“Me? Look, you don’t—”
“Shut up, son. These past few months, you’ve managed to keep the White House out of the hands of fanatical killers, not once, but twice. It’s criminal that the nation can never be allowed to know that. But it would be far more criminal if you’re harassed and punished now, after everything you’ve risked and done. I am not about to let that happen.”
He stood. “I am dying for a smoke, and I’ve got a big to-do list, in that order. So I’d better get going. Before I do, I have only one request.”
He held out his hand toward Hunter.
“Please give me those photos.”
They locked eyes.
“What for, Grant?”
“As I say: You need to be protected. So does Annie. So do I. So does the country.”
Bitter experience had taught Hunter not to trust easily, and over the years there had been only a handful whom he’d trust with his life. Two of them were in this room.
He wanted to ask his old boss exactly how he intended to use the photos. But in Grant Garrett’s clear gray eyes he saw a rare man he could trust to do the right thing.
Without a word, he withdrew the envelope from the folder and handed it to Garrett.
Who actually smiled. Just a flicker. But a smile.
“Grant, you can’t possibly deal with all of that ‘to-do’ list alone,” Annie protested.
He raised a brow. The wintry eyes seemed to twinkle.
“Never make the mistake of underestimating me, my dear.”
3
Hunter stayed with her through much of the day. They had lunch together in the room, and talked about small things for a change—their homes, their pets, the foxes in his yard out at Connors Point—trying to reclaim a forgotten sense of normalcy.
Occasionally, they tuned in to the news channels on the room’s TV. There were the inevitable stories about the terrorism, Trammel, and Emmalee Conn. Then they were relieved to hear that Roger Helm’s condition had been upgraded from critical to serious, and that he appeared to be on the slow road to recovery. A reporter said the bulletproof vest he’d been wearing had partly deflected the rifle shot.
“It was just when he turned to wave at me,” Hunter said. “It hit him at an angle. If he’d taken that bullet straight on, he’d be dead, vest or not.”
“So your presence there actually saved him,” Annie pointed out.
“I guess.” He thought about Helm, how he’d looked on the platform. “I’ll have to visit him, when he’s up to it. It’s so tragic. He would have made a great president.”
Around three-fifteen, a handsome Fox News anchor’s face hovered over a chyron that read: Who Is Dylan Hunter? He turned up the volume with the remote.
“. . . adding another layer of mystery to the stunning events of the past months. Our Washington bureau’s Ashley Dunn has been following this part of the story. Ashley, what can you tell us?”
A pretty blonde reporter appeared onscreen standing outside the door of the Capitol Inquirer Building.
“Bill, in response to our repeated questions and, frankly, questions from all the rest of the media about the mysterious background of the Capitol Inquirer’s controversial investigative reporter Dylan Hunter, this morning they issued this statement written by him.” She held up a sheet of paper. “Let me read it:
“‘Recent circumstances compel me to reiterate my previous statement. I have demonstrated to the satisfaction of law enforcement investigators and governmental agencies that I am indeed Dylan Lee Hunter, a freelance investigative journalist. However, for reasons of personal safety, I am unable to respond to questions in any greater detail than that. I shall have nothing further to say on this subject.’
“That was this morning, Bill. But just moments ago, this statement”—she waved another sheet of paper—“was put out by the media office at the CIA. As many viewers know, some speculation swirling around Hunter is whether he ever worked for the CIA or other intelligence agency, and if he has undergone a change of identity. So let me share this CIA statement:
“‘Given recent events, our agency has been asked to comment about a certain member of the news media, and his possible involvement or history with our Agency.
“‘We understand the interest of the press and public in such matters. However, like all federal intelligence agencies— as well as law enforcement agencies such as the U.S. Marshals Service, which administers the federal witness protection program—the Central Intelligence Agency never confirms or denies the possible affiliation, either past or present, of any specific individual. This policy is necessary to protect our national security, the safety of individuals involved with our activities, but also the privacy of individuals who have no connection to our activities. Nothing should be construed from this statement other than a reiteration of our long-standing official policy.’”
“That’s fascinating, Ashley,” the anchor said. “What are we supposed to make of that?”
“Bill, for me, the most intriguing part is the reference to the U.S. Marshals Service and its witness protection program. It raises the possibility that at one time Dylan Hunter may have been a government witness or informant, who had to go into hiding and was given a new name and identity. If true, that might explain why no one can find out anything about his past. I can think of no other reason for including that particular reference, since no other government agency was mentioned in the CIA’s statement.”
“I can’t either. It only thickens the cloud of mystery surrounding this maverick reporter, who has broken a lot of big stories. But you have to wonder why he would choose such a high-profile career if he wants to hide his past . . .”
“I have to wonder about that, too,” Annie said.
“No comment.” Hunter clicked off the TV. “I don’t know how Grant got the Langley press office to go along with it,” he added, “but his statement is perfect. It will send reporters off on a different wild goose chase.”
“So, you’re going to let them believe whatever they want to believe,” she said.
“They will anyway. But now their inquiries have hit an official brick wall.”
“They’ll try to dig deeper, you know.”
“And only dig an empty hole.”
“But the ‘man of mystery’ hook will keep a spotlight on you.”
“Maybe they’ll pay more attention to what I write.”
“Seriously, Dylan. What happens when they find out about us? Maybe about where I work?”
He brightened. “Hey! If they do, they’ll realize I have insider access to secrets they don’t.” He looked off into space. “You know . . . having CIA officer Annie Woods as my secret intelligence source might even give my reporting more credibility.”
“So you’re just going to use me.”
He looked around furtively, then reached over and slid his hand inside her hospital gown.
“Just watch me.”
4
It was four in the afternoon and she was tired. Hunter gave her a kiss and promised to return at seven, after she’d had some sleep.
He left the room and nodded to the young, tough-looking Agency security officer seated right outside the door.
“Take good care of her,” he said.
The man stood. “It’s my honor, sir.”
Hunter offered his hand. The young man took it.
Reassured, he headed down the hallway. He pushed through the door and continued on, into the crowded waiting room.
“Hunter.”
He stopped and turned at the sound of the familiar voice.
Cronin rose from a seat in the corner and approached.
“How is she?”
“She’ll be okay. Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. She’s tough like you, I guess.”
Hunter thought about it. “In her own way, she’s tougher than me or most men.”
“To put up with you, she’d have to be.” The tone was sharp.
“I won’t argue. I appreci
ate your coming here to check in on her.”
“It’s not just that. We need to talk. You and me.”
“Again?” He rolled his eyes.
“Yeah. Again.” Cronin looked around. “I think I saw an empty meeting room or something down the hall.”
Hunter wondered what this was all about. On the way to the room, images from a host of ops flashed to mind—killings Cronin had tried to pin on him. Maybe this was about the hit on Dixon’s gang in Baltimore. He felt tired, mentally fuzzy. He would have to be careful.
They entered the room, and Cronin found a light switch. The place held a small, narrow conference table surrounded by molded plastic chairs, and smelled faintly medicinal. Cronin gestured to the chairs and they took seats facing each other. He got right to it.
“I’ve just been to see Julia Haight.”
“The actress?”
“Don’t play dumb. Avery Trammel’s widow.”
“Oh. Right. You know, I met her once. She has to be devastated over what’s happened. How’s she holding up?”
“What if I were to tell you she fingered you as Trammel’s killer?”
It caught him off guard, which was just as well. Surprise could indicate innocence. Hunter allowed his mouth to fall open. Then he slowly smiled, leaned back, and laughed heartily.
“You wouldn’t tell me that, because we both know it didn’t happen.”
“No?”
“You’re bluffing, Ed.” He grinned, hoping it was true.
“It’s ‘Detective Cronin.’”
“Sorry.”
“She’s truly a great actress. So great, in fact, for a moment she nearly even convinced me her husband was killed by a drug gang, and not you.”
“What in hell are you—”
“Stop. Just shut up and hear me out.”
Cronin looked away, as if gathering himself for this. Then bent forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Hunter, she told me. Don’t blame her. She didn’t want to, and I got her to do it only because we worked out a deal. I promised her that whatever she said, I wouldn’t use it against you. And unlike you, my word means something. I keep my promises. I won’t use what she told me against you. But she confirmed what I already knew for months. And what Adair and the Jacksons also confirmed.”
He paused. Then said it with unstressed, quiet certainty.
“Hunter, you’re the vigilante.”
They sat there like that, silent, looking at each other for long seconds. Cronin spoke first.
“Let me reassure you that when anyone else questions Haight, she’ll stick with that bullshit fairy tale you two cooked up, about Russian drug cartels. The other cops seem to be buying it. And I’m content to let them believe it. But you know why she told me? You know why I’m here? Because I promised her I’d try to get you to stop. Not arrest you. Just get you to stop murdering people.”
He tapped his fingertips on the table. He seemed to be weighing his next words.
“Everything you did before—those people had it coming. All those killers you whacked. And now—from what she told me, you just stopped some kind of a big conspiracy to take over the country. Maybe more than one conspiracy. I’d already figured you for killing that scumbag senator, Conn. Now this Trammel character. From what she says, he was involved in the terrorism in Washington, maybe working with the Russians, too. Which is just . . . unbelievable.”
He lowered his eyes and his voice, sounding pensive.
“Except somehow, I can believe it. These days, things have gone so bad I can believe anything. If what she said is true, then they’ve just about hijacked the election. Even if they don’t get away with it, they’ve thrown the whole country into chaos. Maybe that’s what they were really after all along. What is it they say? ‘Divide and conquer.’ It seems to be working, too. Nobody trusts anything or anyone anymore.”
He stopped again. Ran a hand over his bare scalp. Raised probing eyes.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what to do. If I push this, and it all blows up and gets out in the open—with you killing not just punks and scum, but politicians and leaders—it’ll only add to the chaos. The investigations into all these conspiracies, the terrorism, Conn blown up, Helm shot, your killing spree, whether you got help from inside the government. God help us, this thing with Trammel and the Russians might be the last straw. It might tear apart what’s left of the country.”
Something changed in his eyes. Like some creature from the depths surging to the surface.
He slammed his fist down on the table.
“But how do I look myself in the mirror, now? It’s either ‘Ed Cronin, the guy who single-handedly pushed America off the edge of the cliff.’ Or ‘Ed Cronin, the cop who violated his oath, didn’t do his job, and let a murderer walk.’ So, what do I do? And how the hell do I live with myself, either way?”
He stopped. Whatever had surfaced receded back into the depths. His eyes were no longer fierce, but sad. Helpless-looking.
Hunter was faintly aware of hospital noises outside the room. He tried to keep his breathing steady, his hands still.
He waited to learn his fate.
“So here’s the deal. Here’s what I’ve decided. All those crime victims, and Julia Haight—they’ve been through enough. I don’t want to force them to turn against you in court—though I doubt they would. So I’m going to wipe the slate clean with you. I’m not coming after you anymore for anything you’ve done in the past. I haven’t shared a lot of what I know, or even suspect about you, with anyone else on the task force. Not even with Paul, my partner. And if I they start looking at you, I’ll do my best to throw them off the scent.”
Abruptly, another mercuric mood change. The sad blue eyes grew cold again, then clouded over, like an approaching storm.
“But—here’s the other thing. All bets are off about anything you do from here on out. No, I am not going to ask you to promise to stop shooting people, because there is no way I’d believe you. You’ve lied to me from the first day we met. But I’m not going to let you keep pulling this vigilante shit and think you’re going to get away with it forever, either. You’re not above the law, mister. So I’m going to stay on your ass. If you ever—ever—do so much as jaywalk or break the speed limit, I’ll be right there. And I’ll nail your head to my wall as a trophy. You hear me?”
Hunter realized that he had stopped breathing. He inhaled slowly to steady himself before speaking.
“I hear you.”
Cronin’s hands balled into fists. Incredibly, the stormy eyes now seemed on the verge of tears.
“I’m a cop; you’re a criminal; my job is to nail guys like you. But I can’t. And I hate you for that, you son of a bitch. I hate you for putting me in this position. You’ve turned me into your accomplice, in murder and too many other crimes to count . . . You know, when I was a kid in the academy, I knew the temptations I’d have to face on the job. I took a vow to myself, way back then, that whatever else, Ed Cronin would never be corrupted.
“But now, look at me. I’m corrupt. Because of you, I’m breaking that vow and my oath. And I honestly don’t know how I live with this. I don’t know how I can look my kids in the eye. Especially when they tell me how proud they are of their dad. Now I have to worry for the rest of my life that someday they’ll find out their old man sold out his principles. And for what? To protect a serial killer. Because technically, that’s what you are. You feel proud of yourself, Hunter?”
He didn’t answer.
“Your father still alive?” Cronin demanded.
He felt his jaw tighten.
“No.”
“Lucky him! Lucky for my father, too, because he’s also dead. Thank God they didn’t live to see how their sons turned out. They don’t have to wonder where they went wrong.”
“Ed—”
“It’s Detective Cronin!”
“Right. Sorry. Detective—whatever else you may be right about in what you just said, you’re d
ead wrong about one thing. That you’re corrupt. You’re not.”
“Right.” It sounded like a growl.
“I mean it. And here’s the proof: No truly corrupt man would care so much about losing his integrity.”
Cronin blinked. Hunter went on.
“You may not believe me, or care, but I know exactly what you’re going through. Whatever you think of me, don’t be hard on yourself. It’s a morally impossible situation. There are no good options. A good man can only choose the one he thinks is least bad. As for your kids—”
Cronin launched himself across the table at Hunter, grabbed the front of his shirt, and fired a hard right into his face.
Hunter made no effort to block it; he just turned his head slightly so that Cronin’s fist smashed into his left cheek. The shock of the powerful punch stunned him; he felt himself toppling off the chair, onto the floor. His head was spinning as he lifted it and turned his blurred gaze at Cronin.
The detective had come around to loom over him, fists clenched, shaking, blinking rapidly to clear the tears forming in his eyes. He pointed an accusing finger.
“Don’t you dare mention my kids! Or talk to me about integrity! How can you live with yourself? How can you do this to your girlfriend?”
Ed Cronin stood there, torment on his face.
Then spun and stalked out of the room.
Hunter lowered his aching head to his forearm.
Closed his eyes.
Thought about what Cronin had said.
Remained there, on the cold hard floor, not moving for a long time.
FIFTY
Garrett met the two of them in the director’s conference room. This time, alone.
Houk was in his chair at the head of the long, empty table. Burroughs was at his right.
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 52
