“Look. I do appreciate your position, Detective Cronin. But you see how I make enemies. And if you keep poking around and asking questions about me, the people I’ve been trying to avoid all these years might hear about it. And put two and two together. And then I could wind up dead.”
Cronin watched him, unblinking, for a long time. Then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try to tread lightly in the future.”
Hunter nodded, stood, and offered his hand. “I’d appreciate that. So would some far-off relatives. They don’t like me much, but they’d feel obligated to show up at my funeral.”
Cronin smiled and shook his hand.
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
Tuesday, November 18, 6:10 p.m.
“Okay, I talked to him,” was the first sentence out of Cronin’s mouth.
She tightened her grip on the phone. “Go ahead.”
He told her. It surprised her. Then disturbed her.
“I don’t understand. He never said a thing about being in the federal Witness Security program. He told me that other story—about consulting a skip tracer, then doing it all himself.”
“Maybe he was trying to protect you in some way. Or himself. I don’t know. Maybe he thought telling you that the feds were hiding him might scare you off.”
“Why would being in Witness Protection be any scarier than what he told me?”
“Yeah, you’re right. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it.”
How could he lie to her?
She began to pace in front of her fireplace. “Tell me honestly, Detective,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Do you believe him?”
He was silent a moment. She heard a ringing phone and voices in the background.
“Ms. Woods, I deal in facts. I can only tell you what I know. I know his SSN is real, and that it’s issued to his current name—I confirmed that with Social Security in Baltimore. His IDs—driver’s license, credit cards—they’re all real, too, just as you thought. And all the dates of issue conform to his story.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She heard him sigh. “Okay, let me put it this way: Nothing so far contradicts him being in Witness Protection. But, could he be conning us? Sure. It’s possible. He’s very smart. Very cagey.”
Not what she wanted to hear. “Can’t you check out his story with the feds?”
“I can try. Maybe get somebody in the U.S. Marshals to talk. They run Witness Protection. But I’m not optimistic. It would take a court order to force them to open up his records. And to get court paper, I’d need to give the judge a damned good reason. Right now, I’ve got jack.”
“I understand.”
Her eyes tracked around her living room, pausing on furnishings that she and Frank had picked out and purchased years before. She suddenly felt as she did in the days after he left. Small. Exposed.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you something definitive,” Cronin was saying. “Ms. Woods, in my experience, everybody has baggage. But your guy—he’s carrying more than Amtrak.”
She had to laugh. “All right. Thanks for telling me what you’ve found out, Detective. It’s a relief to know this much.”
He was silent.
“Is there something else?” she prompted.
He took his time before replying. “You’re on the job this many years, you get feelings about things. This somehow doesn’t feel right.”
“I know.” Her throat felt tight.
“So, you feel it, too.... Okay, tell you what: I’m going to stay on this. And I suggest you try to keep an eye on him, too. Jot down notes of his comings and goings. You never know when a timeline might come in handy.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore the quivering knot in the pit of her stomach. “You never know.”
“I haven’t asked you before. But it would help if you told me where he lives.”
She took a slow breath. “I’m not ready to do that,” she said. Then added: “Not yet.”
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Tuesday, November 18, 8:25 p.m.
“Hi, you,” he said.
She stood in his doorway with an overnight bag and a little smile. “Hi, you.”
He searched her eyes for an instant, then drew her close and kissed her.
“Missed you last night,” he murmured.
“Me, too.” She squeezed him.
He took the bag from her, then her coat. “Feeling better today?”
“Much. Thanks.”
His eyes followed her as she wandered into the living room, then stopped to pet Luna, who was sprawled on the sofa. She wore a brown pantsuit. It was the first time she had dressed in anything other than a skirt or dress in his presence.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, hanging the coat in the entryway closet.
She tossed her purse on the sofa and sat. “Yes.... No. I mean, I’m not hungry. Some wine would be nice, though.”
“Relax there and I’ll fetch some.”
He observed her out of the corner of his eye from the kitchen while he pulled a Chardonnay from the refrigerator, uncorked, then poured it. She was stroking the cat, but watching his reflected image in the dark window of the balcony’s sliding door.
He felt the tension.
He pasted on a grin and brought their glasses over. Handed her one, clinked it with his, then took a nearby armchair instead of sitting beside her. So that he could watch her.
“How was work today?” he asked.
“Oh. All right. Not as bad as usual.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She took a sip.
He had debated whether to wait her out or simply confront her. Her eyes remained focused on the cat, not him. That decided it for him. She was trying to gloss over whatever it was.
But he never let anyone gloss over anything.
As she raised her wine glass again, he asked: “Then what else could be bothering you, Annie Woods?”
Her glass paused in mid-air; her eyes shot to his, startled. “What do you mean?”
He held her glance and very deliberately lowered his own glass to the coffee table. “Something’s been bugging you. Since Sunday morning. And it wasn’t just the Mexican food from Saturday night. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”
She took a deep breath, her breasts rising against her suit jacket, then falling.
“All right. It was your article. That started it.”
“Figured as much. What about it?”
She put down her glass, sat back. Her eyes were—what? Worried?
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 naïve 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 mouth 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. The
re 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.
HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller) Page 21
