The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  “I’m at a gas station—Mel’s Mobil—somewhere in southwestern Virginia, just off Route 24.”

  “Southwestern Virginia? What are you doing—” Jack stopped and forced himself to stick to what was most important first. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m a little bruised, and scratched up, but no, I don’t have any major injuries.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I was attacked in my car. I broke down by the side of the highway and a man stopped and offered to help me, but then he attacked me.”

  Jack’s mind raced. It would take him hours to get to her. “Did you call the local police?” They could get to her almost immediately to protect her, he knew.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I can’t,” she said finally.

  “Why not?”

  “I hit the man on the head. Hard. I think I hurt him pretty badly.”

  “Who cares?” He waved the waitress over to cancel his meal. “Sydney, if he attacked you first then you acted in self-defense. It’s perfectly justifiable, and you won’t get into any trouble.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Sydney said. The desperation in her voice made him go cold.

  “Why not?”

  “I took his wallet.”

  “You took his wallet?” None of this was making any sense. “Why would you take his wallet?”

  “I was looking for his car keys so I could get away, and I pulled his wallet out of his pocket.” She hesitated. “Jack, I opened the wallet, and there’s ID in it. The guy’s a cop.”

  “A cop?”

  “FBI. Same thing. I think this has something to do with my sister’s murder. Don’t you see? If he’s with the FBI and I call the police, he’ll find me.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Jack said. “I don’t understand any of this. What makes you think this has anything to do with your sister? And how do you know this guy will find you if you call the police? This is crazy.”

  Her voice came back over the line. “Jack, I can’t argue about this right now. I’m scared, and I’m stranded, and I don’t know what to do. I’m asking you for help.” She seemed on the verge of tears. “Will you help me? Please?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  z

  Mel’s Mobil was a greasy little shack by the side of the road, a quarter of a mile off Route 24. It wasn’t much to look at; two gas pumps and a mini convenience center that offered little more than out-of-date chips and soda. But it had a pay phone, and that was all Lee Salvage cared about.

  It was dark outside—ten o’clock—nearly four hours since his misadventure with the Chapin girl by the side of the highway. He was still fuming over it on the inside, but on the outside he was nothing but business. It had taken him several more minutes before he had regained his feet sufficiently to drive, and he’d found another gas station with a bathroom, where he’d cleaned himself up. His head was still aching, and the rash on his face from the pepper spray was still evident, though fading, but he was moving again—and straightening out his mistake.

  As he walked into Mel’s Mobil, he could feel the man at the counter—Mel, presumably—staring at him warily as he asked if there was a pay phone at the place. He didn’t care; he wasn’t planning on ever being anywhere near this area again.

  The phone was tucked away in the back of the shack, hidden from view by a row of shelving that offered wiper blades, engine oil, and an assortment of air fresheners and cleaning supplies.

  As he rounded the corner, he saw that someone was using the phone. Her back was toward him, and she was hunched over into the wall, so that all he could make out was her blonde hair. He looked at his watch impatiently. Then he turned and leaned against the wall himself, looking up to see the man behind the counter watching him nervously.

  It was probably only a minute or two before the woman got off the phone, but it seemed like hours to Salvage. Even after she had ended her conversation, the mere act of reaching over to hang up the phone seemed to take forever. As she started to turn around toward him, he realized that something about her seemed familiar. He started reaching into his jacket for his gun, dazed at the notion that luck might have brought him right to Sydney Chapin again.

  “Linda, get off that damned phone and let this man make a call!”

  The shouting came from the man behind the counter. Salvage turned toward the man and then looked back at the woman on the phone, realizing it wasn’t her. She looked vaguely like the Chapin girl, he saw, but only in her most general outline. She was roughly the same height and weight, and the hair color was similar, but that was where the resemblance ended. She looked ten years older, at least, and there was nothing of the Chapin girl’s attractiveness. She was a discount reproduction at best.

  “I’m off the damned phone, Mel!” she hollered back at the man behind the counter in a backwoods screech that could peel paint. She looked at Salvage and rolled her eyes with an inappropriate familiarity that made him angry. “Asshole thinks he owns me,” she said loud enough for Mel to hear.

  “Ha!” he retorted from the front of the store. “I’d never admit makin’ such a shitty buy.”

  Salvage pushed his way past the woman toward the phone, turning to shoot her a look that chased her away from view. Then he dialed a number and punched in a code from an untraceable calling card he kept for emergencies. The phone hummed and clicked as he waited, and then, after a moment, it began to ring.

  “Hello?” came the voice from across the line.

  “I’m on a pay phone,” were Salvage’s first words. “It’s routed, so it should be safe, but we should be careful.”

  There was a pause. “Why?”

  “We have a situation. The girl may have more information than we anticipated. I followed her into the mountains.”

  “The mountains? That’s problematic. What did she find out?”

  “I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I thought it best to fix the problem.”

  There was a grim silence from the other end of the line. “I trust your judgment. I’m sure you did what was best,” the voice said at last, though there was no joy in its tone. “Will it look like an accident?”

  Salvage stiffened. “There was a problem. I made contact, but the job was left unfinished.”

  “Unfinished?” Salvage could hear the anger and surprise over the phone. “How is that possible?”

  “There was a mishap. She was better prepared than I anticipated. It’s okay, though. I’ll have the problem fixed before it spreads.”

  “Okay?” The voice was sharp with rage. “Don’t tell me it’s okay!”

  “I’ll have the problem fixed.”

  “You goddamned better! If this goes any further—”

  “It won’t.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Four hours ago.”

  “Four hours!” It was almost shouted. “She could be almost back to the city now for all you know! And this is the first that I’m hearing of this?”

  “There is no cellular service here,” Salvage explained. “This is the first pay phone I found. Besides, she was on foot, so it’s doubtful that she’s anywhere near the city yet.”

  “Still, it took you four hours to find a phone?”

  Salvage hesitated, debating how much he should tell his client. “I had an errand to run,” he said at last.

  “An errand?”

  “Yes, an errand,” Salvage said. “There was a loose end that needed to be tied up back at the facility in the mountains.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  JACK CASSIAN PULLED his motorcycle into the parking lot to the side of Mel’s Mobil at ten minutes before eleven. The trip, which at legal speeds would have taken nearly five hours, had taken him just over three. The roads were quiet, and armed with a badge and a purpose, he had no hesitation in exceeding one hundred miles per hour.

  As he circled toward Mel’s front door, he searched through the mud-spattere
d windows to catch a glimpse of Sydney, but could see only a balding, overweight cashier and a stringy blonde sitting on the counter. He was about to put the kickstand down and head inside when he sensed movement behind him and turned to see Sydney bolting out of the woods toward him.

  “Sydney, I—” he started, but she cut him off.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she pleaded as she swung her leg over the back of the bike, climbing on behind him.

  “Wait, Sydney, we’ve got to talk,” Cassian protested. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll talk once we’re far away, but he was just here, and I don’t want to be anywhere near this place if he comes back.”

  “Who was just here?”

  “The man who tried to kill me.” Seeing the confusion in his eyes, an exasperated look appeared on her face. “Just move!” she pleaded. “I’ll explain later!”

  Cassian considered arguing, but saw that it would be useless. He kicked his bike into gear. “Any particular direction? And you should know that I’m not ready to make the trip all the way back to D.C. riding double at the moment.”

  “Anyplace away from here, and closer to civilization.”

  He nodded. “I saw a sign for a motel ten or fifteen miles back.” He reached around the side of the bike and unstrapped a helmet from the side of the seat. “Wear this,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she replied.

  “Look, if there’s really someone out there who’s trying to kill you, I don’t want him recognizing you on the back of my bike. Whenever a motorcycle tangles with a car, the bike loses. Always.”

  She took the helmet and put it on, tucking the strap under her chin and pulling it tight. Then she put her arms around his waist to hang on. “Now, please, let’s just go.” Her voice sounded tired and desperate, and he leaned on the throttle as he let the clutch out, pulling away from the parking lot and into the street.

  z

  The ride to the motel took ten minutes. Under other circumstances, Jack would have enjoyed the trip; Sydney was clinging to him from behind, her arms wrapped firmly around his torso and her hands clasped tightly at his chest. He could feel the insides of her thighs pressed against his legs as she molded herself to his shape for safety while the motorcycle hummed comfortably beneath them on the highway.

  But Jack could take little pleasure from his predicament. Sydney’s behavior, and what little she’d told him over the phone, raised too many questions, and he needed to start finding the answers.

  The lodging sign by the side of the highway made few specific promises, notifying them only that there was a motel off the exit a mile ahead, and as they pulled off the exit ramp Jack could see why. The structure sagged by the edge of the road, its dingy paint peeling in great swaths from the long bunkhouse of separately accessed rooms. The motel sign out front, half lost in the night with burned-out bulbs, advertised nothing more exotic than color TVs and air-conditioning.

  Jack stopped his bike in front of the office and waited for Sydney to dismount so he could pull his leg over the back of the seat. His legs felt rubbery after hours of riding without any break. “I’ll get us a room,” he said. “Then you need to start explaining this all to me.”

  She looked around the parking lot nervously. “I’m coming into the office with you.”

  “You’ll really be safe waiting out here,” Jack said. “I can see you through the window, and nothing’s gonna happen while I’m in there.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she repeated, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

  Cassian shrugged. He walked over to the office door and opened it. “After you,” he said.

  The office was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from a cracked lamp in one corner. The man behind the office counter looked like he weighed over three hundred pounds, and his dirty shirt hung over the counter in great folds of flesh as he stroked his thin goatee. Sydney hung back by the door, and he regarded her with a jealous leer.

  “We need a room,” Jack said.

  The huge man’s eyes traversed the silhouette of Sydney’s figure twice before turning to Jack with a knowing wink. “You want it for the whole night?” he asked. “We rent by the hour, too.”

  “I’ll pay for the whole night,” Jack said, unwilling to allow the sleazy insinuation to stand.

  “Suit yourself,” the man said, clearly unconvinced. “But there’s no refund if it takes less time than you’re hopin’ for.” He smiled at his own joke. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.”

  Cassian slapped the money down on the table and shot him a glare.

  “You want a receipt for that?” the man asked, unperturbed by Cassian’s menacing look as he put a numbered key down on the counter where the money had been.

  Cassian picked up the key and took Sydney by the elbow, steering her back out through the door. Over his shoulder, he could hear the obese young man still talking. “Come on back here, honey, if he leaves you with some time to kill and you’re looking to pick up some extra cash on another trick.”

  Jack and Sydney walked down along the line of doors until they came to one with the number that matched the one on their key. Jack opened the door and stepped into the room, walking through it slowly, looking into corners and checking behind doors to put Sydney at ease. He opened the closet and walked into the bathroom, pulling the shower curtain back to reveal an empty tub. Then he walked back into the bedroom, where Sydney was standing in front of the bed, looking around the room with a combination of fear and disgust at her surroundings.

  “All clear,” he said.

  She nodded, and her knees seemed to buckle slightly. She leaned to her side and sat at the edge of the bed, her head falling toward her chest and into her hands. It took a moment for Jack to realize she was crying.

  He pulled a chair over, up close to where she sat, her shoulders shaking slightly as she rocked back and forth. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.” He reached over and touched her chin, pulling her head up gently until he was able to see her. He was startled by what he saw. Her face had largely been hidden in darkness since she first ran to him outside the Mobil station.

  Her cheeks and forehead were badly scratched and bleeding in a few places. On the sides of her throat there were dark purple bruises that were already turning black at the edges. Jack felt a rage growing within him.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she began. “It’s all such a blur. I came out here to visit the Virginia Juvenile Institute for Mental Health. Liz was out here two weeks before she died. I thought—” She paused and took a breath, trying to regain some of her composure. “I thought there might somehow be a connection with her murder.”

  “Why would you have thought that?”

  Her tears were still flowing freely. “The last person she saw before she was killed was a professor at the law school where I work, Professor Barneton, and he said she asked him some questions about the Institute. A couple of hours later she was dead. When you and your partner told me there was a possibility that the drug dealer you’ve arrested didn’t actually kill Liz, I started wondering if there was a connection, and I decided to check the place out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Because it seemed so silly. I mean, what could it possibly have to do with anything, right?” Her voice was filled with irony. “I didn’t want to waste your time; and I didn’t want you to think I was crazy—like some deranged female Oliver Stone seeing conspiracies wherever I looked. So I decided to come out here myself, just to make myself feel better.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I didn’t think so.” She frowned through her tears as she continued. “I’ve been over and over every conversation I had with the people out there in my mind, and none of it leads anywhere. It’s all a bunch of ancient history. So when I left, I was satisfied that it had nothing to do with Liz’s murder.”

  “But now you’re not so sure,” Cassian sa
id. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face.

  “No, now I’m not so sure,” she said. “When I was driving home, I got a flat tire. It didn’t make any sense, because I didn’t have a blowout, and the air in the tire wasn’t low to begin with. Somehow, though, the air in the tire seemed to disappear. I didn’t think that much about it at the time, and a minute later this guy pulled up behind me and offered to change the tire. I was sitting in the car after I popped the trunk for him, and the next thing I knew, he was on top of me—choking me through the car window.” She pointed to the bruises on her neck.

  “Let me see,” Jack said, pulling her hands away and leaning in for a closer look. The bruises, he saw, were deep. “What happened next?”

  “I managed to grab my pepper spray and squirted him right in the face.”

  “Pepper spray? You know that’s illegal?” It was a reflex, but he regretted saying it as soon as it came out.

  “You wanna arrest me?” she demanded in frustration.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’m glad you’re okay.” He tried to smile. “I bet it had an effect, at least.”

  She nodded. “It did. I can see why it’s illegal. He was rolling around on the ground screaming, and I was so scared I got the tire iron out of my car and hit him in the head. I thought I’d killed him.”

  “You were wrong, I take it?”

  “I was. He attacked me again a couple of minutes later, but I got away and ran into the woods.” She pointed to the scratches on her face. “That’s where I got these. I hiked through the darkness for a mile or so, until I got to a road that ran parallel to the highway and found that gas station.”

  “And you’d never seen this guy before? You have no idea who he was?”

  “I’d never seen him before,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have any idea who he was if I hadn’t taken this.” She held up the wallet she’d taken out of the man’s pocket.

  He took it from her and flipped through it. The first thing he saw was an identification card in a plastic window that had an FBI seal on it, as well as a picture and the name John Marine. He continued flipping through the wallet and found several other pieces of identification, each bearing a picture of the same man, but each with a different name. One of the cards was a private investigator’s license with the name Lee Salvage—a name that was also on the driver’s license and several credit cards. He put the wallet on the bed next to Sydney.