Hunter dh-1

by Robert Bidinotto

  She put her hand on the knob and opened it onto the dark silhouette of a huge man at the top of the stairs. She had almost no time to react as he grabbed for her. She instinctively jerked up her arms to protect herself, taking a step back. The giant charged her, grabbing the lapels of her coat, stepping into the light and revealing his face.

  Wulfe.

  The shock was almost paralyzing.

  Almost. Her training kicked in and she spun as he bore in, drawing him toward her even faster, pulling him off-balance so that she could put him down and begin the strikes.

  But with surprising agility he countered, hooking his long left leg around both of hers even as he fell, dragging her with him to the floor. She broke her fall with her arms to prevent her face from smashing into the marble surface.

  They were prone, now, side by side, with his heavy left leg pinning both of hers inside the long gown. He grabbed the back of her coat so that she couldn’t get up or roll away. In response, she whipped her right elbow down, aiming for the bridge of his nose. But he jerked his head back just enough so that the blow grazed his cheek and struck his collarbone instead.

  He grunted in pain. Enraged, he released his left hand from her coat and seized the back of her hair. He jerked it toward him, causing her to cry out, and he simultaneously wrapped his left leg around her thighs, rolling her into him and onto her side.

  Her hair in his grip, her legs trapped, she flailed wildly with both hands, reaching blindly behind her for his face and eyes. But suddenly she felt his right arm shoot forward just over her shoulder, then circle back around her exposed neck.

  With her throat in the crook of his elbow, he bore down with his huge forearm and bicep in a pincer against the sides of her neck.

  She had scant seconds to think: Sleeper hold…he’s an expert. Then her energy faded and everything went fuzzy, then dark…

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Wednesday, December 24, 11:53 p.m.

  He changed into the jeans and the black sweater he’d brought up from the car, leaving the pieces of his tux scattered on the bare mattress. It was okay. He wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Now, he didn’t have to.

  He pulled open the sliding door, stepped onto the balcony, hands in his pockets, his short boots sinking into the soft snow.

  It didn’t feel that cold. There was not a breath of breeze. Big, delicate flakes drifted and tumbled down slowly, silently, from invisible heights, creating glowing cones of light beneath the street lamps below. Off in the surrounding neighborhood, Christmas lights illuminated the falling snow, wrapping each house in what looked like light fog. The snow clung to the bare branches of the trees, creating frosted web-work patterns against the white ground.

  It was a rare, magical moment of serenity. Even here, in the city, there was no traffic noise. Not at this hour. Not on this night. Everyone was home with family, now. Children were asleep, dreaming of the presents they would find under the tree in the morning. Parents were tip-toeing around in the dark, bearing armloads of dolls and video games and clothes-willing conscripts performing their traditional roles and rites in a grand, benevolent game of inter-generational deception.

  It was an interesting thought. A season of goodwill and generosity, bringing joy to so many. Yet resting on lies. On deceiving small children.

  Do we really mind this, though, when we’re old enough to learn that we’ve been fooled? That our parents deceived us for years-but only to make us happy?

  So, are all lies harmful, then? Isn’t there truly such a thing as noble deception?

  Or don’t all lies-black ones or white ones-erode the bonds of trust that we all depend upon?

  He didn’t know the answers, or how to begin to find them. He had been living lies for most of his adult life. He was a man enmeshed, probably inextricably, in a world of falsehood: a world of aliases and cover stories, of disinformation and dishonesty, of trickery and pretext.

  He had enrolled in that world of untruth as an eager volunteer. It had been for a vital cause: to protect his country and its people. Because our enemies use clandestine and covert methods against us, we would be insane to handicap ourselves and risk our very survival by foreswearing such measures in self-defense.

  There’s a difference between deception and treachery. Sometimes, we must use deception to protect the innocent from evil.

  He brushed off some snow from the metal railing, grasped its cold surface, leaned out to survey the world around him.

  It had become so easy, so natural. He was so damned good at it. So good at it that he had performed many critical but deniable missions on America’s behalf that would forever remain unknown and unsung. So good at it that he now used those same manipulative skills to deliver justice to monsters-monsters that a corrupt legal system only enabled and encouraged.

  So good at it that his life of lies threatened the most important relationship that he’d ever known.

  He moved back from the railing, then watched a large snowflake flutter down to the bare spot where he’d gripped the railing. He leaned over to inspect it. Saw its deviously intricate crystal patterns slowly melt against the reality of the warmer surface. Then vanish.

  As if it had never been real.

  He had made his peace with his mission. But he had not made peace with martyrdom.

  Could he ever reconcile the professional and personal aspects of the life he’d chosen?

  Could he somehow erect a firewall between his covert life and his personal life?

  Could he shield her from his world of deceit?

  *

  He looked his watch. Midnight.

  Christmas.

  He remembered another person, probably as lonely as he on this night.

  He went inside, stomping his shoes on the mat to knock off the snow, then went to the desk in the den. Pulled a phone out of the drawer, inserted a battery. Sat. Tapped in the number.

  “Hello?”

  He felt himself smile. “Hey there, Wonk. Merry Christmas.”

  “Dylan! My God, I am so relieved you called!”

  Something in his voice. “Relieved?”

  “Yes! I have sent you repeated emails, all evening. Did you get them?”

  “No,” he said, looking at the bare surface of his desk. “Wonk, what’s wrong?”

  “It is all over the news! He tied up his sister and took her car…and they are all looking for him, now…but they believe he…is on the run!”

  “Wonk, settle down. Take a breath. Okay, now tell me. Who are we talking about?”

  “Wulfe! Adrian Wulfe! Dylan, they gave him a furlough, and-”

  “What?” He shot to his feet.

  “A Christmas furlough. From his prison. Apparently on Monday. He was to stay with his sister. She told the police that he had wanted to borrow her car. She refused, and then he beat her, tied her up, and then left in the stolen car. That was last night. A friend found her like that this afternoon.”

  Those bastards.

  “Imagine! His own sister! Dylan, he is so dangerous. There is no telling how many people he will harm before they find him.”

  “I know, I know… Look, we need to think this through. Maybe we have some nugget of information that will lead me to him.”

  “You?”

  “I mean the police. Listen, you start going over his files again, and maybe we’ll talk in a few hours.”

  “All right, I shall start right away… Oh-and Dylan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for thinking of me and calling.” His voice quavering.

  “Merry Christmas, Wonk,” he said gently.

  “Merry Christmas, Dylan.”

  *

  He set down the phone on the desk. Checked his watch. Just after midnight, now.

  Dammit.

  He thought of that shrink, Frankfurt. That prick. This had to be his doing. He couldn’t care less about the victims of sadists like Wulfe. They didn’t count. How could he possibly sit there with Wulfe be
side him, and look someone like Susanne Copeland in the face, while-

  The cold sensation started on his skin, then crawled inside his body.

  Susanne’s desperate call…

  Annie.

  No.

  No, God no-

  He snatched up the phone, punched in her cell phone number.

  Held his breath, waiting for the connection.

  Maybe she was still on the road… Maybe he could still reach her…stop her in time…

  Heard the chirp of the first ring tone in his ears.

  Pick up, Annie…

  The cat, sitting at his feet. Staring at him…

  Another chirp.

  Pick it up!

  Another chirp.

  Closed his eyes.

  Annie, please answer…

  Tysons Corner, Virginia

  Thursday, December 25, 12:03 a.m.

  The quiet sobs brought her around. That, and the feeling of something jerking her arms.

  It took several blinks for her eyes to fully open and focus. Her head was hanging down and she was seeing her lap. A narrow band of blue cloth crossed over her dress at the waist and disappeared somewhere behind her, at both sides. Her arms were drawn behind her, her hands felt squeezed together. Someone was tugging on her wrists.

  She remembered…

  She raised her head. She was in the den. She saw her fur coat in a heap on a nearby chair. Her purse was open, and its contents had been dumped on the floor.

  She turned to the source of the sobs.

  Susie. Beside her, about six feet away, in a wooden chair. Her legs tied to its legs, with colored strips of cloth…men’s ties. Her arms pulled behind the back of the chair, hands bound together. Her white blouse torn, exposing her bra. Her dark red hair unclasped, wild, disheveled. A red welt on her cheek, tears welling from eyes filled with despair.

  “Annie…I am so sorry,” she whispered.

  Movement behind her.

  He stepped into view, moved in front of them, stopped and faced them both.

  Adrian Wulfe smiled.

  “Now Susanne, there’s no need to apologize. Annie, you should know that your loyal friend here truly tried to resist. She didn’t want to make that phone call. She really didn’t. But I made it so that she just couldn’t help herself. Isn’t that right, Susanne?”

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” she repeated.

  “It’s okay, Susie.”

  “‘Susie,’” he repeated. “Not ‘Susanne.’ All right, Susie and Annie, we’ll dispense with the formalities, then. Call me ‘Addie.’ My bitch mother did.”

  She looked up at him. “So, Addie, is this how you’re working out your issues with Mommy?”

  He lost the smile. Reached her in one giant stride. Drew his huge left hand up to his waist, then back across his body, then whipped it forward, backhanding her across her face.

  Seeing it coming, she jerked her head to the right and leaned as it struck, trying to diminish the impact. Still, it hit with the force of a jackhammer, a loud banging crack that rattled her teeth and sent a spear of pain through her skull. She felt her chair falling to the right, but his hand snatched her arm and pulled her back to vertical.

  Her head throbbed and swayed. She just couldn’t quite keep it upright and centered. Somewhere, Susie was screaming.

  Wulfe knelt before her, his face spinning and drifting crazily in front of her half-closed eyes. He grabbed her chin, steadying her head. His dead gray eyes bored into hers.

  “Ever since that day, I’ve been waiting for this one,” his voice rumbled, barely above a whisper. “You two thought you were so high and mighty, so unreachable. Especially you. I remember every word you and your dear friend here said to me. Every word. I didn’t have much to do all day in prison. So, do you know how I filled my time? I wrote out those words of yours. Then I counted them. Then, I imagined a specific penalty for each word.”

  He released her chin, then stood.

  “None of the penalties will be fatal. But after a short time, Annie and Susie, you will wish they were. We’re going to be here for a long, long time, you and I.”

  He turned away, went to an end table holding a large brown paper bag. He picked it up and there was the sound of metallic chinking. He set it on a coffee table, then dragged the table and positioned it before them.

  Then he dumped the bag’s contents onto the table top.

  Kitchen knives. Garden tools. Screwdrivers. Hammers. Nails…

  “Susie, you and Arthur certainly kept your home well-supplied.”

  She shrieked. It became a long, low keening wail.

  Annie had to close her eyes. She felt herself start to shiver. She had expected to be raped. Then to be murdered. She had already begun to prepare herself, to try to detach herself from her body, to let whatever happened, happen, until it stopped forever.

  But this…

  The shivering became uncontrollable. She tried to think of something to say, something that would stop him-even delay this, if only for a moment. But her brain was paralyzed, overwhelmed with the horror and the pounding pain in her head.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she could only manage to croak.

  He picked up a box cutter. Twisted his head around to look at her. Bounced it in his palm. Smiled.

  “Oh, but I do.”

  Then he paused. “You know, there’s something missing.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! We need a witness to these proceedings.”

  He turned and went to the bookcase. Found a framed photo of Arthur Copeland. Brought it back to the coffee table. Put it down on the table, facing Susie.

  “No!” She was panting rapidly, gasping, her breathing out of control, hyperventilating. Her eyes, enormous in terror, moved back and forth wildly, from the box cutter in his hand to the photo.

  He stood, looked at the photo. Rubbed his chin. Then reached down to reposition it.

  “There, Susie. That’s better.”

  He turned to face her.

  Her lips parted, her eyes lost their focus, and her head slumped forward on her chest.

  He went to her, felt her neck with his fingers.

  “Why, the little minx has fainted dead away. Oh, well. She’ll keep.”

  He turned to face her. “Let’s start with you, then. Just look at you, all dressed up. What a nice Christmas present for me. Let’s unwrap the package and see what’s inside.”

  She closed her eyes again, gritting her teeth.

  Heard the cell phone.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  He looked at where it lay, flashing on the floor. “What’s this? A holiday well-wisher? Well, he or she will keep, too.”

  Then she knew who it was.

  It chirped a second time.

  Only chance…

  “You really should answer that, you know.”

  He raised a brow. “And why should I do that, love?”

  “Don’t you want to talk to the man who’s coming right now to kill you?”

  Third chirp.

  He looked amused. “And just who might that be?”

  “Dylan Hunter.”

  Fourth chirp.

  A sneer twisted across his face.

  “Do tell.”

  Fifth chirp.

  He reached down an ape-like arm for the phone.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Thursday, December 25, 12:06 a.m.

  Fifth chirp.

  He was shaking, now.

  I’m too late…

  A soft click.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” said the low, unmistakable voice. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hunter!”

  He reached out a hand to steady himself against the desk.

  “This is the great Dylan Hunter, isn’t it?”

  The name.

  It reminded him of who he was.

  He straightened. Went into his cold mission mode.

  First, gather intel.

  “Oh, excuse me. I must have misdialed. I was trying to
reach a human being.”

  Wulfe laughed.

  “Well played, Mr. Hunter! I thought the sound of my voice on this lady’s phone would shock you to your core. But you sound so blase about it.”

  He’s a sociopath. So manipulate his inflated ego. Keep him talking.

  “You don’t surprise me at all, Wulfe. You’re entirely predictable. And that’s a fatal flaw.”

  Pause.

  “Oh really?” A tiny edge in the voice. “The little lady here seems to be under the delusion that you’re going to rescue her and her friend, and then somehow kill me.”

  They’re still alive.

  He grabbed his car keys, ran to the apartment door.

  “You should have believed her, Wulfe. The little lady is right.”

  Moved outside, into the hallway.

  “My, my! Such bravado from a mere journalist.”

  Not the elevator-the cell signal will cut out.

  “A journalist deals only in facts, Wulfe. You’re as good as dead.”

  He pushed through the emergency door, then hit the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while he flew down, two steps at a time.

  Eighth floor…

  “You know, you’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps as punishment for your disrespect, I’ll let you listen in while I begin having a bit of fun with Annie and Susie.”

  Seventh floor…

  Hasn’t started to torture them yet.

  “Sorry, Wulfe. That’s just not going to happen.”

  Sixth floor…

  “You don’t think so? Well, then, just keep listening. I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.”

  Fifth floor…

  “Then you’re about as stupid as I figured.”

  “Me, stupid?” Angry now. “Who’s really the stupid one, Mr. Hunter?”

  Fourth floor…

  “After all, you’re wherever you are, while I’m here with your two lovely friends…”

  Third floor…

  “And so, Mr. Hunter, much as I’m enjoying our friendly banter, I think I should return to my Christmas party and guests.”

  You’ll never make it in time. Neither will the cops.

  Second floor…

  “Let me start with Annie…”

  Have to stop him right now.

  “Well, it’s going to be a very brief party, Wulfe.”