and soothing, prompting Jeremy to go on.

“The therapist,” McVicker said. “They’re listening to his sessions.”

Again the man nodded and listened intently.

I’m looking across Twelfth at the Hudson
,
the boy said.
I’m remembering sitting at my bedroom window with my mother when I was a kid, the two of us watching the river and waiting for Cat and Johnny to come home from school…

Lying on the bed in room 829, Jeremy once again felt like a prisoner.

Just as he had felt during his occasional moments of consciousness in that tiny room in Chelsea.

There were differences — he was hearing voices from the room below now, not outside his door. Cat’s and Donnie Fiermonte’s voices, not the voices of random Russian thugs. And the door separating the room he occupied from the living room beyond was not locked, though Johnny and his girlfriend were out there, no doubt keeping watch, no doubt standing between Jeremy and the only way out.

Still, despite these differences, Jeremy felt just as he had felt that night three years ago.

At some point he heard the sound of another voice from below — his own — replace Cat’s and Fiermonte’s. They were listening to the CD containing his four half-hour sessions. Though he could hear his voice now, the thickness of the floor and the hard-falling rain kept him from having to hear the words again. He was grateful for that, did his best to block out the murmuring and lose track of time, but it wasn’t easy, not now.

In the past, moments like these were what made him want to get high. Shut everything out, cease time — no past, no future, just a barely perceptible present.

He felt, however, no such craving now.

He knew only bare attention.

As he lay there, the room darkened even more. Still too early for dusk. He looked toward the only window and saw the kind of muted light that could only mean a thunderstorm was imminent.

It didn’t take long for the rumbling in the distance to begin. Like someone dragging heavy furniture across the floor of the room above. Louder each time, as if each piece being dragged was larger than the one before it.

Jeremy wanted to close his eyes, knew he needed to rest and let his strength build. But each time he closed his eyes, he saw Beth, saw flashes of their time together — their initial meeting at the restaurant where he worked; the times they met for coffee; the last time he saw her alive, that afternoon in a café in Brooklyn, far enough from her home and far enough from his to make it safe.

Each memory fed his guilt, which just fueled the rage that buzzed inside him like a steady current of electricity.

Finally, he gave up on the idea of rest and sat up. He moved to the edge of the mattress and looked toward the only window. The effects of the heroin were diminishing. He could feel the cuts and bruises on his face now.

Each sting and throb reminded him of the man who had beaten him, and of the man who had hired that man.

Dickey McVicker.

Someone has to stop him. Someone has to make him pay.

The rain hitting the panes sounded like a handful of sharp pebbles that had been flung overhand. Jeremy heard only that for a long time, let it drown out not only every other sound but every thought. Well, nearly every. He drifted, seated upright, like a dazed boxer in his corner.

Eventually, he realized voices were coming up from below again. Cat and Fiermonte were talking, the recordings over.

After a moment, though, the talking ceased and, seconds later, the phone on the nightstand rang. The extension in the other room was answered before the third ring.

Jeremy heard Haley through the door. “Hello?” A pause, then, “Hang on.”

A few seconds after that Johnny was speaking, asking what was up.

Jeremy rose from the bed, walked to the door, and opened it quietly.

Johnny was seated on the couch, his back to Jeremy. Haley was standing, facing Johnny. She looked up at Jeremy.

“Now?” Johnny said. He listened. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Jeremy entered the living room. Johnny turned his head — his movements were severely restricted — and looked back at his brother.

“No, he’s up,” Johnny said into the phone. He listened again. “Why not?” A long silence. “Okay.” He handed the receiver to Haley, and she returned it to the cradle.

“What’s going on?” Haley said.

“They want me to come down.”

Haley glanced at Jeremy, then looked back at Johnny. “Just you?”

“Fiermonte has some information.” Johnny rose from the couch.

Jeremy took note of the fact that Haley had to step in and help his brother to his feet.

He saw the effort required, and the lack of color in his brother’s face.

“I’m going with you,” Jeremy announced.

Johnny shook his head. “It’s supposed to be just me.”

Jeremy was angry, but also hurt. It came over him like a flash. “Why?” he demanded.

“Apparently, Fiermonte thinks the information might upset you.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I know that, man.”

“I have a right. I mean, we wouldn’t even know it was Dickey if it weren’t for me.”

Johnny remained calm. “I know.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time to waste,” Johnny said. “Haley and I need to leave as soon as we can. If you show up with me, there’ll probably be an argument, you know that, so let’s just do this the smart way, okay? Every minute counts here.”

Jeremy wasn’t interested in the smart way, but before he could argue, Haley spoke.

“What exactly is the smart way?” she said.

Johnny removed his cell phone, explained that he would call Haley’s cell before he entered the room below, and slip the live phone into his pocket. Haley was to put her cell on speaker, and that way she and Jeremy could both listen to everything that was said.

It still wasn’t good enough for Jeremy, though. He didn’t protest the idea, but he didn’t say yes to it, either.

“You know, you don’t always have to fight to win your battles,” Johnny said.

Jeremy thought about that, then quoted Sun Tzu. “‘To win without fighting is best.’”

“Exactly.”

“I just don’t want to be shut out.”

“I don’t blame you. And for the record, I could tell this wasn’t Cat’s idea. Fiermonte only remembers you the way you used to be. He probably thinks he’s looking out for you. If you do this my way, though, you won’t be shut out, which is what you want. And we won’t waste time, which is what Haley and I need. Okay?”

Jeremy was calming down.

But Johnny couldn’t wait, so he pressed his brother. “Trust me on this. And no matter what you hear, not matter what Fiermonte has to say, trust that we’ll handle this together. All of us. Okay?”

Eventually Jeremy nodded his consent, then said, “If I can’t hear, or if the call gets dropped, I’m coming down.”

“Fair enough.”

Johnny looked at Haley, offered her a reassuring smile — or the closest to one that he could muster — then stepped away, moving unassisted toward the door.

Jeremy watched him go. Johnny seemed fine, now that he was up and in motion. But when he reached for the door handle, he winced slightly.

Before Johnny exited, he told Haley to lock and bolt the door behind him.

Then he was gone.

As Haley took care of the door, Jeremy noticed his brother’s KA-BAR knife on the coffee table by the sofa.

He glanced at it, then looked quickly away.

Haley was digging into her pocket for her cell phone.

Neither she nor Jeremy spoke as they waited for it to ring.