The Betrayer (51 page)

It took John Coyle a moment to reply.

He understood immediately what his friend had in mind.

“Why would this man do that?” he said.

“He and Dickey had an agreement.”

“But there’d have to be an autopsy,” Cat said.

“Not with the proper signatures, and not with accidental death as the cause. Of course, Martin would find himself in serious trouble if he were to get caught falsifying a death certificate application.”

“So how would we avoid that?” John Coyle said.

“One of Richter’s men was killed a few nights ago,” Kirkland explained. “His body is currently in the possession of the coroner’s office. It was going to remain there unclaimed — the man has no family — but Richter can arrange for someone to identify and claim it.”

“How does that help us?” Cat said.

“The coroner can only release a dead body to a licensed funeral director, who then transports it to his funeral home where he records the receipt of the deceased and, upon review of the body, cosigns the application for the death certificate. That’s the procedure in New York State. Richter will arrange it so his man will be picked up from the coroner’s office by Dickey’s associate, along with the application for a death certificate signed by the coroner. Upon arrival at the funeral home, however, that body will immediately be cremated, after which the funeral director will alter his own records so it appears that Richter’s man had been picked up from Martin’s home and not the coroner’s office. The funeral director cosigns both applications — the fake one provided by Martin and the real one provided by the coroner — and files them both. I doubt anyone would go to the trouble of checking the paper trail, but if they did, they’d find everything in order. Johnny Coyle took a bad fall that resulted in a ruptured spleen, was brought to the home of a family friend — a renowned surgeon — who performed an emergency surgery that was ultimately unsuccessful. Johnny’s body was then picked up by a licensed funeral director, examined, and cremated.”

“And the other body?” Cat asked. “Richter’s man, I mean.”

“The funeral director records performing two cremations that day — Richter’s man and Johnny Coyle, though of course he only performs one. He releases a box of sawdust to the person Richter sent to claim the body, and the remains of Richter’s man to Johnny’s kin, and that’s it, everything is official.”

John Coyle nodded, then said, “How exactly was Richter’s man killed?”

“The coroner’s report states he died of blunt force trauma sustained during a car accident. There are no witnesses to dispute that. But the truth is, Johnny crushed his larynx. It was the man’s fault, John, not Johnny’s. He made the mistake of going after Haley. He gave Johnny no choice.”

Cat said, “And with Johnny legally dead, all his troubles go away, once and for all.”

Kirkland nodded. “He’d still have to be careful. Because he was in the army, his fingerprints are in the national database. And Richter doesn’t have the political clout his father had. To be honest, he doesn’t have anything near that, and probably won’t ever. If someone were to find out Johnny was alive and another request for extradition was filed with the US Attorney, there’d be nothing Richter could to do to make it go away.” He looked at Cat. “As you know, if a warrant is sworn out for Johnny’s arrest, you and Jeremy will be the first people the Feds come to talk to. They’ll ask you if you’ve seen Johnny recently, or know where he is. It won’t just be a matter of you two having to lie to them, it’ll be a matter of you two potentially being followed after you do lie to them. Having your phones tapped and your texts and e-mails intercepted. All of which would make visiting your father here impossible.”

“And what about Haley?” John Coyle said. “Faking Johnny’s death gets him off the hook, but what about her?”

Kirkland said, “With Johnny dead, I doubt anyone would go after her. It’d be a waste of resources. He’s the cop killer, not her. And anyway, like I said, Johnny will still have to be careful. His troubles stay away only if the world thinks he’s dead. The two of them have gotten pretty good at being careful.”

John Coyle said nothing. He looked at his daughter for a moment, then back at Kirkland.

Cat knew what was on her father’s mind.

The question he didn’t want to ask. Couldn’t ask.

“And if the worst happens and Johnny doesn’t come out of his coma?” Cat said to Kirkland. “I mean, we wouldn’t be able to bury him a second time, would we? What then?”

“We’d have no choice but to bury him secretly.” Kirkland looked at John and said, “If it comes to that, Richter offered to put Johnny next to his father.”

John Coyle thought about that possibility.

About the fondness Dickey had always had for Johnny, and that Johnny had for him.

About Dickey McVicker’s private graveyard somewhere in rural New Jersey.

Nodding, John Coyle said finally, “Next to Dickey would be fine with me.”

A long pause, and then Cat asked if they were really doing this.

“I don’t think it’s our call to make,” her father said. “I think it’s ultimately up to Haley.” He looked at Cat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The biodegradable urn containing the ashes of Richter’s man was buried in the family plot in an Ossining cemetery two days later.

It was unpleasant for those who knew the truth to see the remains of a stranger placed so close to their beloved mother, but it was necessary to complete the illusion.

An engraver had come out to the cemetery the afternoon before, unpacked his pneumatic tools, and cut the following in the black marble monument:

john coyle, jr.

april 16
^th
, 1982—june 6
^th
, 2011

101st airborne

Cat and Jeremy were the only mourners present.

Cat with her wrist in a cast, and Jeremy, despite the pain even the slightest movement caused him, on crutches.

Just like Johnny had been that night their father had been taken.

Despite his pain, Jeremy refused to take any painkillers.

Haley did not want to leave Johnny’s bedside, and there was always the possibility of her being seen and, despite her drastic change in appearance, recognized.

But more to the point, she simply couldn’t bear being a part of what might very well turn out to be the rehearsal for the real thing.

Of course, Richter McVicker, Bill Kirkland, and John Coyle were also unable to attend.

A priest from the Catholic church their mother had frequented recited the burial rites, and the funeral director, along with his own adult son, both in dark suits, stood a few feet away.

The graveside service lasted less than ten minutes, after which the urn was lowered into one of the four remaining plots. Once the mourners had left, a solitary cemetery worker filled in the grave.

At which point the man known as Johnny Coyle no longer existed.

Cat was driving back to Martin’s home when Jeremy broke their silence.

“Is it true Dickey left Dad a lot of money?”

Cat nodded. “He knew that once Dad comes forward, the company that paid out his life insurance will want its money back. You and Johnny spent yours, and I used mine as the down payment on my apartment. With Dickey’s money, we’ll be able to pay that back with plenty left for Dad to start over again.”

Jeremy was silent for a moment more. He seemed bothered by something. Finally, he said, “If they have enough evidence to clear Dad’s name, why don’t they do it? I mean, if he can be disgraced after his death, can’t that be reversed even if everyone still thinks he’s dead?”

“He won’t have to stay hidden forever.”

“Still,” Jeremy said. He left it at that.

Cat glanced at her kid brother.

The emotional one, the one easily riled.

She contemplated the irony that, had it not been for Jeremy — his flaws as well as his courage — their father would have really died that night in Chelsea.

A fact their father had been quick to point out to Jeremy when they were reunited.

“The time will come,” Cat said. “We just have to wait for it. We just have to be patient.”

“I’m not very good at that,” Jeremy said.

Cat smiled. “I’m sure Dad will be happy to teach you.”

The apartment above Dickey’s restaurant was no longer safe, so Richter provided John Coyle with another place where he could live unseen.

A small home in New Jersey, on the western bank of the Hudson River.

From the upstairs window could be seen the family home on the eastern bank where John Coyle’s family had lived.

Where Dickey and his wife and only child would come for their secret visits all those years ago.

And where Jeremy, seated upon his mother’s lap, would watch the river as they waited for Cat and Johnny to come home from school and told each other stories about the boy who ran away to the city.

In that small home, John Coyle and the son he barely knew would live, at least for the time it took for Jeremy to heal.

Live and wait for the war downriver to begin.

Haley remained at Martin’s home, sleeping in the bed next to Johnny’s and only leaving the recovery room to shower when Cat came to take her place at Johnny’s bedside, which she did every morning.

The only glimpse of the outdoors that Haley had was from the window of the guest room bathroom.

A week passed, and then another. Haley’s bruises faded finally, and her cheek healed, though a scar — a patch of pink the size of a man’s knuckle — endured.

When Haley wasn’t beside Johnny, she was in seated meditation on the small bed next to his.

And when she was done and opened her eyes again, she did so hoping that Johnny would be awake and looking at her.

One morning, before her shower, Haley noted that her hair had begun to grow in, her natural roots in harsh contrast to the dyed black ends.

She asked Cat to find a pair of electric shears. Cat did, and in the guest bathroom, standing alone before the mirror, Haley gave herself a buzz cut, leaving only a quarter-inch burr of red hair.

Looking at herself, she of course thought of Johnny when he’d cut his long hair back to military shortness a week after they’d met.

After flushing the dyed clippings down the toilet, Haley showered, dressed, and returned to Johnny’s bedside.

She and Cat barely spoke; the recovery room was, for Haley, a place of silence, a temple. That morning was no different, and she and Cat did together what they always did.

Listened to Johnny’s breathing, watched his eyes.

Two survivors of violence praying for the return of the man they each loved.

It was the night after Haley had buzzed her hair that she dreamed of Montreal.

Of the days and nights she and Johnny had spent there, Johnny looking for the friend who might be able to help them but not finding him, Haley still in shock.

In her dream she and Johnny were in their hotel room overlooking the St. Lawrence River again — Johnny holding her, assuring her that they were going to be okay, that he would take care of her, then and always.

Haley dreamed, too, of Johnny finally deciding that they would have to risk crossing the border and make their way to Brooklyn, to a man named Dickey McVicker.