The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  She reached down instinctively with her right hand, groping for the storage compartment just in front of the gearbox. Her hand brushed the knob of the stickshift, but she couldn’t reach the small space in front of it—a place reserved for change and wallets and other sundries.

  She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her throat, and she realized she was getting dizzy from lack of oxygen. Out of the corner of her eyes she could make out the face of the man who’d stopped to help her fix her tire, and the expression she saw terrified her.

  She refocused and spun her eyes down and to the right. She was leaning too far back in her seat to reach the compartment, and she knew that she only had a matter of seconds. Bringing all her strength to bear, she threw her weight forward into the man’s hand, her fingers clawing at the car’s interior.

  The pain and terror were overwhelming as the force of her own body weight added to the incredible strength of the man’s hand around her throat, sealing her windpipe. For a moment, she thought it was over, as black spots began to hang in the center of her vision. But then her fingers closed around the object for which she’d been searching and she knew she had a chance.

  It was pepper spray. Sydney kept a small canister in her car for her own protection. As she felt the man lean farther into the car, she brought the canister up, flicking off the safety with her thumb and aiming it directly into his face. Then she closed her own eyes and pressed the spray release.

  His reaction was instantaneous; he bolted from the car in agony, releasing her at the same time. For a moment she thought she would vomit as her body convulsed, still trying unsuccessfully to take in air. She worried that her windpipe had been crushed when she realized that she wasn’t breathing, but then she coughed once—a spasmodic, body-wrenching hack— and all at once her lungs filled, the rush of air burning through her, her body welcoming the pain as a sign of salvation.

  She sputtered and gagged for a moment, allowing her breathing to return, and then pushed open the door and struggled out of the car. She knew that she wasn’t yet safe; the pepper spray would incapacitate her attacker for a few moments, maybe more, but the damage she’d inflicted was far from permanent. She needed to make sure that he was in no position to harm her again.

  He was rolling around in the dirt a few feet from the car, screaming in pain. His face was horribly contorted, and his hands clawed at his eyes like some overzealous thespian auditioning for the lead in Oedipus Rex. She stumbled around the car in a panic, looking for something with which to tie him up or further render him harmless. She could find nothing, and as she spun wildly around, keeping half her attention on the wounded man as he rolled on the ground, she was overpowered by the notion that he might regain his senses and renew his attack.

  After a moment’s search, she grabbed the tire iron out of the trunk and hurried over to the man. He’d managed to raise himself up on his knees, and it looked as though he was getting his sight back. She worked her way behind him, holding the heavy metal rod out in front of her like a sword. Then, when she was directly behind his back, she raised it up like a baseball bat, taking aim at the back of his head.

  She paused there for a moment, as a feeling of guilt and indecision grabbed hold of her. Left with even the briefest time to contemplate her actions, she balked at the notion of inflicting such serious harm on another person. After all, there must be another way. And yet she could think of nothing. When the man’s hands dropped from his face—a motion Sydney took as a sign of recovery, however slight—she swung the iron around quickly without further thought or hesitation, connecting with a sickening crack to the back of the man’s skull.

  He dropped forward, his face sinking into the highway’s shoulder. She bent forward to examine him and saw a thick smear of blood running from the back of his head, mixing with the dirt to form a thick, gritty mess. She knew at once that he must be dead, and for a minute she stood there over him, unable to move at all as she held firm to the tire iron that had saved her. Then as the realization that she’d killed a man settled into her, she began to shake.

  It started in her knees as a minor weakness, and she thought she might simply steady herself as she straightened up. She couldn’t, though. It spread too quickly from her knees up through her legs and into her hips. From there, it traveled along her spine and infected her entire body, sliding down her arms and into her fingers as it grew from a tremor to an earthquake. It racked her body until she dropped the tire iron and slumped to the ground. Without a word, and without even realizing it was happening, she rolled against the side of the car and drew herself tightly into a ball with her arms around her knees, closing her eyes against the reality of what had happened.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  WHEN SYDNEY OPENED her eyes, she had no idea for how long she’d been curled up by the side of the road. The sun was still hanging low on the horizon, and no one had driven by or stopped to examine the two people incapacitated next to their cars, so it couldn’t have been too long—although she was beginning to wonder whether anyone ever passed by on this particular lonely stretch of highway. She felt woozy and tired, but the shaking had passed, and she was sure that she was in control of herself once again.

  She looked over at the man’s body, still facedown in the dirt near her car. I killed him, she thought again grimly. The knowledge that she’d acted in self-defense eased her guilt somewhat, but she still felt a gnawing at her conscience; a persistent illogical feeling that she was responsible for what had happened. She reached up and felt her throat, the bruise still fresh and raw where he’d tried to strangle her. Looking down at the tire iron, she felt sick again. She was lucky, she knew; but she was also angry. She picked up the iron and threw it in disgust toward the bushes at the edge of the forest that lined the highway. Maybe she’d feel better if she didn’t have to look at it anymore. Besides, she had no intention of changing her tire now; someone would be by soon, and she’d get help.

  She looked both ways down the highway, but there was still no one and nothing in sight. What horrible luck to have a breakdown out here, she thought. If she hadn’t gotten a flat tire, she never would have been in this position. And what were the chances that the person who came along directly after her would take the opportunity to attack her?

  As she considered the sequence of events, she began to wonder whether it was really all a coincidence. The man had mentioned D.C. as if he’d known she lived in Washington. How could he have known that unless he knew who she was?

  Just then she heard a loud groan from over her shoulder. Her heart jolted as she spun on her knees and saw the man moving. His hand had reached around and was probing the back of his head, and his body rocked back and forth as if he were trying to roll over.

  It can’t be! She’d hit him so hard in the back of the head; she’d seen the blood, and she couldn’t believe that he could have survived. She scrambled to her feet and raced toward him, searching for the tire iron so she could defend herself again. It took a moment for her to remember that she’d thrown it into the woods. She looked over in that direction, but knew instantly that the shrubbery was too thick for her to have any hope of finding it in time for it to be of any use.

  She ran to her car and slammed the door, fumbling with the keys in her panic as she tried to get the motor started. She turned the ignition over once, and heard the familiar gurgling within the engine. Then it sputtered and died.

  No! It can’t be happening now!

  She turned the key again and the same stunted sound bubbled up from under the hood, drawing a scream from deep within her chest as she slammed her fist against the steering wheel. She tried three or four more times before she knew for sure that the starter wouldn’t cooperate.

  Her mind raced as she glanced out the window and saw the man continuing to stir. She had to figure out a way to get out of there before he regained consciousness. It occurred to her to bludgeon him again, but the thought repulsed her. Besides, she had discarded the tire iron, and she had seen
nothing else that presented itself as a suitable replacement.

  She looked up in her rearview mirror and noticed the dark sedan the man had been driving, and she latched on to the notion of stealing his car. She opened her door, climbed out of her Accord, and raced back to the sedan. Throwing the door open, she climbed in, her right hand flying to the ignition in the desperate hope that the keys would be there.

  They weren’t, but she didn’t let that dash her hopes. She quickly ran her hands through the car’s interior to all those normal places people leave their keys. She flipped down the sun visor, reached under the seat, pulled up the swatch of carpeting covering the floor, and rifled through the glove box, but found nothing. He must have kept the keys with him, she realized.

  The terror spread through her again as she realized she was trapped. She stepped out of the sedan breathing hard as she contemplated the idea of rifling through the man’s jeans. He’d collapsed again, facedown in the dirt, and it occurred to her that perhaps he was dead now. It was difficult to believe that anyone could survive the blow she’d delivered to his head with the tire iron, and it seemed possible that the energy it had taken for the man to drag his broken body to its knees had been the last that he’d possessed.

  She approached him quietly, her muscles taut, joints bent, ready to bolt if necessary. When she got near enough, she reached her foot out and nudged him in the leg, jumping back as she did in anticipation of any movement.

  There was none. His leg rolled to the side and then settled back in exactly the same position. She reached out her foot again and kicked him, harder this time, every nerve in her body ready for an instant reaction from him. Again, though, there was no movement other than the rocking of the leg in reaction to the force of her kick.

  Bending over the lifeless lump, she reached out her hand gingerly to feel around for the car keys. She started by patting the rear pockets of his pants, hoping against logic that he kept his keys there, rather than in a front pocket. Feeling a lump, she cautiously reached her hand into the pocket, drawing out the man’s wallet. She opened it, and the sight of what was inside left her breathless. There, contained in a transparent plastic slip, was an identification card. It was white with a thick red and blue border and a picture of the man who’d identified himself as “Mike.” He was staring at the camera with a serious expression—not even the hint of a smile. Next to the picture was a name: John Marine; and next to that was an official-looking seal. It was blue with a red and white shield surrounded by a laurel wreath and a circle of stars. Around the edges of the seal, she read the words three times, each time not believing what she was seeing: Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  She closed the wallet and put it in her own pocket, unsure what else to do. She would think through what it all meant later. Then she bent down again, reaching around to the front of the man’s pants, shaking them gently as she listened for any jingling that might indicate the location of his keys. She heard the telltale sound coming from the right side and reached across his body and slipped her fingers into his front pocket, straining to reach the keys and pull them free. The pocket was deep, though, and she found that she needed to lean over even farther, pulling her body off balance.

  She had just felt the tip of one of the keys when it happened. She didn’t even notice him move, but suddenly and without warning his hand was clamped around her wrist. She screamed and tried to pull her hand away from him, but his grip was like a vise. Off balance as she was, she pitched forward and her head hit the dirt hard. She flailed about, but was unable to break free. Then, as she struggled, she opened her eyes and turned her head to the side.

  He was staring straight into her eyes. His cheek was still pressed against the ground, and his skin was swollen and red. The blood from his head wound had reached forward around his face, mixing with the dirt and clotting thickly in streams that looked like the legs of a giant spider.

  She screamed again and wrenched her body with all her might, driving her left knee into the man’s back with as much force as she could muster. She saw the expression on the face that hung before her change as the eyes widened in surprise and the cheeks exploded with a billowy, putrid expulsion of air. At that moment, she twisted her shoulders and pulled her arm back as hard as she could, and she felt the man’s grip loosen, and then snap as her arm pulled itself free.

  She scrambled to her feet, kicking out again at the man as she did, every muscle in her body seeming to contract in unison, fighting with each other in a desperate, spasmodic effort at escape. Then, once clear of the man’s grasp, she struggled

  to her feet. Her mind was in complete disarray as her eyes darted in every direction, searching for a weapon, but finding nothing useful.

  Finally, casting one last glance at the man still lying on the ground, she ran down the dirt shoulder to the road, throwing herself into the wall of vegetation at the bottom and disappearing into the woods.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  JACK CASSIAN LOOKED the menu over and pondered what he was in the mood for. Andolini’s had only opened two weeks earlier, but it had gotten rave reviews from the food critics at both the Washington Times and the Washington Post. Given the infrequency with which those particular publications agreed on anything, Jack thought the place must be worth a try.

  It was small and intimate—Jack counted only fifteen tables— tucked away on Twenty-first Street, just below Dupont Circle. Although the restaurant itself was cozy, Jack could see a lively bar section separated from the dining room by a frosted pane of glass. It was hopping. Young men and women moved easily through the place in crisp business suits, with thick, well-kept hair that advertised a self-importance they felt to their core. These, Jack knew, were the underlings of the power brokers who kept Washington greased enough to function: well-educated, highly competitive twenty-somethings who’d come from all corners of the country, seduced by the lure and false promise of power to work for senators and congressmen and agency heads. They’d forgone the riches of Wall Street and Madison Avenue and accepted the pitiable salaries offered by the government in the hope of becoming relevant. If they succeeded, the money would come later from lobbyists and law firms eager to capitalize on their connections. For now, though, they contented themselves with the pretense that they were making a difference.

  Jack could feel the raw carnality of their desperation even through the thick glass. Facing disillusionment could be painful, and in a city as lonely as D.C., they reached for any façade of companionship, no matter how fleeting. Perhaps, Jack thought, he would adjourn to the bar after a good meal to see what might happen. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time; he was unashamed to acknowledge that he’d played the game before, and played it well.

  He wouldn’t, though. The murder of Elizabeth Creay had gotten under his skin, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He should have eaten at home for all the enjoyment he’d take from even an excellent meal. The thought of Amanda Creay coming home to find her mother was keeping his mind occupied, and making tangible so many of life’s cold realities. The loneliness of a one-night stand would only make him feel worse.

  It wasn’t just his focus on the case that would keep him from seeking solace at the arm of some young woman at the bar. There was no getting around the fact that Sydney Chapin had become an infatuation for him. It was silly; they were so different in so many ways that nothing could ever come of it. And yet as long as his preoccupation with her survived, he’d have difficulty spending his affections elsewhere.

  The waitress stopped by his table, hovering with an eager smile that Cassian recognized as a subtle invitation. He passed on the opportunity to flirt with her, though, and ordered the veal piccata without any particular enthusiasm. She took his order with a slight pout, clearly disappointed at his lack of interest.

  You’re a fool, Jack told himself as he watched her walk away, the curves under her skirt swaying like a hypnotist’s watch below her narrow waist.

  Just then his cell phone rang,
interrupting his thoughts. He fumbled through his jacket pocket, pulling out the phone on the fourth ring and flipping it open.

  “Hello?”

  He heard the nasal whine of an operator’s voice on the other end of the line. “You have a collect call from Sydney Chapin, will you accept the charge?”

  Cassian’s heart quickened. “Yes, of course.” He heard the line click over and the static increased. He could still hear her voice, though.

  “Detective—Jack?” she said.

  “Yes, Sydney, it’s Jack. How’d you get my number?” He was excited at the notion that she had contacted him, and his mind toyed with various romantic possibilities.

  “It was on the card you gave me.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m in trouble, Jack,” she stammered. He wondered for a moment whether it was some sort of a joke, but he could feel her tension over the line. He could hear a man and a woman arguing loudly in the background, and the connection had a cold feel of danger he couldn’t isolate. “I mean I’m in real trouble,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  His heart raced, and he forced himself to remember the basics of any emergency his training had taught him—get the most important information first. “Where are you?” he asked.