The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  * * *

  Also by David Hosp

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Epilogue

  the

  betrayed

  Also by David Hosp DARK HARBOR

  the

  Betrayed

  David Hosp

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Richard David Hosp All rights reserved.

  Warner Books Hachette Book Group USA 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Warner Books and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Warner Inc. or an affiliated company. Used under license by Hachette Book Group USA, which is not affiliated with Time Warner Inc.

  First eBook Edition: July 2006

  ISBN: 0-7595-6764-6

  For Mom and Dad, who throughout my life have been among my greatest sources of love, understanding, support, and inspiration.

  Thank you ...for everything.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank:

  Those who have read, enjoyed, and supported my first book, Dark Harbor. Many of you have been kind enough to take the time to offer your praise, thoughts, comments, best wishes, and even constructive criticism. Writing is a somewhat solitary endeavor, and I greatly appreciate your encouragement and feedback;

  My friends and family, who have been wonderful throughout the writing and publishing process, which has been a somewhat surreal experience for me so far;

  Everyone at Goodwin Procter LLP, where I have practiced law for the past decade. No one could ask for more support from a group of partners and professionals at all levels than I have received from everyone at this great firm;

  The “brain trust” of amateur editors who read and provided feedback on various portions of the manuscript for this book: Joanie Hosp, Richard Hosp, Martha Hosp, Joan McCormick, and Ted Hosp;

  Maureen Egen, one of the greats in the publishing world. Thank you for being such a fantastic editor, friend, cheerleader, and person. This finished product owes a great deal to your help, thoughts, and advice;

  Frances Jalet-Miller, who kept me honest, and made me sweat the details (big and small) to make this novel the best it could be;

  Larry, Jamie, Jimmy, Emi, Paul, Michele, Tanisha, and everyone else at Warner Books for putting up with me;

  Lisa Vance for being such a great agent/soundboard/reality check;

  Aaron Priest for giving me a chance; and

  Joanie (my wife, my love, and my best friend), and Reid and Samantha, whom I love with all my heart: you give me purpose. Without you, nothing would make sense.

  the

  betrayed

  Prologue

  AMANDA KNEW SOMETHING was wrong as the Metro approached the stop at Eastern Market. The premonition swept through her like a chill on a summer night, unexpected and unwelcome, making her scalp tingle. Nancy noticed the change in her friend’s demeanor and, eager to help, offered a salve. “Billy Slevan likes you,” she said.

  Amanda looked at Nancy and shook her head. “No he doesn’t.” She was a small, serious girl with dark brown hair and dimples when she smiled, which was far too infrequently.

  Nancy pressed the issue. “Yes he does. I heard it. Rebecca told me he thinks you’re pretty.”

  Amanda shook her head again. “He was talking about Amanda Green.”

  Nancy looked down at her shoes in momentary defeat as the train slowed into the station and the loudspeaker blared over the electrical whirring of the rails. “This stop, Eastern Market. Eastern Market, this stop.”

  “You don’t know that,” Nancy persisted, though with less assurance.

  The train stopped, and Amanda smiled in a way that was meant to convince her friend everything was all right. “Yes I do,” she said as the doors opened.

  Amanda wished she could explain her mood to Nancy, but she would never understand. No one would. The last time Amanda had a feeling of dread like this was more than two years ago, and she still couldn’t bring herself to think about that day. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  The footfalls of the girls’ stiff school shoes echoed through the cavernous station, far beneath the streets of southeast D.C. They walked without speaking, forcing their way through the crowds of adults that pushed past the two adolescents in bright blue plaid skirts and Bainbridge Academy sweaters. Bainbridge was the one part of Amanda’s existence that had survived the upheaval, and she cherished every day there. Once, during that awful time two years ago, her mother had worried out loud whether she would be able to afford the tuition; Amanda had locked herself in her room for hours, sobbing into her pillow as her mother pleaded with her to open the door. The possibility of leaving Bainbridge had never been raised again. “We’ll be fine,” her mother reassured her; and they were.

  In fact, things had gotten better in many ways. Amanda’s mother, who had been a reporter briefly before she’d married, landed a job writing for the metro section of the Washington Post. Things had gone well for her, and there was talk of her being put on national coverage soon, which would mean more money and better hours. And yet when her mother told her of the promotion, an inexplicable shadow had darkened Amanda’s face. It was as if experience had taught her that all good fortune was merely a prelude to tragedy.

  Nancy and Amanda reached the foot of the escalator that led up to the street, and Amanda’s heart skipped. She paused as she looked up through the dizzying tube carved at a steep angle into the ground. Mildly claustrophobic, she closed her eyes and tried to think of something else. Nancy,
who was aware of Amanda’s phobia, prattled on in an attempt at distraction.

  As the girls neared the top of the escalator, Amanda opened her eyes, breathing a little easier in spite of the foreboding that had nestled in her bones. She caught a glimpse of the long tunnel leading back down to the Metro, and vertigo gripped her briefly before she turned around and faced the gathering light of the subway entrance.

  It was four o’clock on a beautiful Wednesday in early June when they walked out into the sunlight. Heading down Seventh Street, they passed Eastern Market, which was buzzing with activity as people bought fresh meat and fish for the evening meal, or browsed the stalls that sold everything from pots and pans to vintage clothing. Gentrification had come haltingly to the area in the 1990s, but its effects were unmistakable. BMWs now vied with late-model Chevys and low-end Toyotas for parking, and the prices at the shops in the market had risen dramatically.

  The girls walked south along Seventh Street for a few blocks, leaving the BMWs behind, until they came to G Street. Amanda turned left and started heading east. Nancy grabbed her by the arm. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  Amanda looked at her. “Home,” she replied simply.

  Nancy looked down the street at the overgrown weeds that pitted many of the yards. As in the rest of the nation’s capital, neighborhoods changed quickly from street to street in the area south of Eastern Market, and children learned early which routes were safe and which were not. “That’s not a good block. We’re supposed to walk around.”

  Amanda frowned and looked down the block herself. She knew that Nancy was right, and yet she wanted to get home quickly, as the feeling of dread continued to gnaw at her stomach. Besides, her grandmother was coming over that evening for an early supper, and Amanda, who was sensitive to the tension between her mother and her grandmother, wanted to be at the house to help her mother prepare. “This way’s faster,” she said stubbornly. “We’ll be fine.”

  Nancy looked frightened. “I don’t want to.”

  “Fine, then don’t.” Amanda knew that Nancy wouldn’t let her go alone.

  “Please,” Nancy pleaded. “Can’t we just go around?”

  “No,” Amanda said. “I’m tired of going around.” With that, she turned and headed up the block. Nancy stood looking at her, biting her lip. Finally, she rolled her eyes and followed her friend down the street, running to catch up.

  The two girls walked close together, their eyes straight ahead and turned down toward the pavement. They didn’t see or hear a soul until they were halfway down the block.

  The rustle came from up ahead of them, just off to the left from within a decrepit garden in front of a boarded-up house. Amanda glanced up quickly and saw the three men lounging on the front steps of the tumbledown building, each with a tall brown paper sack wrapped tightly around a bottle sitting between his legs. They leaned back on their elbows, sweat beading on their foreheads in the humid early evening air. There was a dangerous energy about them—a coiled tension in the way they regarded their surroundings.

  “Yo, Jerome, check this shit out! Schoolgirls!”

  Amanda redirected her eyes forward as she and Nancy quickened their pace. As unsettling as the young man’s attention was, it didn’t particularly frighten her. His voice betrayed a bravado that lacked intention, and living in the city had numbed her to such empty intimidation. The next voice she heard was different, though, and it sucked the wind out of her lungs.

  “Hey, sugar,” the voice said simply. It was low and measured, and full of a threat so plain that Amanda was instantly terrified. She continued to walk, but her legs felt dream-heavy, and her head spun with images too awful to acknowledge.

  “I know you girls can hear me,” the man said, a hint of impatience growing in his voice. “Don’t be like that, all shy an’ whatnot. You stop and talk to me, now, y’hear?”

  Amanda could feel Nancy stiffen with fear as she kept her head down. Keep walking, Amanda urged silently. Keep walking, and we’ll be fine.

  “Stop!”

  The man shouted the word with such fury that both girls froze. Amanda turned slowly. She looked at the man sitting at the top of the stoop, trying not to let her fear show, though she knew it was no use. His skin was almond brown, and his eyes burned out at her from under a broad forehead topped with a thin layer of hair cropped tightly to his scalp. He looked to be in his early twenties, and around his neck hung a thick gold chain with a ruby-studded pendant in the shape of a J at the center. The two other young men were looking at him now, and Amanda could see the trepidation on their faces, too, as if they feared that some unimaginable beast had been stirred. Their reaction deepened her terror. Then the man smiled, revealing the straightest, whitest teeth Amanda had ever seen. Under other circumstances, he might have looked handsome.

  “You girls lost?” he asked.

  Amanda shook her head back and forth slowly.

  The man looked at her, shaking his head back and forth in time with hers. “No?” He scratched his head. “You lookin’ for some candy, then?” He reached into his pocket and brought out a plastic bag thick with chunks of clear white that looked like rock candy, but weren’t.

  Amanda’s head continued to shake back and forth. “No?” he repeated, but this time he seemed more doubtful. “You sure?” he pressed. At this Amanda nodded forcefully.

  The man put the bag back in his pants but left his hand in his pocket. “What, then? Some lovin’?” Amanda noticed his hand moving in his jeans.

  “No sir,” Amanda finally managed to say.

  The man took his hand out of his jeans and frowned, his smile disappearing like the sun ducking behind a bank of storm clouds. “Well let me ask you, then, what the fuck are you doin’ here?” he asked, his eyes wide and his hands open as if in bewilderment.

  “We’re just going home.” Amanda could hear the begging in her voice.

  There was a long pause as the man with the gold chain rubbed his hands back and forth together slowly. “Just goin’ home, huh?” he said quietly after a moment.

  Amanda felt like crying, but she held back the tears. “Yes sir,” she choked out.

  “Yes sir,” the man repeated. “I like that.” He stood up, and Amanda felt the urge to run, but her feet seemed as if they had melted into the sidewalk in the heat and stress of the moment. She heard Nancy let out a gasp.

  The man hovered at the bottom of the stoop as the tension crackled through the heavy air. He was close enough that Amanda could smell the booze mixing with the man’s sweat. Then he pursed his lips and spoke again. “Well then, I guess you best be on your way, huh?”

  Amanda was still frozen, wondering if she had heard the man correctly. But then something in his eyes betrayed his sincerity. It was an emptiness; a pain so thick it defied comprehension. At that moment, Amanda knew he was not going to hurt them.

  “Yes sir,” she said one last time.

  The young man stuck out his bottom lip and nodded at them. “Yes sir,” he repeated quietly again. Then he turned and walked up the stoop and through the open door of the decaying building.

  z

  Neither girl spoke to the other again that day, except to exchange a brief good-bye when their routes home diverged. Amanda didn’t know how to feel. Her premonition, she assumed, had been a phantom. Having spent her first twelve years in a suburban cocoon, shielded from the threats of violence with which so many were forced to contend on a daily basis, she thought perhaps her intuition had suffered. It wasn’t until she rounded the corner to her own street and saw her house that the dread returned.

  She knew something was wrong when she saw that the curtains on the front windows were drawn. Her mother had chosen the little brownstone in large part because it faced south, and so received constant exposure to the sun. She made a production of opening the curtains every morning—“to let a little sunshine into our lives,” she would say.

  More ominous was that the front door was ajar. The two-story brick structure
was on a pleasant block, but it was not the sort of neighborhood in which people left their doors unlocked, much less open to the world. When they had moved, her mother had been explicit with Amanda that the doors were to remain locked at all times, even when they were home; especially when they were home.

  Amanda walked slowly up the street, her eyes never leaving the gap in the doorjamb through which she could see nothing but darkness. As she climbed the front steps, she was no longer breathing, at least not that she could tell. She hesitated on the top step, and a part of her was tempted to run in the opposite direction—to find a neighbor or a policeman to open the door and tell her what was behind it, so that the images wouldn’t haunt her. But she knew she couldn’t. Something was drawing her inside.

  “Mom?” she called out quietly as she stood there, hand outstretched to the door, hoping against hope that she might hear an answer. When there was nothing but silence, she forced herself to take a deep breath as a tear ran down her cheek. Then she pushed the door open.

  Chapter One

  JACK CASSIAN LEANED FORWARD in the flimsy plastic chair, its aluminum frame creaking with every shift of his weight. His head hung low, his hair falling forward, obscuring an angular, attractive face that somehow retained its youthfulness in spite of all he had seen in his thirty-three years. “I’m not seeing Candy anymore,” he said without emotion. “I never really thought it would work out, anyway, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She never understood anything about what makes me tick; one in a long list of things that she didn’t understand. Like art. And literature. And childproof caps.” He was looking down at the yellowing industrial tiles on the floor, and he could sense no movement from the figure sitting at his side. But then, he no longer expected a reaction.

  “Guys at the station ask about you,” he lied. “Couple of them say they might stop by: Hendrickson and Joe, maybe.” He considered for a moment how far he should press the fabrication. “They probably won’t, though, in the end. Things are pretty busy, and guys like them hate places like this, y’know?” Still no movement.