Betrayers(70)

He stared straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand and passed it down over his face, and when it dropped into his lap his eyes were closed—the same gesture you’d use to close the eyes of a corpse.

Zachary Ullman may not have had the guts to shoot or poison himself, but he was dead just the same. And had been for a long time.

Dead man breathing.





26


TAMARA


The funny thing was, she wasn’t afraid.

There she was, sprawled out on the floor against the stairs with her skirt hiked up around her ass, blood leaking out of her nose and pain pulsing through her, and all she felt was rage. Even when Delman took the switch knife out of his pocket and snicked it open, the thin curls of fear that rose in her burned away almost immediately, like paper on a hot fire.

He takes another step, she thought, I’ll kick him in the balls. Squash ’em like grapes until the juice runs out.

But he didn’t take another step. He said, “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” The smile that wasn’t a smile was gone now. His mouth was hard, bent out of shape with a fury that matched hers. Hate radiated off of him; you could almost see the shimmers. “Had to come after me and my mother, lay some hurt on us. Well, now it’s your turn, baby. Now you’re getting the hurt laid on you.”

She sucked air through her mouth, struggled to sit up on the bottom stair riser. Her nose felt swollen, big as a balloon, numb. Blood dribbled into her mouth; she pawed and spat it away. The whole front of her blouse was splattered with it.

“Don’t even think about screaming,” he said. “You do and I’ll stick you like the pig you are.”

Screaming wouldn’t do her any good anyway. Her downstairs neighbors, white couple, the Jastrows, both worked late jobs that didn’t get them home until after eight. She said, in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, thick and nasal, “Murder’s not your thing, Antoine.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Then, “Antoine. Shit.” Then, “Best deal we ever had going, six-figure payoff. Clean, smooth, and you fucked it up. You’re going to pay for that, Tamara.”

“How? Cut me up? Beat me up?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Your mama know you’re here?”

“Shut up about my mother.”

“No, she doesn’t know. Your idea. She won’t like it when she finds out.”

“Get up off the floor.”

“Why don’t you come down here with me?”

“Smart-mouth bitch.” He kicked her ankle, kicked her again above the knee, hard enough to make her grimace and clamp her teeth. “Get up off the goddamn floor!”

Tamara pulled her skirt down, managed to turn onto her hip, then onto her knees facing the side wall. It took a little effort, one hand on the wall and the other on the railing, to get onto her feet. Her breathing still wasn’t right. Air made whistling, wheezing sounds in her nasal passages.

He gestured with the knife. “Upstairs.”

Her legs felt wobbly; she had to hang on to the railing with both hands to make the climb. Didn’t do it fast enough to suit him. Twice he jabbed fingers into her back, the second time on the spot where the riser had cut into her back. She swallowed the pain cry that rose into her throat. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

At the top of the stairs he said, “Now into the kitchen. Wipe that blood off your face.”

“Why? So you can mess it up again?”

“Don’t give me any sass. Do what I tell you.”

“You busted my nose.”

“Not yet—not enough blood. Next time I’ll mash it to a pulp.”

He was right about the blood: not as much dribbling out now. But the numbness had worn off and her nose had begun to throb like hell. Not broken, maybe, but some badly bruised cartilage. A few red drops plopped into the kitchen sink, swirled away when she turned on the cold-water tap. She soaked a dish towel, wiped the stickiness off her face and hands. Rinsed the towel and wet it again and held it gingerly against her nose.

“How’d you find out?” she said. “Who told you?”

“Who do you think?”

“Yeah. Doctor Easy.”

“Too bad for you he didn’t believe what the judge told him.”

“Fool.”

“Bedroom,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why? You gonna rape me?”

He laughed, nasty. “Last thing on my mind. Had all of your chubby body I can stand—I don’t need another lousy lay.”

That made her even more coldly furious. Chubby body! Lousy lay!

“Go on,” he said. “The bedroom.”