The Betrayed (24 page)

And, of course, that made sense. Even Jack Cassian and his partner still thought Elizabeth had probably been killed during a random burglary. They were only looking for additional information to rule out any other possibility—prudent, she knew—to make sure that they had the right man. Perhaps Dr. Golden had been right, and Sydney’s excursion had more to do with coming to grips with her sister’s death, and with her own feelings of guilt and anger, than with any rationally held belief that Liz had been torn from her as a result of some larger conspiracy. She cursed her foolishness as she drove along the deserted rural highway back toward the real world.

She hadn’t passed another car since she’d left the Institute, she realized, and the quiet of the road was disconcerting. The narrow dirt shoulder slipped precipitously into dense forest, and there were no houses, stores, or gas stations within sight. The feeling of isolation did nothing to brighten her spirits. She should have stayed back in D.C., she thought. Amanda needed her, and instead of being there for her niece when she could provide the most comfort, she’d wasted an entire day in a backwater state mental hospital. Perhaps she was the one who needed to be committed.

She had the radio turned up, and the crooned refrains of rednecks bemoaning their lost loves, lost dogs, and lost trucks (not necessarily in that order) helped to block out the heavy slapping noise from the rear of the car. It wasn’t until the steady percussion started to throw off the handling of the Accord that she turned down the music and heard the steadily increasing grind of metal on asphalt.

She pulled off the road and onto the dirt shoulder, stopping the car and slamming her fist on the steering wheel in frustration. This was the last thing she needed.

She got out of the car and stood at the edge of the road. She was in the middle of nowhere, and there were no cars or structures in sight; the forest through which the lonely road had been carved looked nearly impenetrable. At times like this, she was amazed at the vast amount of land in America that remained untouched. The afternoon sun tossed shadows off the cloud of dust that her car had kicked up when she pulled off the road. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and groaned in frustration.

She walked to the rear of the car to evaluate the situation. It was the rear left tire that was flat, and from the looks of it, it was completely shot. The metal rim looked to have sunk into the dirt shoulder. She kicked at a rock and headed back to the front seat to pop the trunk release to get at the spare.

She was just opening the door when a flash of light on the highway caught her eye, and she squinted into the sun to the west to see a car coming toward her at a distance from the direction of the Institute. She straightened up and shaded her brow to get a better look at the vehicle. It looked like a dark blue American-made sedan: nondescript, probably a Buick or a Chevrolet.

Sydney walked back to the rear of her car, considering whether to flag down the approaching car and ask the driver for help. It seemed silly; after all, she was perfectly capable of changing her own tire. At the same time, she was exhausted from a long and emotionally draining day, and there was a part of her that was willing to play the damsel in distress. After a moment’s thought, she decided against it. The feminist within her, passive though it most often was, couldn’t justify such a blatant stereotype. Besides, she figured, any person whose help she would welcome would stop to lend assistance of his own volition. So she simply stood by the side of the highway, watching the car approach.

The sedan slid along the narrow sliver of road, down a long incline toward her. At first she was convinced that it would speed on by, leaving her to change her own tire. A hundred yards or so before it reached her, though, it decelerated rapidly and pulled to the shoulder behind Sydney’s Accord.

Sydney felt a wave of relief sweep over her as the fresh cloud of dust stirred by the sedan began to settle. She would have help changing her tire, and she hadn’t needed to compromise her principles. She waved the dust out of her face, straining to get a better look at her savior through the tinted windshield.

He emerged a moment later, stepping out of his car with a slow, tired air about him. He had wispy blond hair and ruddy, sagging features. He might have been attractive earlier in his life, but something about him seemed defeated, and even a little hostile. Sydney shivered, but she shrugged off her intuition, dismissing it as a by-product of the stressful day, and of the unsettling feeling of being stranded on a lonely country highway.

“Car trouble, ma’am?” the man asked as he approached the rear of the car. He was smiling, and his drawl made him seem friendlier than Sydney had first pegged him.

“Yeah,” Sydney replied. “Looks like I’ve got a flat.” She pointed ineffectually at the rear wheel.

The man bent down and took a look. “I’d say so. Did you hit something?”

“I don’t think so. The car just started shimmying gradually and it took me a few minutes to figure out what was wrong.”

“That makes sense. It looks like the rim is bent from running on asphalt.”

Sydney frowned. “Is that a big problem?”

The man smiled. “Not really. It’ll cost you a little more when you get it fixed, but as long as you’ve got a spare, I should be able to have you out of here in a jiffy.” He stood up, still smiling, and extended his hand. “I’m Mike,” he said.

Sydney hesitated. She was unaccustomed to giving out her name to complete strangers. “Sydney,” she said at last, knowing it would be rude to say nothing. “Thanks for stopping, Mike. Not everyone would be so nice.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well we’re a friendly bunch out here. Nothing like the folks in D.C. People there’d let you rot by the side of the road.”

“That’s probably the truth.” Sydney laughed as well.

“If you pop the trunk up there, I’ll get the spare out and we can see how quickly we can have you on your way.”

“Sure thing. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Sydney walked back up to the driver’s side door, opening it and stepping inside so she could reach the trunk release. She was truly grateful to this stranger for stopping to help her. She had no doubt that she would have been able to change the tire herself, but only after consulting the manual and taking the time to figure out what she was doing. Mike seemed competent, and would surely have her back on the road in a matter of minutes. That was good; the visit to the Institute had taken far more time than she had anticipated, and the sky was already fading to orange. Darkness would fall soon, and the last thing she needed was to be changing a tire on a dark, deserted, one-lane highway.

She reached over toward the center console and flipped the switch releasing the trunk latch. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw the trunk door rise, obscuring Mike, who was still standing behind the car, from her view. “There you go,” she called. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“No thanks,” came the reply. “If you just stay up there, I’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Exhausted, Sydney leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes for a moment. This was pretty good service, she thought; he wasn’t even asking her to help. So why was it, she wondered, that she was bothered by such a nice man? He’d been a perfect gentleman, and had kept his distance. And yet something about him seemed off. It was something he’d said that she couldn’t put her finger on. She replayed their brief exchange in her head, but could identify nothing specific.

She sighed. It had been such a long day that her mind was probably just playing tricks on her. She’d feel better when she got back to D.C.

As she sat in the driver’s seat of her car, for some reason that phrase stuck in her mind.
Back to D.C.
She repeated it over and over again without understanding why. Then suddenly it hit her, and she knew what was bothering her about Mike.

She sifted through their exchange again, and focused on what he’d said.
We’re a friendly bunch out here. Nothing like the folks in D.C.
...

How had he known she was from Washington? The license plates on her car were still from California, and this far out into the mountains there were several other cities she could be from—Richmond, Fredericksburg, Raleigh—and that was assuming she had to be from a city at all. So how had he assumed she was from D.C. with such certainty? Something felt dreadfully wrong, and her heart started pounding as she sat up quickly, her head spinning around toward the back of the car.

It was at that moment that the man’s arm came through her window, grabbing her around the neck and squeezing her throat closed.

T
HE THIN SMILE HUNG ON
Lee Salvage’s face like an icicle. It had been so easy, he reflected, that if he’d had a conscience, it might have bothered him. She was trusting and weak, and there was really no challenge. After she’d popped the trunk open, he’d wasted no time; as quickly and quietly as he could, he’d moved up along the side of the car and grabbed her be
fore she perceived any danger.

Now, holding on to her throat with his left hand, he reached his right hand into the car to gain some leverage and apply greater force to her neck. As he worked, he hesitated for a moment, looking closely at her face as it turned red and her eyes wheeled in terror. She was attractive. It was unprofessional, he knew, to take note of such a thing at a moment like this, and to allow himself to become distracted. In this case there was little risk, though; a girl as pampered and unsuspecting as Sydney Chapin would hardly present any significant resistance. He wondered whether, had his life been different, he would have ever had a chance with a woman such as this. He liked to think so. He knew that some women had found him attractive once, but he’d never been able to form any emotional bonds with anyone. Silly to even think of it—this girl would be dead in a matter of seconds.

Even now she was leaning into his hand, cutting off her own oxygen more quickly, rather than pulling away. It was odd, he mused, how people so often reacted to an attack in the manner least likely to save their lives. He might not even need his right hand to apply additional pressure, though he knew it was best to be sure.

He leaned his head through the door to get better leverage, and all at once he knew something was wrong. Suddenly and without warning he was blind, and it felt as though his face was on fire. His eyes seemed as though they were melting, and his throat swelled and burned, preventing any air from reaching his lungs. He ripped himself back instinctively from the car door, and his hands flew to his face as he dropped to his knees. He coughed and choked and sputtered, writhing on the ground.

After a moment, he was able to catch his breath, and he realized he would survive. He felt fortunate, but just for a moment. It took only that long for him to realize he had greater problems than he’d realized, and the epiphany lasted for little more than a flash. As he struggled to open his eyes and assess his situation, he felt the sharp crack on the back of his skull and he pitched forward, the burning world around him dissolving into darkness.

z

Sydney saw the hand a split second before it closed around her throat, and her mind spun into action instantly. She’d spent enough time on her own that she’d made a point of being pre
pared for an attack at any time. It was an unfortunate reality that being vigilant against assaults had become a necessity for young women who lived alone. Living in San Francisco for years before law school and working in a bar in a questionable neighborhood in Oakland for a time had made her particularly aware of the dangers of carjacking, and she’d played out disaster scenarios—and her reactions to them—thousands of times before when she’d been alone in her car. Now, without hesitation or thought, she reacted as she’d rehearsed so many times before.

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.