No. Wary.
“Dylan,” she said carefully, “you know that I’ve believed in what you’re doing. For crime victims. They didn’t have a voice until you came along.” She stopped.
“But…”
“Yes. But. But I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”
“Annie, if anyone else on the planet said that to me, I’d answer: ‘Why should I give a damn what you think?’ But because it’s you, I’ll bite: How have I gone too far?”
“You’ve gone beyond attacking criminals and the people in the legal system who free them. Yes, they deserve to be exposed. And I’m proud of you for doing that. But now-now you’re targeting private individuals. Reformers. People who sincerely believe in rehabilitation and are only trying to do what they think is the right thing. Okay, maybe they’re naive do-gooders; but their only real sin seems to be an excess of idealism.”
“Idealism,” he repeated. “And what are their ‘ideals’?”
She shrugged. “Turning criminals away from crime.”
“By making excuses for them?”
“Maybe some of them are trying to understand why they commit crimes. Perhaps they’re looking for explanations.”
“Tell me: What, exactly, is the difference between an ‘explanation’ for crime and an ‘excuse’ for crime?”
“Look, Dylan, you know that I don’t agree with them. I’m not trying to defend what they advocate.”
“Aren’t you?” he asked. “You seem to be saying that I’m attacking them unfairly.”
She looked away. “But why focus attention on them? I just don’t see how they are responsible for what those in charge of the courts and jails do.”
“You don’t? Annie, my article laid it out. The MacLean Foundation has supported or engineered everything that’s wrong in the system. They’re professional excuse-makers for criminals. Politicians quote their studies and statistics when they gut tough sentencing laws. Lawyers and judges rely on their excuses and recommendations when they turn criminals loose.”
“But the counselors, the people running the programs-they’re not the ones actually freeing the criminals. They’re just talkers.”
“Talkers who empower the bad actors.”
“Empower? What do you mean?”
“I’m saying that Edmund Burke was wrong.”
“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”
He had to stand, move. He went to the window of the balcony. Stared into the night.
“Burke famously stated, ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“How true.”
“ Not true. He made it sound as if evil people are powerful. But they’re not. Evil people are nothing more than parasites who feed on others. They’re losers. Most can barely survive on their own, let alone triumph on their own.”
“But that’s silly! Bad people are powerful. They’re thriving. Sometimes, I think they run the world.”
He turned to her. “Ask yourself why, Annie. Ask yourself why there are such things as ‘career criminals’-losers like Bracey and Valenti, with rap sheets a mile long. Why weren’t they stopped cold after their first few crimes? And how did they get out again, even after what they did to Susie and Arthur Copeland? It’s not because they’re powerful; it’s because they’ve been empowered. They have millions of eager, do-gooder accomplices. All those ‘nice’ people who blabber about mercy and forgiveness, instead of simple justice. All those ‘nice’ folks who feel so sad and sorry for bad people-then feel so holy and self-righteous whenever they give monsters ‘second chances.’ Third chances. Tenth chances, fifty-ninth chances. Endless chances to hurt more innocent people. People like Susie and Arthur. And George Banacek’s boy. And Kate Higgins’s kid.”
Her gaze was directed at the floor; he went on.
“Yes, Annie, evil people do triumph, too often. But it’s not because ‘good people’ do nothing; it’s because of what they do. They actively encourage evil. While kidding themselves that they’re engaging in saintly acts of virtue. If I were into psychobabble, I’d call them ‘enablers.’ Enablers of predators. Do-gooders like that MacLean guy-they’re giving aid and comfort to society’s enemies.”
“That’s a really harsh view of the world.” Her voice sounded strained.
“The world is a harsh place. But who makes it that way? That’s why Edmund Burke had it wrong. He should have said: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is an enabler.’”
Abruptly, she stood. “Dylan, this conversation-it’s really upsetting me.”
“I see that. I can’t see why, though. You’ve never reacted this way to my earlier articles.”
“It’s just… I don’t know. And watching you at that news conference… It was… I saw things I didn’t expect to see.”
Her words were uprooting something inside him, leaving him feeling hollow.
“Annie,” he said quietly, “you saw exactly who I am.”
She approached him. He saw anguish in her eyes. “I know,” she said. She stood on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. Then pushed back. “I wish I could explain it to you, Dylan.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” She blinked, seeming to be on the edge of tears. “This was a bad idea.”
She turned away and went back to the sofa. Picked up her purse.
“You’re not staying.”
She shook her head. “I have some things to sort out.”
He followed her to the closet, helped her on with her coat. She opened the apartment door, then turned to him.
He touched her face, ran his thumb lightly across her cheek. Watching her closely, he said: “You say you have ‘some things’ to sort out. ‘Things,’ plural. So, what else is bothering you, Annie?”
He caught it, a little flicker in her eyes. She closed them, turned her lips into his palm. Kissed it.
Then pulled away and headed down the hallway, toward the elevator. She didn’t look back.
He closed the door.
Stood there a moment, his palm resting flat against the cool surface.
He returned to the sofa. Looked down at her wine glass. Saw the faint trace of her lipstick on the rim.
He settled back into his armchair. Reached for his own glass. Took a large swallow.
So incoherent. So unlike her.
And it all started with his article.
The cat leaped from the sofa onto the stuffed arm of his chair, then slinked down into his lap. He rested his hand on the soft fur of her back. Felt her begin to purr.
But the article wasn’t all of it. One other thing he now knew for certain, from her startled reaction in the doorway.
She and Cronin had talked.
Talked about his past.
He pressed the chilled glass against his temple.
“I think they may be on to us, Luna.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Friday, November 21, 12:15 p.m.
“You don’t seem to be hungry today,” Grant Garrett said.
She stopped moving the meat around on her plate and set down her fork. “I guess not.”
They sat by themselves inside the cafeteria at a table on the stairway landing that led to the second level. Employees who usually claimed the area for daily socializing saw who was seated there and gave them a wide berth.
She felt his gaze weighing on her. She turned her eyes from her tray to the main floor below them, where people wandered between the food stations and chatted at tables.
“Hey. I’m over here.”
She looked at him, feeling awkward. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“You seem distracted lately,” he continued. “Anything you care to talk about, Annie?”
She forced herself to look into his eyes. “No. Not really.”
He put down his coffee cup, dabbed his lips with his napkin. “A man, then.”
It caught her by surprise. She opened her m
outh to deny it. Then sighed.
“I’ve been seeing someone, yes. For a couple of months.”
“From the look on your face, it doesn’t seem to be going well.”
“It’s not.”
“Fixable?”
“I hope so.”
“Need a little time off?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Don’t get defensive. I was just asking. We seem to be at a bit of a standstill, anyway, so maybe a break might do you some good.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. Really.” Time to change the subject. “Have you had any fresh thoughts?”
He knew what she meant. He raised a gnarled forefinger, tapped his gray temple. “The answer’s in here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know the answer to this, Annie. I know that I know it. I’ve felt it for months-that I have all the pieces to figure this out. But I’m still not putting the pieces together right.”
“Maybe we should brainstorm some more. Go over everything we know, try-”
“No, we’ve done plenty of that. We’ve been trying consciously to force all the puzzle pieces to fit. But I’m thinking that’s going about this the wrong way. Maybe the better way is for us to give it a rest for a little while, let it simmer. I think the answer is sitting here in my own skull, in my subconscious. Something tells me it has to do with a past operation. There are times when I feel I almost have it. Like something you sense in your peripheral vision. Then when you look straight at it, it vanishes, like a ghost.” He folded his napkin neatly, placed it back onto the tray. “Maybe I’m the one who needs the break. I should take a few days off, visit friends or something.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Grant Garrett I know. You’ll ruin your reputation.”
“It couldn’t get any worse.”
Bethesda, Maryland
Friday, November 21, 8:05 p.m.
Trust.
Her wipers swept intermittently to clear the windshield of the light drizzle and the spray from the cars around her. She gripped the wheel tightly, trying to stay alert for unexpected maneuvers by the crazy drivers on the Capital Beltway. They were even crazier in the rain.
But it was hard to concentrate.
Trust. The word had haunted her since her first conversation with Cronin. That’s when the doubts had begun.
Or had they?
Be honest with yourself. It was before then. And you know it.
She recalled their first date. When, sitting across from each other in the Italian restaurant, they had talked about his fears, and hers.
“I would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“You mean: You would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“I guess we both have some trust issues.”
No, this mess didn’t start because she hadn’t trusted him. It began when she realized that he couldn’t trust her.
It began when she saw what he’d written about her father. That’s when she finally admitted to herself that she’d been hiding from him who her father was. That’s when she knew she was living a lie.
When you realized you were a fraud.
She braked for a traffic light. Waiting for it to change, she gathered her resolve.
Tonight, the deception would end. She had to trust again. And she had to make herself trustworthy, too.
She would tell him the truth. About her father. And about her job.
He deserved to know everything. He had to know-whatever the cost.
Then, she would ask him to reveal the whole truth about his own past. If they were to continue together, she deserved to know that, too.
And after that, they would see what they could salvage.
“Well. What are we going to do about this, then?”
“Maybe we can work on our trust issues together.”
“All right…Dylan Hunter.”
Yes, Dylan. Let’s try.
She hadn’t told him she’d be coming tonight. Somehow, it would be better if she just showed up, unannounced. She hoped he’d be there when she arrived, but if not, she’d wait. She glanced at the overnight bag on the passenger seat. Wishful thinking?
“We’ll see,” she said, aloud.
*
She made the sharp left onto Wisconsin and headed north, approaching his high-rise. About a block ahead, in front of his building, she noticed a man crossing Wisconsin, right to left. He wore a dark hat and raincoat. In the middle of the street, he broke stride with a funny little skip-hop, then began to run to avoid oncoming traffic.
She caught her breath. She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d seen him do that little hop-maybe while they were out at dinner one night-but it had imprinted somewhere in her memory. She watched him run easily, then leap a puddle, graceful a gazelle, to reach the sidewalk.
Damn. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss him.
She turned into the street beside his building, pulled into the curb, and hit the four-way flashers. Then she jumped out and ran after him, awkward in her heels, dodging traffic to cross the broad highway.
He had about a thirty second lead and had disappeared down an alley between two buildings. She ran after him, emerging on Woodmont Avenue. She halted and spun, bewildered. He had vanished. There were no open stores or restaurants-only two parking garages on opposite sides of the street. Not there. Dylan had reserved parking for his Forester beneath his own apartment building, so he wouldn’t need to-
But then she spotted him, trotting up the glassed-enclosed stairwell of the garage on this side of the street. Before she could shout, he turned off the fourth-level landing and disappeared back inside the garage.
Maybe she could still catch him.
She ran to the pedestrian entrance of the garage, then up the stairs as fast as she could manage, cursing her heels with every step. By the time she reached the third-level landing, she heard a car engine rev somewhere above. Figuring that she might intercept him as he descended past her, she yanked open the stairwell door, emerging into the parking area.
Then saw that the car exit ramp was all the way at the other end of the building.
She ran toward it, but was only halfway there when the vehicle whipped into view around the descending curve in the distance.
It was not the Forester, however. It was a white pizza delivery van. It rolled quickly around the ramp and down.
She stopped, not bothering to shout. That couldn’t be him, he had to be upstairs yet. She might still catch him. She began to run again toward the exit ramp. She arrived about thirty seconds later, gasping, her ankles aching and toes screaming from the narrow shoes. She paused and listened.
Nothing but the sound of her own heavy breathing.
Apparently, he hadn’t even started his car yet. She began to relax. He had to come down this way, so she would definitely connect with him, now. She walked up the curving ramp to the fourth level. Then paused again to catch her breath and scan the parked vehicles.
She heard nothing. Saw no one. Saw no car that looked like his Forester.
It was crazy. She knew he’d entered this level of the garage. Even if he’d walked up or down a flight, she would have seen or heard his vehicle depart.
She moved slowly through the rows of cars, her footsteps echoing sharp and hollow, thinking he had to be sitting in one. But they were all empty.
She waited there another five minutes before heading back to his building.
There was only one explanation. She’d been mistaken; the man had only looked like Dylan. He was probably at his apartment.
She fetched her car where she’d abandoned it and drove down into his building’s underground garage. Then she laughed in relief when she pulled up to his reserved spots and saw the Forester sitting there.
Idiot. He’ll have a good laugh, too, when you tell him.
Knowing it would be a presumption, she left her overnight bag in the car. On the way over to the elevator, she felt damp from th
e drizzle and sweaty from the running. Her hair would be a frizzy mess, too. Great.
She used the key card he’d given her to enter the elevator and ride up to his floor. Walking down the hallway toward his door, though, she felt her anxiety growing again. She tried to remember some of the words she had thought of to explain things to him-then gave it up. No, she had to be spontaneous about this. Authentic. And just hope for the best.
She paused outside his door to gather herself. Then pressed the bell and waited.
After thirty seconds, she tried again.
Nothing.
Well, he has to be here; his car is downstairs. Maybe he’s in the shower.
She pressed the bell again.
No answer. Then a faint meow from the other side of the door.
She knocked, long and hard. “Dylan? Are you there?” No response. “Dylan?”
Then she heard a door unlatch, just down the hall. A distinguished-looking older woman with well-coiffed white curls poked her head outside, frowning slightly.
“Oh! I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said to the woman. “I was just trying to let Mr. Hunter know I’m here.”
The woman smiled. “Ah. Well, it won’t do you any good, my dear. He’s not in. I arrived home about fifteen minutes ago, and he was just leaving. If he’s expecting you, though, I’m sure he’ll be back presently.”
She forced a smile, tried to say it calmly. “Perhaps I saw him outside when I drove up a little while ago. Do you remember what was he wearing?”
“Mmmm… Dark hat, dark trench coat or raincoat, I think.”
“Yes. That was him… Thank you.”
“You have a nice evening, my dear.” The woman closed her door.
She stood there a moment, trying to make sense of it. The only sound was Luna scratching at the door.
Falls Church, Virginia
Saturday, November 22, 9:15 a.m.
Even her third cup of coffee couldn’t compensate for the lack of sleep. And nothing she told herself could tamp down the rising tide of fear that had kept her awake.
She knew what she had seen. She spent all night trying to force it to fit into her conception of a sane world. But she couldn’t.
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