“War? You’re making war? All by yourself, like some kind of one-man army?”
“I know it sounds grandiose and ridiculous. But actually, I’m just going back to the war I was fighting before I left the Agency. That war had an official seal of approval. This one doesn’t. But it’s the same war. Because I’m looking at what is happening around us, even today, and I see the country hanging by a thread. Evil people are taking charge, and good people are too terrified and confused and powerless to stop them.”
He straightened in the chair.
“Annie, I’ve had to go back to war, not because I want to, but because it has to be done. Because only a handful of people could do what needs to be done—but they won’t. Because I can—and I will.” He paused. “And because I’m very good at it.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “You’re right. It is ridiculous. No—it’s crazy. Because you can’t possibly win.”
“I know that, too,” he said. “I’m a realist. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can beat them this time. Maybe the next, too. But to survive for long, I’d have to stay lucky and be perfect. No accidents, no mistakes. Which is impossible. I know it can’t last.”
She stormed to her feet. “So this is a suicide mission?”
He shook his head as he rose to face her.
“You know me better than that,” he said gently. “I want to live, Annie. I desperately want to live. I look at you, and you’re everything a man like me could want to live for.”
He saw her lips start to tremble.
“But it will be suicide for me if I don’t do this,” he went on. “Suicide of a different kind—if I think I can make a difference, but choose not to try. I wouldn’t be the same man anymore, not the kind of man . . . you could care for.”
She began to cry. It became harder to stay in his cold, high place.
“Annie Woods, you are young, and beautiful, and brilliant, and talented, and you have everything to live for. You told me your dreams. You have a right to be with a husband who can make them come true. Who can give you a normal life—a happy home, kids to raise and love, the chance to watch and enjoy them as they play, and learn, and grow. You have a right to savor the looks on their faces when you take them to the zoo and on picnics, and teach them to walk, and read, and swim. To hug them when they get on the bus to kindergarten and school, and to kiss them when they bring home good grades, and to cheer them in school plays and baseball games. To teach them how to drive, and give them advice when they start to date. You have a right to cry when they drive off to college, and cry at their weddings, and cry when they give you grandkids.
“You could never have any of that with me, Annie. There’s no way I can pretend to myself anymore that I will ever have a normal family life. I see too clearly where mine is headed, and where it will end.”
She stood shaking, now, tears streaming down her cheeks. He stepped closer to her, but didn’t try to touch her. He spoke quietly.
“That night, months ago, outside Susie’s house, when I asked you out on our first date—even then there was this voice in my head telling me I was a fool, that it was so wrong to do that—that it couldn’t possibly work out, that we would only get hurt. But as I looked at you there, under the street lights, it felt magical, and I felt completely helpless. So I refused to listen to that voice. I charged ahead, hoping and pretending that everything would somehow turn out okay.
“Instead, I’ve nearly gotten you killed, three different times. I just can’t risk that anymore. I won’t let it happen again. And I won’t deprive you of the kind of life you deserve.”
He had to stop, gather strength. Because the next words were the hardest of his life.
“That’s why you have to let me go, Annie.”
He knew he had to make the break symbolic, so it would become real for both of them. He held out his hand, palm up.
“Annie,” he said softly, “I am so sorry. But you should give me back the engagement ring.”
He heard a little gasp. He knew they were both remembering the last time this happened—the night when she had tried to end it, and handed him the ring willingly.
She raised her hand slowly, staring at the ring. Then back at him, through the tears.
Shook her head.
“No,” she whispered.
“Annie—please,” he said. “You need to return the ring. Because our engagement is—”
“No!” She recoiled from him, covering the ring with her other hand, protectively. “No, it’s not! I have a say in this. I get to decide what will make me happy. I get to decide what kind of risks I am willing to take, and what kind of a future I want. It’s over when I say it’s over. And no—it’s not over!”
“Annie, I—”
“I said, no! Now get out, Dylan!”
Sobbing and shaking, she turned her back on him.
He opened his mouth to speak. To reassure her that he still loved her, that he always would.
Then stopped, realizing that would be the cruelest thing he could possibly say.
He found his way to her door, through the sudden blur in his own eyes.
Driving back to his apartment, he told himself, again and again, why he had to do this.
Tried to convince himself that it was the only way.
Repeated the lesson he had been taught by his father, Big Mike, so long ago . . .
You have to protect her, Matt. It’s what a man does.
A man protects his woman, no matter what . . .
FORTY-ONE
Twenty-One Years Earlier
Like him, she was seventeen and a high school junior. Like him, she was dark-haired, self-confident, and highly intelligent.
Most unlike him, though, she was popular and extroverted.
Still, Matt Malone was smitten by Jennifer Evans.
The initial, natural attraction was her stunning beauty. Jennifer Evans had the face of a budding movie star: long brown hair framing high cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes that slanted—like a cat’s, he thought. Her body was like a work of art. The previous summer, during a vacation journey through New England, he and his parents had visited the studio of the late sculptor Daniel Chester French. Matt stood transfixed before Andromeda, French’s breathtaking nude statue of the Greek goddess. Jennifer could have been his model.
Another part of his fascination lay in their differences—in the mesmerizing mystery of a girl of cool beauty, who seemed a rare match for him in intellect and wit, yet so different in personality. She, the dazzling center of attention; he, the loner: not shy or socially awkward, just emotionally self-sufficient and comfortably preoccupied with private pursuits. She, the frequent lead in school theater productions and musicals, spotlighted because of her extraordinary looks and angelic soprano voice; he, usually in some private corner, buried in a book, trying to satisfy an ever-raging and wide-ranging curiosity.
Perhaps what intrigued him most, though, was her anachronistic sense of style. Jennifer projected sexuality, but not in the typical trashy way. She shunned the heavy makeup, gaudy bangles, hoop earrings, and teased hair of the day, dressing with the classy femininity he associated with French actresses. Her one stylistic concession to youth was her hemlines.
Matt sensed that she was aware of him, as well. It surprised him. Self-sufficient and private, he didn’t understand why girls seemed to find him interesting. When he appeared at gymnastic and swim meets, they would cheer and even whistle from the bleachers. During his sophomore year, they began to flirt with him frequently and aggressively; he responded by dating rarely and selectively. But he found he just didn’t have much in common with them. His early experiences with the opposite sex, and with sex itself, left him feeling increasingly wistful and lonely.
Until he struck up a conversation with Jennifer during a gymnastics event early his junior year. She had paused not far from him after performing a floor routine, and he sensed it was deliberate. He ventured a compliment, and she surprised him by beaming and complimenting him
in return. Conversing with her was easy. She had an intelligent sense of humor and he enjoyed their repartee. Within minutes, they had exchanged phone numbers. Within days, he asked her out.
Within two weeks, they were a couple.
Matt’s parents were pleased when, over dinner and somewhat sheepishly, he told them about her.
“About time,” his father said, eyes twinkling. Then he went back to tackling his rib roast.
“So, what does she look like?” his mother asked. “Do you have a picture?”
He pulled out his wallet and handed her the small school photo Jennifer had given him.
“Oh! She’s a doll!” she exclaimed. “Here Mike, take a look.”
Big Mike leaned over. Squinted. Raised a brow. Then glanced at him, mischief in his eyes.
“Way to go, Matt!”
“Stop that,” his mother protested. “See? You’re embarrassing him.”
“Oh, come on, Helen. I’m complimenting him. Son, you got yourself a real babe.” He shot a playful look at his wife. “Not nearly as pretty as this one, of course. But she’ll do.”
His mother laughed, dimpling up.
“Mom is beautiful,” Matt said, meaning it. His mother looked something like that Italian actress, Isabella Rossellini.
“Just be glad you got your looks from her. If you took after me, this young lady wouldn’t be giving you the time of day.”
2
Jennifer’s family, like his own, was wealthy. Their estates were barely a mile apart in Fox Chapel, an upscale Pittsburgh suburb. Her parents owned some horses, and they had given one to their daughter for her birthday. She was taking riding lessons and told Matt she hoped eventually to enter equestrian competitions.
There was a loft above the horse barn, and that is where they secretly met. Lying in each other’s arms under blankets smuggled from her room, they talked about their lives, their travels, their interests, their dreams. He was delighted that she knew so much about the arts, and that they could discuss painting, films, plays, and literature. But swept up in the intense, intoxicating infatuation of first love, Matt overlooked the differences in their personal values and priorities.
“You’re such a bookworm, Matt. You need to get out more and have fun.”
“But I like learning about things like history and politics. For me, that is fun.”
“Borrrr-ing!” She wrinkled her nose; it made her look adorably cute. “If you didn’t have such a hot body, you’d be no fun at all.”
“You’re the one with the hot body.” He wriggled against her.
“You really think so?” she asked, suddenly serious.
It astonished him. “You are kidding, right? Jen, you are drop-dead gorgeous.”
She smiled and snuggled against him. He loved her warmth and the scent of her skin.
“So, tomorrow is Saturday,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “I thought we could go see a movie.”
He felt her shoulders shrug beneath the thick comforter. “I suppose.”
“What, then? How about a concert?”
“Sure. If there’s a decent band in town.”
“I meant the Pittsburgh Symphony. They’ve got a great program: Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony, and—”
“The symphony?” She giggled. “I used to go with my folks a lot. But these days I’m not in the mood to sit still for two hours in Heinz Hall. Sitting still isn’t me. I need to move.” She narrowed her cat-like eyes and squirmed against him. “Know what I mean, big fella?”
He grinned. “I guess I do.”
3
Just before the Christmas break, one of their classmates, a girl named Joan, told Jennifer and a select group of friends that they were invited to a holiday party at her house. Jennifer told Matt she wanted them both to go. He balked at first; he wasn’t comfortable at parties, where people tended to become loud, stupid, and obnoxious. Nor was he much of a dancer—at least, not when attempting what passed for dancing these days. But he knew she loved to dance, and when she started complaining again about him being boring, he sighed and agreed to go along, just to keep her happy.
Matt had recently gotten his driver’s license, and—with savings from three years of summer and part-time jobs—bought a used black Camaro in decent shape. During the days before the party, he spent a lot of time trying to make it look immaculate for her. As for what to wear, he decided on his comfortable corduroy sports jacket over a polo shirt, jeans, and low-cut boots—a combination he knew she loved.
That Saturday evening he picked her up at her home. She came to the door in a short brown skirt, a snug tan sweater, and matching heels. Her parents waved from the living room and wished them a good time.
A few minutes later, they rolled up to an isolated home, large and lavish, also in Fox Chapel. They followed loud music inside, then down into a big basement rec room. It was decorated with red and green crepe paper, suspended paper snowflakes and candy canes, strings of flashing colored lights, an artificial Christmas tree in one corner, and a foam-plastic snowman in another. Food and beverage tables lined one of the walls.
In the middle of the floor, about seventy-five of their classmates were jumping around to the thumping, deafening racket of a local band on the far side of the room, playing what Matt knew had to be a New Wave hit. The bizarre gyrations conjured the sudden memory of a World War One documentary, and a scene showing spasms induced by nerve gas.
Within minutes he was shocked to learn that there was no adult supervision; Joan, laughing, told him her parents had gone out to dinner and would be gone for at least three hours.
Jennifer tugged him out into the room and joined in the frenzy. He stood there, feeling awkward and embarrassed, neither knowing what to do nor wanting to. She frowned at him and yelled “Come on! Dance with me!”—her shout barely audible in the din. He shook his head, leaned in and shouted near her ear, “Can I get you something to drink?” She shook her own head, scowling at him, and then turned away, bouncing into the middle of the mass.
Matt stared at her, then stepped away, heading for the refreshment table. He filled a paper plate with some fried things he didn’t recognize, poured himself ginger ale from a plastic bottle, and then looked around. He saw some empty folding chairs against the nearby wall, and settled into one.
He watched Jennifer gyrating sinuously in the middle of the pack, quickly surrounded by guys giving her plenty of attention, tossing her hair back and smiling at them. He watched, picking at the food on his plate absently, numbly, miserably, knowing he had several hours of this torture to endure.
After a while, during a pause in the music, she came back to him, pouting.
“What’s wrong, Matt? Why don’t you want to dance with me?”
“Jen, that sort of dancing—it’s just not my thing.”
She reached down, grabbed his hand. “Oh, come on—just try. You’ll get into it.”
He pulled away. “I don’t want to.” He nodded toward the band. “This isn’t what I expected.”
Her dark eyes flared.
“Well, I came here to dance and have a good time. If you want to just sit here, then go ahead.”
She stalked back into the middle of the crowd.
Matt sat watching her, watching all of them, feeling like an alien life form. He had never felt more alone in his life.
He noticed that one guy in particular, a big, blond football jock named Chris Lynch, danced over to her and leaned down to say something. She started to smile at him—then dance with him.
She wouldn’t look his way.
Matt felt his jaw and fists clenching.
After the first hour, the band took a break. The place had become uncomfortably warm. Everybody started to filter up the stairs and outside into the chill air to cool off.
He watched her go upstairs, followed by Lynch.
Furious, he got up and followed, but was caught behind a mass of people at the bottom of the stairs. It was a couple of minutes before he could get outside.
He asked several people, “Have you seen where Jen went off to?” They just shrugged.
His anger was boiling over. He walked down toward where all the cars were parked along the driveway. Then he spotted her with him, leaning against what had to be his car. His hand was resting on her shoulder, and he had just passed her what looked like a small bottle of liquor.
He stalked over.
“All right, Jen. What the hell is going on?”
Lynch straightened and turned toward him. “What’s it to you, asshole? Beat it.”
“She came here with me.”
He sneered, squeezing her shoulder. “Doesn’t seem like she’s going home with you.”
Matt clenched his fists and stepped toward him. She moved between them.
“No! Stop!” She pressed her hand, the one without the bottle, against his chest. “Matt, take it easy!”
“Let him try,” Lynch snarled, clenching his own fists.
“Chris, you stop it, too! We all came here to have a good time!”
“That,” Matt pointed at Lynch, “is what you consider to be a good time?”
“I just want to dance, and you don’t, and Chris does.”
“Oh?” He tapped the bottle she held. “Looks like you have more than dancing in mind.”
Her anger flared up again. “That’s not true! How can you say that?”
“You know this guy’s reputation. What am I supposed to think?”
“You know me better than that!”
He stared at her, feeling his world crumble.
“I’m wondering if I know you at all.”
He took a step back, shaking with rage, looking at both of them.
“Seems you’ve made your choice, Jen.”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 40
