HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “What a relief for you.”

  “Sure is. I’m glad we don’t have Wulfe around to worry about anymore. He was a scary dude. I mean, with all his advanced belts in hand-to-hand combat—why, it’s a damned miracle that a mere newspaper reporter like you was somehow able to overpower and kill him.”

  “It had to be a miracle.”

  “You’re lucky you survived. And you left a lot of your blood there, Mr. Hunter. Lucky for you that Ms. Woods works for the CIA, so close by, and could have them send help so quickly.”

  “As you say, I’m lucky.”

  “You sure are.”

  “Speaking of blood, Detective: Annie told me about the DNA matching you’re trying to do from one of the vigilante crime scenes. How’s that going?”

  Cronin’s eyes lost their glimmer of amusement. “Funniest thing about that. Last night I happened to be talking to Ms. Woods’s boss at the CIA—a Mr. Garrett. And he said they have a priority need for that DNA sample. Something about some highly classified national security investigation involving an assassination. So, it looks like we’ll be turning that DNA sample over to them.”

  Annie squeezed his hand harder.

  “How unlucky for you.”

  “Yes. How unlucky.” The cop leaned forward in the chair. “You know, Mr. Hunter, those vigilantes must really like you. If they ever try to contact you, I wonder if I might count on you to let me know?”

  “Why, Detective Cronin! I’m a journalist. I have to protect my sources.” He turned to look at Annie. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to violate a trust, would you?”

  She beamed at him.

  “No, I suppose not.” He got up. “Well, it’s time I got back to the wife and kids. I only had a couple hours with them this morning to open the presents. I hope both of you get better real soon. Merry Christmas, Ms. Woods. And Mr….Hunter.”

  “Merry Christmas, Detective Cronin,” Hunter said.

  Annie stood and went to Cronin. Kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded.

  He moved to the door, then stopped. Not turning to face them, he said:

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay the hell away from Alexandria.”

  He walked out.

  They looked at each other and broke out laughing.

  CONNOR’S POINT

  MARYLAND’S EASTERN SHORE

  Tuesday, December 30, 10:32 a.m.

  When Billie Rutherford opened the front door, she was surprised to see Vic Rostand standing there in heavy winter clothes, holding a gaily wrapped box.

  “Hi there, Billie.”

  “My God! How are you, stranger? Jim—it’s Vic! Come on in out of the cold, it’s freezing out there.”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. I was just checking in on things here, making sure they shoveled the walk and saved the mail. I’m going to be gone again for about six weeks. But before I go, I just wanted to drop off a belated Christmas present, since I’ve been out of town.”

  Jim came up behind her. “Again? So soon? Don’t you ever get a break?”

  “Actually, that’s what this is about. I need some R & R. I took a spill while skiing last weekend and the doc says it’s going to take my arm and leg a while to heal properly.”

  She saw that he was shifting uncomfortably and balancing mostly on his right leg.

  “Well, it’s about time you had a vacation. You work too hard.”

  He laughed; she wished she could see his eyes better, behind those tinted glasses. “Well, Billie, as they say, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s playground.’”

  She had to ask. “Were you alone on that ski trip, Vic? Or were you with anyone special?”

  He grinned. “Well, yes. There is someone special. I’ll introduce her sometime. She’s quite a lady. And she owns an interesting cat.” He handed them the package. “Anyway, Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year. I’ll see you again sometime in early February.”

  “Same to you, Vic. Drive safe.”

  She closed the door and through the window they watched him limp back to his Honda CR-V.

  “What a nice, sweet man,” Billie said. “I hope she’s good enough for him.”

  *

  “Bronowski.” The impatient growl over the phone.

  “And happy holidays to you, too, Bill.”

  “Where the hell have you been these weeks? I thought you’d fallen off the planet! It’s been nuts around here since you left.”

  “I know a little about that.”

  “Well, thank God you’re back. Just today, all kinds of fallout from your last piece and that Adrian Wulfe escape. Here’s from A.P. this morning: ‘Prominent charity benefactor Kenneth MacLean issued a statement today that he is initiating reorganization of his foundation, with a focus on advocacy for crime victims.’”

  “It’s about time.”

  “Hunter, you have the inside track on this stuff. I need you to follow up, now.”

  He gazed down at the iron expanse of the Chesapeake from the lofty height of the Bay Bridge as his car sped westward.

  “Your coverage has been just great without me, Bill. In fact, I’m just calling to wish you happy holidays and let you know I’ll be gone till the beginning of February.”

  “What! Now?” Bronowski moaned. “You’re kidding me!”

  “Don’t worry. I promise you lots of fresh meat when I get back.”

  TIONESTA, PENNSYLVANIA

  Tuesday, December 30, 8:13 p.m.

  His bouncing headlights illuminated the rutted, snow-covered drive leading to the cabin. He pulled up and parked near the door, in the clearing embraced by the pines and oaks. Left the engine running until he could go unlock the door and turn on the lights.

  Then he came back for her.

  “You’re going to love it here.”

  He brought her inside. Then he turned her loose to explore.

  At first Luna stood outside her carrier bag, hunched nervously, sniffing the bare planks of the cabin floor. Then, after a few tentative steps, during which no beasts of prey leaped from hiding places, she straightened and began to trot from item to item, checking them out.

  He let her wander and went back outside to bring in and store the rest of their gear.

  He kicked off his boots and hung his parka on the deer antlers next to the door—the trophy of a hunting trip so long ago.

  He went to the kitchen area and, after uncorking and pouring some wine, sat on the couch. Put his stocking feet up on the knotty pine coffee table. Looked around at the bare wood walls. At the empty mantelpiece over the big stone fireplace.

  It hurt not to be able to put out photos. But at least he had his memories, and particularly fond ones of this place.

  He knew that he had undergone an important passage in his life since he was here last. That a new chapter was beginning. He knew he had to mark it now, alone.

  He had to answer the question that he had asked himself here, not quite three years earlier.

  He drank the glass. Then another.

  Poured a third.

  *

  Once again, he limped up the stairs, carrying his duffle bag and a glass of wine. Luna scampered up after him and immediately found a place on the bare mattress. He used a rag to wipe the gathered dust from the vanity mirror. Then he sat down on the mattress beside the cat. He sipped the wine, stroked the cat, and looked into the mirror.

  “Okay. So, who are you?”

  The face that was now his own stared back at him, not answering.

  He took another sip. Placed the glass on the floor.

  Reached into the top of his duffle and extracted a leather pouch.

  Opened it and pulled out the drivers’ licenses.

  Spread them on the mattress next to him.

  Brad Roark Flynn

  Victor Edward Rostand

  Wayne Alan Grayson

  Shane Michael Stone

  Edmond Dantes

  Lex
Talionis

  Then pulled out his wallet. Removed his driver’s license. Tossed it next to them.

  Dylan Lee Hunter

  He looked into the mirror, then down at all the cards.

  On several, the resemblance was close to the face in the mirror.

  But there were beards and wigs and mustaches on others, different colors.

  And makeup.

  And a great latex mask on one.

  He picked up the wine glass from the floor. Stood, unsteady now.

  Lifted his glass to the mirror.

  “Gentlemen—a toast now to our sire: the late, great Matt Malone. Mr. Malone, here we are. Your bastard offspring, standing in your shadow. Living not as real men, but as ghosts.”

  He took a last big swallow. Stared at himself.

  His face in the mirror looked sad.

  He sat again.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly.

  *

  He heard the sound of a car engine approach, then die.

  Heard quick steps marching up the porch stairs.

  Heard the cabin door creak open.

  Heard her call out:

  “Dylan?”

  And knew.

  About the Author

  Robert Bidinotto earned a national reputation as an authority on criminal justice while writing investigative articles as a former Staff Writer for Reader’s Digest. His famous 1988 article “Getting Away with Murder” stirred a national controversy about crime and prison furlough programs during that year’s presidential campaign, and it is widely credited with having affected the outcome of the election. It was honored by the American Society of Magazine Editors as one of five finalists for the National Magazine Award for “Best Magazine Article in the Public Interest Category.”

  Robert is author of the acclaimed book Criminal Justice? The Legal System vs. Individual Responsibility, with a foreword by John Walsh of the “America’s Most Wanted” television show, and of Freed to Kill—a compendium of horror stories exposing the failings of the justice system.

  His many articles, essays, book and film reviews also have appeared in the Washington Times, the Boston Herald, Success, The American Spectator, Writer’s Digest, and other publications. Robert was awarded the Free Press Association’s Mencken Award in 1985 for “Best Feature Story,” and he has been honored by the National Victim Center and other victim-rights organizations for his outspoken public advocacy on behalf of crime victims. As an editor, in 2007, he won the magazine industry’s top honor for editorial excellence—the Folio gold “Eddie” Award. A popular speaker, he has appeared as a guest on scores of major talk programs.

  With his wife, Cynthia, and their stridently individualistic cat, Luna, Robert makes his home on the Chesapeake Bay, where he is working on the further adventures of Dylan Hunter.

  A Note to Readers

  Did you enjoy HUNTER? Would you like to see more stories featuring Dylan, Annie, Wonk, Danika, Garrett, and, of course, Luna?

  Then I’d be grateful if you’d recommend HUNTER to your friends, on social-networking sites and blogs, and in “reader reviews” on Amazon, Smashwords, and other online book retailers. And tell your local bookstore that they should stock the print edition.

  The success of this, Dylan Hunter’s first adventure, will determine his future. Surely you wouldn’t want the vigilante to retire, would you? Don’t you want to know what happens in future tales, such as Crusader, Bad Deeds, and Blind Copy?

  Then, please spread the word that HUNTER is available as an ebook and as a print book.

  This book has been released in ebook formats for the Kindle, Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, iPad, and others. If you don’t have an ebook reader, you can download free “Kindle apps” from the Amazon Kindle website, then read the ebook on your own preferred device.

  HUNTER also has been published as a trade paperback by Avenger Books, available on Amazon.com. You can obtain a personally inscribed copy—either for yourself or as a gift for someone special—at the Avenger Books website (link below). When you make your purchase there, please tell me how you want me to inscribe it. It will be shipped to you within 24 hours.

  Bookstores and retail outlets interested in carrying HUNTER should contact:

  Avenger Books

  P.O. Box 555

  Chester, MD 21619

  www.AvengerBooks.com

  If you’d like to contact me, drop me an email at: RobertTheWriter@gmail.com

  I comment on thrillers, “indie” publishing, and fiction generally at “The Vigilante Author” blog: www.bidinotto.com And if you’re intrigued by the provocative viewpoints expressed in HUNTER, check out my nonfiction blog: http://bidinotto.blogspot.com

  You also can find me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bidinotto And on Twitter: @RobertBidinotto

  Behind the Scenes

  Like the story of its title character, the story of HUNTER grew from incidents in my own life. And while I hope the tale provides readers with grand entertainment, my purpose in writing this novel could not be more serious.

  For six years during the late 1980s and early 1990s, I was an investigative journalist for Reader’s Digest, specializing in “true crime” stories. That preoccupation began when I investigated, then wrote, the now-famous article in the July 1988 issue about the Massachusetts prison furlough program. Titled “Getting Away with Murder,” the article made the name “Willie Horton” famous during that year’s presidential election. Political historians say that it had a major impact on the outcome of the election between George H.W. Bush and Michael Dukakis.

  But its major impact on me was to raise my awareness about the plight of crime victims, and how they were routinely abused, ignored, and further victimized by the criminal justice system.

  During the course of that investigation, I met rape victims. Parents of murdered children. Countless targets of thugs who had been released, irresponsibly and prematurely, into halfway houses—into unsupervised “furloughs” from prison—into early parole and “diversionary” probation “supervision”—a host of other “alternatives to incarceration.”

  The faces of those victims haunted me during many sleepless nights.

  Their faces haunt me still.

  During subsequent investigations, I learned little-known truths about the systemic leniency of the criminal justice system—and about those who made it so. I wrote investigative articles under such titles as “Freed to Rape Again,” “Revolving-Door Justice,” “The Law Criminals Love,” and “When Criminals Go Free.”

  I learned that there was an “Excuse-Making Industry” of intellectuals in the social-science establishment: philosophers, psychologists, political scientists, legal scholars, sociologists, criminologists, economists, and historians, whose theories have shaped our modern legal system. That “industry” also consists of an activist wing of social workers, counselors, therapists, legal-aid and civil-liberties lawyers, “inmate rights” advocates, “progressive” politicians, and activists.

  It was this industry which, in the Sixties and Seventies, initiated a quiet revolution in the criminal justice system, and routed the last of those who believed that the legal system’s purpose should be to apprehend and punish criminals. Instead, the Excuse-Making Industry—united in the belief that the criminal isn’t responsible for his actions—rejected the fundamental premise of the justice system: justice.

  In 1994, I published a book, Criminal Justice? The Legal System vs. Individual Responsibility—an anthology of articles by me, and by legal scholars, exposing this corruption. I also wrote a short book of horror stories documenting the bloody consequences of the Excuse-Making Industry’s policies, titled Freed to Kill.

  I tell you this, because you should know that the descriptions in HUNTER of the workings of the legal system, of “alternatives to incarceration,” of “diversionary sentences,” of crimes by predators recycled constantly from prisons to streets and back, and of the hideous personal impact on crime victims, are accurate accounts o
f the actual workings of today’s legal system.

  For example, the criminal histories in HUNTER are composites of many real individuals. The memo on the bulletin board in Chapter 10, listing all the sports opportunities in one prison, is a verbatim transcript of an actual memo, in my possession, posted at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution in Norfolk (sent to me by an outraged corrections officer). Descriptions of inmate amenities are drawn from my personal observations during visits to prisons all over the United States, while researching my November 1994 Digest article, “Must Our Prisons Be Resorts?” The meeting of the crime-victims group in Chapter 14 was inspired by a dinner meeting I had with members of Parents of Murdered Children in Massachusetts.

  So, if you think the presentation in HUNTER of criminals, outrages in the legal system, and horrors inflicted on victims is in any way exaggerated, I will only say: I wish.

  I hope that HUNTER helps to bring public attention to this enduring, despicable state of affairs, and to bring to crime victims a measure of the justice owed to them by our legal system.

  The criminal justice system was one of the two major settings for the novel. The other was the shadow world of the CIA and intelligence agencies—a setting I know far less about, none of it from personal experience. Here, I make fewer claims for authenticity. But I wasn’t striving for journalistic accuracy: I was hoping only to create fictional persuasiveness.

  Still, I’m delighted that several professionals in the intelligence community—some of whom offered input during my research and editing—assure me that my rendition of the activities, skills, and methods of spymasters, NOCs, CIA paramilitary teams, and even Dylan Hunter himself seem plausible. Two intelligence veterans from two different agencies thought that Matt Malone’s imaginative method of acquiring his many aliases appeared to be possible. Regarding the details of spycraft—and the problems within the CIA—I relied heavily on published sources, including books by former Agency case officers.