The Betrayer Read Online Free PDF Page B

cash.
    Cash no one had
been able to locate.
    A traitor — a
betrayer — was what the newspapers had called him.
    If I accomplish
this, though, Jeremy thought, if I clear his name once and for all, then maybe
I can redeem myself in some small way. I can’t bring the man back, but I can
give him back his good name. I can do that much. Life had to get better then,
no?
    And even if I’m
killed trying, well, either way I’d be free of this fucking guilt.
    And I’d have
done what Coyles do.
    He continued
forward, picking up speed as he reached the end of the hallway, then rushing
down the three flights of stairs and out onto West Tenth Street. He looked
around quickly, could see nothing to be concerned about. He’d been on his own
since he was fifteen, had always done whatever he’d needed to do to make his
way. He counted on his street smarts to get him through this.
    Still, his
hands continued shaking, his heart pounding, his thoughts racing.
    It was a warm night
for June, and despite the clear sky, dampness hung in the air. His motorcycle, a
beat-up Ducati Monster, was parked between two cars, perpendicular to the curb.
Despite the warmth, he knew that once he got the bike up to speed the wind chill
factor would make his leather jacket a necessity. His helmet was secured to the
bike’s trellis frame by a bicycle lock. He removed and pocketed the lock, pulled
his leather gloves from inside the helmet, and put the gloves on, then the
helmet. Mounting the bike and inserting the key, he turned the ignition.
    The sound of
the exhaust echoed down the street, shattering the quiet. Shifting into gear,
he pulled away from the curb and was gone.

Chapter Three
    Elizabeth lived in Chappaqua, thirty
miles north of New York City. She knew there would be little traffic on the Saw
Mill River Parkway at this time of night, and that this would give rise to the
temptation to speed. It took all she had to keep her Volvo under sixty-five. Being
issued a speeding ticket — here, now, on a night when her husband was out of
town — was a risk she simply couldn’t afford to take.
    She reached the
West Village in just under an hour but couldn’t find parking on West Tenth. Locating
a spot two blocks down, she pulled in and rushed back to Jeremy’s building on
foot. She noticed that his motorcycle wasn’t where he always parked it but
still hoped he’d be there. Maybe it was parked elsewhere, or in the shop, or
maybe he’d sold the damn thing like she’d asked him to. Entering his building
she climbed the stairs, then let herself into his place with the key he had
given her on their last meeting. His apartment was small — a narrow living
room, corner kitchen area, even narrower bedroom, and tiny bath — so within
seconds of stepping inside she knew he had not waited.
    Out of breath,
she paused. It was strange to be in his place. She felt like a criminal. What
if someone had seen her enter? She began quickly searching through his things,
looking for anything that might tell her where he had gone. She started with
the kitchen table and drawers, then for some reason expanded her search to the
cupboards. Nothing. There was a notepad on the coffee table in the living room,
but nothing was written on it. In his bedroom she found only clothes, a few
books, most of which were memoirs of addiction and recovery, and a single framed
photograph of a woman she assumed was his mother. She knew Jeremy was greatly
affected by his mother’s death. He had been, from the way he talked about her,
clearly her favorite. Elizabeth was surprised by how much she resembled the
woman. Same thick dark hair, same build, same sharp, Anglo features. The more
she looked at the photo, though, the more she realized that she shouldn’t have
been surprised by this at all.
    The more, too,
she realized the real reason for racing to his apartment the way she did.
    That photo she
had sent him.
    The least I
could do, she had thought at the time. A moment of weakness, one