Ultimate Betrayal

by Joseph Badal

  He rushed through the lounge, out into the corridor, and then left to the emergency exit staircase. He ran down to the basement and turned into an equipment room. His head hurt and he felt dizzy. After he took a moment for his head to clear, he changed into the stolen clothes. In a pants pocket he found a wallet with four twenty-dollar bills and a few ones. He placed the wallet with all of the doctor’s credit cards, family photos, and IDs on a desk, and left the hospital by a back door, climbed over a three-foot wall, walked two blocks, and hailed a taxi.

  “I need a cheap but clean motel,” he told the cabbie. Then he slouched in the seat and closed his eyes.

  “Hey, Mack,” the driver said ten minutes later, “do you think she’ll like this one?”

  David opened his eyes and saw across the street, in the middle of the block, a one-story, dumpy strip motel. “Who?” he asked the driver.

  “Your hot date.”

  David ignored the driver’s comment and stared across at the motel. A cluster of kids who wore backward baseball caps and Oakland Raider jackets stood on the corner down from the motel. Cars did “touch and goes” at the corner. Drivers handed money to the kids in return for little plastic bags. This was a neighborhood that had seen better days. Good, David thought. The cops probably won’t look for me in a place like this. If the police don’t care about drug deals in the neighborhood in broad daylight, they probably didn’t even cruise the area. “Yeah,” he told the cabbie. “This will do.”

  The cabbie drove across the oncoming lane and pulled up at the motel office. David paid the fare, stepped out of the cab, and went into the motel office.

  The clerk was tall and thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple, large Roman nose, and thin lips. His sandy hair looked like a rat’s nest. He eyed David the moment he entered. The clothes he wore were good quality and fit him reasonably well. But he hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning and he wore bandages.

  The clerk gave David a bored look and asked, “You need a room for a couple hours?” The guy sounded like he asked that same question a hundred times a day.

  “No, a few days.”

  “Cash or credit card?” the clerk asked, still looking bored, but a bit surprised. “Forty bucks a night.”

  “Cash. One night in advance.” He passed two-twenties to the man. The clerk handed him the key to Room 113.

  “I need to use your phone to make a local call.”

  The guy eyed him suspiciously, but lifted a telephone console from under the counter and removed a cordless phone from the cradle. “One dollar,” the guy said. When David gave him a dollar, the clerk handed him the phone.

  David stared at the clerk until the man averted his gaze, then moved to the far side of the lobby and dialed the number for Warren Masters, the Chief Financial Officer at their company, Security Systems, Ltd.

  “Warren,” David said, as soon as the man answered, “I need you to bring me a few things.”

  “Dave, where are you? We’re all worried sick. I’m so sorry about what happened to—”

  “I know, Warren, and I appreciate it. But I can’t talk right now.”

  “The police called here a minute ago. Some guy named Cromwell. Claimed you’re wanted for questioning about the explosion at your home. Said you ran away from the hospital.”

  David paused a beat. “The guy’s an idiot. I’ll call him when I get settled.”

  “Okay, Dave. What do you need?”

  “I want you to come by the Corona Motel on Sixty-Third Street. Room 113. I need a couple changes of clothes, a throw-away cellphone, some cash, and a fully-equipped car.”

  “Fully-equipped? You mean one of the armored vehicles? What’s going on, Dave?”

  “Trust me, Warren.”

  “How much cash?” Warren asked.

  “Say a number,” David answered.

  “Five thousand.”

  “Double it,” David said.

  After Warren Masters dropped off the things he’d asked for, David hung a plastic DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handle. He slept some and cried a lot and whatever he ate came from a vending machine twenty yards from his room, or from a pizza delivery service. Most of the time he thought about where he came from and how life led him to Carmela and gave him his children—and how someone stole them from him.

  Time passed in the unlighted, drape-shuttered room.

  David saw visions of his children. He remembered how they played together, the way his heart filled at the sounds of their innocent laughter, their hugs, how he inhaled the fresh scent of their skin and hair. He’d loved to read stories to them while they nestled in his arms. And he recalled how they fell asleep, confident of their safety. And he cried inconsolably at the thought he had failed them and that he would never see them again.

  Then, there were the memories of Carmela, the life they had made together, how much she had meant to him. How was he to move forward without his beloved wife and children?

  But the worst of his memories and nightmares came on him in an insidious way. He never saw them coming. They were there when his mind turned an unexpected corner. He could have allowed Heather and Kyle to go to the shelter with him, as they’d wanted. They died because he had told them to stay in the kitchen with their mother.

  APRIL 14

  CHAPTER 8

  At 10 a.m., the day after he checked into the motel, David telephoned Bethesda Police Headquarters and asked for Detective Roger Cromwell, who picked up a minute later.

  “Cromwell.”

  “It’s David Hood. What have you done to find the people who murdered my wife and children?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Cromwell shouted.

  David could tell from the bowling alley-like echo from the telephone line that Cromwell had him on a speakerphone. He said, “I’m sick of the insinuation I hear in your voice. If you have any reason to suspect me, besides some BS-cop intuition, then charge me. If not, get off your ass and do something constructive.”

  “Listen to me, you sonofa—”

  “Why’d you leave the hospital?” a female voice said. “That wasn’t smart, Mr. Hood.” She sounded as though she wanted to defuse the tension between the two men.

  “How much life insurance did you have on your wife?” Cromwell interjected.

  “You have a piece of paper and a pencil handy, Detective?” David said. He forced calm into his voice.

  “Yeah, why?” Cromwell said.

  “Write this down!” David gave an address and phone number to the detective. “My lawyer’s name is Glen Truax, Gilchrist & Truax. Any other stupid questions you have for me can be directed through him.”

  “Sonofabitch!” Cromwell exploded. “The guilty always hide behind their lawyers.”

  David slammed down the receiver. He checked out of the motel and drove his company’s armored Lincoln Towncar out of Bethesda. On a Maryland country lane, he pulled onto the shoulder and stared out through the windshield at the arrow-straight road. The ribbon of pavement seemed to stretch forever, to the horizon, and beyond. The road was like his quest, seemingly endless, with who knows what at the end.

  “Carmela. Heather. Kyle. I’ll find them and I’ll make them pay.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Montrose Toney leaned against the closed Washington, D.C. motel room door and shivered under Rolf Bishop’s undisguised look of disgust. He knew the meeting here in this fleabag motel room was not what Bishop was used to. With its sway-backed mattress, stained bed spread, and soiled carpet, the room was more commonly used by whores and their johns, not by CIA bigwigs or world-class wealthy megalomaniacs. He also knew Bishop’s coming here, risking recognition, meant Bishop was beyond pissed off. And that the stakes, whatever they were, had to be very high. Toney decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for Bishop to speak.

  Bishop suddenly leaped from his chair, pointed his hand—gun-like�
��at Toney and shouted, “You fucked up!”

  Toney watched Bishop’s neck stiffen and face redden. He felt fear bubble in his gut. Taller than six feet, white-haired, erect, trim, and well dressed, sixty-year-old Bishop was still intimidating. Toney knew the man could not abide failure. And he had definitely failed. He wished Bishop would move his devil-eyes off him.

  Toney stood six feet, three inches tall and weighed 250 pounds. He’d spent his thirty-four years of life split between Washington D.C.’s meanest ghettos and various penal institutions. He was not easily intimidated. But Bishop had the disposition of a wounded tiger and he’d been a great meal ticket for the last few years. Toney didn’t want to lose that meal ticket.

  “What do you think I pay you for?” Bishop hissed. “All you accomplished was to murder a woman and two kids.” He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain a couple inches, and stared outside. He whipped around and shot eye-daggers at Toney.

  “Who’s that by your car?” Bishop said.

  “My . . . partner, Jim Francis.”

  Bishop looked disgusted. “He looks like a derelict waiting for a methadone fix.”

  “He’s a former Marine demolitions expert. He knows—”

  “He doesn’t know shit,” Bishop screamed. “You don’t know shit! Let me recount the harm you’ve done. Everyone’s investigating the explosion in Bethesda: the FBI, the ATF&E, and the local cops. Even insurance people are involved because of claims filed by neighbors for broken glass, surface, and foundation cracks in buildings, destroyed cars, and damaged personal property. And you failed to eliminate the target, a man you could have dispensed with in a simple car accident or a mugging. Instead, you blew up a whole fucking neighborhood!”

  Toney hadn’t thought Bishop’s face could turn any redder, but he was wrong. He wouldn’t tell Bishop he’d let his imbecile partner, Jim Francis, handle the job alone, while he screwed a U.S. Senator’s daughter. He should have known better. Toney didn’t know why Bishop wanted David Hood dead, nor did he care. He vowed to never again let anything in a skirt distract him from business. After all, what other alumnus of the Federal Corrections System had such a good deal? He’d done jobs for Bishop for years. And if this tight-assed, power-hungry, megalomaniacal white man wanted him to eliminate the whole NAACP hierarchy next, that would be okay with him.

  “Mr. Bishop,” Toney quietly said, “I let you down and I’m sorry. I promised you I’d take care of this matter and I’ll do just that. No more screwups. I give you my word.”

  Bishop’s features eased; the crimson faded from his face. He lowered himself back into a chair and said in a tone that matched Toney’s, “I’ll hold you to it. Of that you can be certain. Now get the hell out of here and finish the job!”

  Toney opened the motel room door and turned to look back at Bishop, to give him a reassuring smile. Bishop pointed a finger at Toney, who shut the door.

  “Get rid of that useless piece of shit,” Bishop said. “Now!”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You don’t think I know you were with Senator Swift’s daughter, Amanda, while your partner blew the shit out of the Hood house. That idiot is dangerous. He has a flair for the dramatic and no sense. That’s a bad combination. Get rid of him!”

  Toney nodded and left the room. He realized he now had two problems: Get rid of Jim Francis; finish the Hood job.

  Bishop seemed anchored to the motel room chair, overwhelmed with anger laced with fear. He thought about how far he’d come and how far he could fall if his past became known. Hood was the last of the men who served in his Afghanistan unit—the only man alive who might know about what he and Robert Campbell had done. As far as he was concerned, Hood was a pissant. A small businessman who had neither the skills nor the resources to go up against a powerful man. If Toney performed, Hood would be an insignificant casualty no one would miss. In the general scheme of things, a thousand Hoods would always be sacrificed so leaders could prosper. That was the natural order of the universe.

  “This has been one stressful morning,” Toney said after he and Jim Francis climbed into Toney’s white, supercharged Acura. “I could use a hit.”

  “Ooh, that sounds just right, my man. You always know just what Jimbo needs. Let’s go down to that bar out by National, find your pimp friend. What’s his name . . . Speedo? Yeah, that’s it, Speedo. He always got the best shit.”

  Toney had watched Francis become a stone-cold drug addict with a narcotics consumption rate that grew while his tolerance for the stuff increased. The wiry, leather-skinned thirty-year-old who looked fifty due to his insatiable appetite for drugs, booze, and junk food was now a liability Toney couldn’t afford. He drove to a bar near National Airport, went inside, bought a bag of pure heroin, returned to his car, and gave the drugs to Francis. While Toney drove to a nearby park and stopped near a giant oak tree, Francis prepared his drug cocktail and injected the hot shot into the inside of his forearm.

  Toney knew Francis trusted him, that it would never cross the man’s mind his friend would give him a lethal dose of pure heroin—not even when he turned feverish and the tremors started. By the time Francis started to convulse, Toney realized the end was near. He stepped out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, easily lifted Francis’s wiry, emaciated body from the front seat, and placed him on a park bench. Fascinated with death, he watched while the convulsions continued and Francis vomited. Then he saw a quarter mile down the path a city parks department garbage truck collect trash from a receptacle. He returned to his car and pulled away. In his rear view mirror he saw Francis’s body topple sideways on the bench. “One down and one to go,” he murmured, while he turned up the radio volume and listened to Dinah Washington sing the last few lines of As We Say Goodbye.

  APRIL 15

  CHAPTER 10

  Clouds over the cemetery on Bethesda’s north side were so thick and dark it seemed like the middle of the night instead of 11 a.m. The dreary day matched David’s mood. He’d wanted the funeral to take place as quickly as possible, with only family members in attendance. With his Carmela, Heather, and Kyle buried, he would then focus on what he needed more than anything: A deep, “old country” brand of retribution. His father, Peter, understood and so did Gino Bartolucci. The two warhorses lent him silent support as they stood on either side of him at the burial service.

  His father had essentially tolerated him since his brother Tommy was killed. The old man never said so, but David always felt his father blamed him for Tommy’s death. That presumed blame had weighed on David for over twenty years. It wasn’t until he had married and Heather and Kyle were born that he and his father had reconciled—sort of.

  At sixty, Peter Hood stood ramrod-straight, lean as an athlete. A lifetime in construction had hardened his body and toughened an already steely temperament. He was a silent, reassuring presence. Something icy in his dark eyes discouraged any of Carmela’s family members from even attempting conversation. He spoke only to his son.

  After the service, he put his hands on David’s shoulders and said, “I’m with you.” While he continued to stare at David with tear-filled eyes, he added, “We need to find out who took my babies.”

  David had seen his father so emotionally distraught twice before: when Tommy died and when David’s mother died. But now there was anger in his father’s voice and David needed his father’s anger more than any other emotion.

  Gino Bartolucci and his wife, Rosa, hugged David after the service and then Gino pulled Peter aside.

  “Peter, I know you never liked it when David worked for me. And you were upset about him marrying into my family. But I love your son like my own. He’ll need both of us now. You think maybe we can put our differences aside and work together to help him?”

  “Gino, I’ve always believed in doing things the right way, the law-abiding way. When you took the mob route, we became strangers to one an
other. But I never had a problem with David marrying Carmela. I loved her like she was my own child. And I’ve always appreciated your affection for David.” He paused. “But maybe you were right and I was wrong. What has a lifetime of respect for law and order brought me? A son murdered years ago by street punks, and now the loss of a daughter-in-law I truly loved and the grandchildren who owned my heart.” Peter put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and nodded. “Call me when you’re ready.”

  The Bartoluccis left the cemetery in a limousine with two bodyguards. Gino had not spoken one word to anyone other than Peter and David at or after the service. While Rosa quietly wept and fingered her rosary, Gino stared at the monotonous scenery they sped through without seeing a thing. He focused on one thought: Had one of his enemies killed Carmela, Heather, and Kyle? Payback against him for something he’d done in the past? He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. Had he been responsible for the bombing?

  David drove with Peter from the cemetery in the armored black Lincoln Towncar Warren Masters had delivered to him at the Corona Motel. The vehicle was equipped with bulletproof glass, body armor, and mechanical systems upgraded for rapid evasion maneuvers. It had a small metal locker installed on the floor within easy reach for the driver. The locker held three fully loaded and licensed weapons: an Uzi machine gun, a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol, and a Colt .45 pistol.

  Montrose Toney had polished off a 32-ounce Big Gulp while he watched David Hood bury his family. He had a perfect view from the front seat of the stolen Camaro, parked on a hill that overlooked the cemetery. He noticed when Hood and an older man left the cemetery in a black sedan. He started the Chevy, smiled, and said, “Come to Papa, baby. Come to Papa.”