WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  He chuckled to himself. It sounded as hollow as it felt.

  “But you know something? I could see that Lasher didn’t understand, or care, or believe me. Because that wasn’t his story about himself. He was living in his own fairy tale—the one where he had cast himself as a ‘winner,’ in a world where ‘winning’ doesn’t mean creating and gaining good things for yourself—but instead means beating and defeating and dominating other people, and depriving them of what they have. So as I told him about his crimes, I suddenly realized he didn’t think they were crimes at all. In his story, his victims all had it coming to them. They were losers, and he was the winner, and that was that.

  “I could see in his eyes that my litany of his crimes had zero impact on him—even though I wanted it to. Because I wanted him to understand why I was punishing him. But he was beyond understanding. Because it didn’t fit his narrative, the one where he was the hero. He simply couldn’t fathom why I was hurting him and just wanted it to stop.”

  “How you do go on,” Trammel sneered. He was trying to rally from his fear, to reassert himself. “I suppose there is some grand point to what you are blathering about.”

  Hunter grunted. “See? That’s exactly my point. None of what I just said fits your narrative. In your story, Avery Trammel is the avenging angel, righting all the wrongs committed against his heroic parents and himself.”

  He paused to consider the vicious nihilist posturing before him.

  “Trammel, I came here tonight intending to tell you what a monster you are, to make it so clear that you’d understand why I came to kill you. But after my experience with Lasher, I realize the futility of explaining. So instead, I just have to do it.”

  Trammel’s condescending expression eroded as Hunter reached into the paper bag he had brought from the van.

  He gently lifted out the head of the doll. The one with the long, jagged metal shard in its face.

  He held it up in the halo of light.

  “I’m not saying this for you. I’m saying it for me. Because my own moral clarity requires it. That truck bombing you arranged in D.C.? Just before the bomb went off, I encountered a lovely young mother and her adorable baby girl. The woman’s name was Patricia Wright. Her little girl was named Allison. They were young, happy, and full of life before your bomb blew them to pieces. They left behind a grieving husband and another grieving child, a little boy.

  “And that baby girl, Ally, was carrying this doll. Besides pieces of themselves, your bomb left behind pieces of this doll.”

  He slowly pulled out the metal spike from the doll’s head. By now he was sure Trammel noticed he was wearing gloves. He placed the doll’s head gently back into the bag. Set the bag gently onto the desk.

  He gripped the spike like a knife.

  “Avery Trammel, you left this thing in Ally’s doll,” he said, walking around the desk. “I’m here tonight to give it back.”

  Dylan Hunter took no satisfaction or pleasure in what he did then to Avery Trammel. In the years to come, he would feel only a small measure of relief from the agony of remembering the little girl with the golden curls who waved the doll at him.

  9

  He carried the lantern to the basement and walked toward the boxy structure she had described. Drawing closer, he saw the shattered window and glass fragments on the floor. Alarmed, he ran to the door and knocked.

  “Julia! Julia, it’s Dylan Hunter! Are you there?”

  He heard the noise of bolts being thrown.

  Then the door was open and she stood there. Looking as if she had endured a long ordeal. Looking as if she had aged ten years in a week.

  “Are you all right?” he said softly, not knowing whether to approach her.

  She shook her head slowly. Raised her hand to her mouth.

  “I’ll never be all right.”

  He shut off the jammer and phoned Garrett, who was on his way with a couple of “cleaners,” plus some appropriate stagecraft items they had discussed by phone.

  “Bring some food, too. And hot coffee, tea, whatever.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  “It’s for her.”

  Hunter assured Julia he’d stay with her till they arrived. Then he’d have to go outside and retrieve all the items he’d used in the assault.

  They sat waiting in the now-unnerving silence of the drawing room. Faces of Roman warriors on ancient battlefields looked down upon them from the huge paintings on the walls. The faint odor of gunpowder hung in the air.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he,” she said, her voice flat.

  He nodded, glancing at his hands, hoping he had washed them fully.

  “You did it, didn’t you.”

  He held her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Did you have to?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why do you get to make decisions like that?”

  “It’s a question I ask myself every day.”

  “And you can live with yourself?”

  “So far.”

  “What am I supposed to tell the police, then?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, Julia.”

  “Do you want me to tell them the truth?”

  “About what?”

  “About all of it.”

  “I think you should ask my friend Grant that. He may have things to say about some of it.”

  “About you, then. Should I tell them what you did?”

  “I can’t answer that for you.”

  “How am I supposed to answer it?”

  He offered a little smile.

  “Ask yourself how you can live with yourself afterward.”

  FORTY-NINE

  At the gatehouse, Cronin badged his way past the yellow tape and perimeter cops and into the estate, using his D.C. Vigilante Task Force affiliation. Almost nobody knew what the task force’s authority or reach was, so its credentials usually allowed him to Pass Go and Collect Two Hundred Dollars.

  He hiked in to the mansion and first approached the people standing around out front. He talked to some CSIs who told him about the five stiffs they’d found out back, and the one upstairs in the house, who was Trammel.

  A sergeant from the Virginia State Police told him they’d found a guard hogtied in the gatehouse, babbling about a Russian mob hit. The cars in the garage had been disabled to prevent anyone from escaping. And they’d found traces of drugs in Trammel’s open office safe. So, at least at first glance, it looked like an epic drug gang battle, like they have south of the border. Maybe a cartel turf war.

  “But isn’t this Trammel a billionaire investor?” Cronin asked.

  The grizzled veteran rolled his eyes and nodded toward the mansion. “How the hell you think anybody gets this rich, anyway?”

  Cronin nodded. But of course a drug war made no sense, not in this case, not from what he had read and heard about Avery Trammel. And his wife was a famous actress.

  Yet only recently he had investigated another hit on a fortified place, where a single man was able to defeat a different group of armed men.

  Cronin stood near the central fountain, hands on hips, incredulous at the apparent sophistication of the assault and related weaponry and technology involved. Then he overheard a group of detectives talking about a body just found in the pond out back.

  He hoofed it around the massive house, past knots of techs and cops hovering over bodies scattered around the giant lawn, out to where they’d set up lights near a gazebo sitting in the middle of a substantial pond. At the pond’s edge, the body had been laid out on a white plastic sheet. A big blond guy in black. His arms and legs were twisted and bent in all the wrong places, and somebody had beat the shit out of his face.

  Cronin approached a detective squatting over the corpse.

  “Looks like a broken arm and leg,” he ventured to the cop.

  “Both arms, both legs. And look at his face. Busted jaw, looks like. No apparent fatal wounds, though. So I’m thinking, whoever did this to him dumped him in he
re afterward while he was still alive. Drowned him like a rat.”

  “Damn,” Cronin said, bending close. “This dude looks too big and tough to take this kind of beating.”

  “Somebody’s always bigger and tougher,” the detective responded, not bothering to look up.

  Cronin suddenly remembered Orlando Navarro. A massive bodybuilder and gangbanger, also taken apart by somebody late last November. Fractured skull, snapped elbow, crushed throat. Next to his body, his dead Doberman—whose neck had been broken.

  The vigilante had done that, then left behind a Dylan Hunter newspaper clipping on Navarro’s body.

  Cronin straightened. Looked down at the stiff.

  Knew the same vigilante had done this, too.

  Entering the mansion, he paused to admire the interior. Then shook it off, knowing vast wealth hadn’t been enough to protect its owner. He trotted up the spectacular staircase, following the sound of voices. He turned left down a hallway, where two uniforms stood talking. Hearing more voices beyond, he followed them into a business office, then farther on, into an interior office.

  He recognized Julia Haight, the actress, instantly. She sat on a small leather couch in the middle of the room, absolutely still and staring blankly into space. Two suits stood nearby, speaking to each other, not her. One had Lead Investigator written all over his face and manner. Cronin approached and introduced himself. They stepped away from the woman and lowered their voices.

  “Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? And what’s this got to do with your investigation?” The guy was a Lieutenant Edwards, Virginia SP, Homicide.

  “Trammel also lives and does business in D.C. A few months ago, somebody we think is with the vigilantes blew up his jet at Dulles, left one of their signature calling cards at the scene.”

  “No shit. Hey, right, I think I remember reading about that. So you think they did this?”

  Cronin shrugged. “Won’t know till we see the evidence, talk to witnesses. So where’s Trammel’s body?”

  “Over there—behind his desk, under a sheet.” He gestured to the actress. “Naturally, we didn’t let her see that. But she wanted to come in here. Said she needed to ‘experience his office’ and try to understand what happened.”

  “She see anything that happened?”

  “She says no. Says she was hiding out in the basement. She really hasn’t said much at all. At least she hasn’t asked for her attorney, though. I think she’s close to being in shock. We were about to call the EMTs over to take look at her, maybe transport her to a hospital.”

  “Can you give me a few minutes with her first? Alone? Maybe with a little quiet, she’ll open up.”

  The guy thought about it for a few seconds.

  “I suppose so. But she tells you anything, play nice and share—okay?”

  “Happy to.”

  Edwards moved the investigators away, gave them some space. Cronin sat across from Julia Haight. From a distance, she had still looked like the famous, flawless babe in the movies. Up close, though, he could see the strain and shock on her face. It made her look a lot older. Maybe she was.

  He introduced himself, talking quietly and gently. Her eyes blinked, and her head turned his way.

  “You say you’re with the vigilante investigators?” The familiar voice sounded empty.

  “That’s right. Listen, I know you’ve been through a horrible experience, but maybe you can help us.”

  “I already told them. When everything went dark and the shooting started, Avery made me go hide in our panic room, down in our basement. I locked myself inside. I had battery power there, but my cell couldn’t get a signal. So I couldn’t see anything. Or call anyone. Then somebody tried to get in and shot at the window. I was too afraid to come out, even when the shooting stopped. Not for a long time.”

  “Do you have any idea what this might have been about?”

  “Not until the detectives told me they found drugs over there, spilled inside his safe, along with money. Now it all makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My husband—he had all these tough-looking Russian guys working here. I never understood it. He said they were for security. That being wealthy, he had been threatened. But now I think I understand. They were all involved with drugs, I guess. Smuggling. I’ve read about Russian cartels. That’s probably why he had the panic room installed.” Her voice caught. “I . . . just can’t believe he was involved in drugs . . . I mean, I can—but I can’t. It does explain all his secrecy, the mysterious, sudden travels. And the Russian guards and their guns.”

  She began to stare into the distance again, eyes unfocusing, slightly shaking her head, over and over.

  “So you didn’t know anything about that? Or suspect anything? How’s that possible?”

  Life came to her face. She looked back at him, indignant.

  “My God! I had no idea! Avery’s business interests kept him traveling constantly. I never knew what his deals were about, it was all too complicated. And he was a very private man. He never explained anything.” She look down and shuddered. “Now I know why.”

  Cronin kept watching her, nodding in sympathy. But none of this made any sense.

  He reminded himself that this woman was one of the greatest actresses in the world.

  Knowing he might not get another shot at her, he decided he had nothing to lose. He got up and moved to sit beside her on the small couch.

  It shocked her, as he knew it would. She shifted away. He leaned in.

  “Listen, Miss Haight,” he said softly, to keep her calm and so no one around them could hear. “I’m going to be straight with you.”

  He swept his hand around the demolished office.

  “I’m not buying this. This whole ‘drug cartel’ scenario.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  His eyes drilled into hers. He added an edge to his quiet voice.

  “Because I have another theory that fits a whole lot better. I told you I’m with the Vigilante Task Force. I’ve been following somebody for months. A killer who takes out people he thinks are bad guys. And to tell you the truth, they are. I’ve been to all the crime scenes, including one up in Baltimore not long ago. You know what? This looks a lot like that.”

  She broke eye contact and looked away. Her mouth tightened.

  Which told him he was on the right track. She was hiding something.

  “I don’t want you to say anything right now,” he said, making his voice less harsh again, more sympathetic. “Just listen. I know you’ve been through hell. But I don’t think that started tonight. And I think you know the truth about what happened here, and I don’t think it was about drugs. I’m betting something like this happened. Your husband is a—was a very rich and powerful man, involved in politics at a very high level. And—sorry—but I suspect he was up to no good. Something really bad, really serious, or else the vigilante wouldn’t have targeted him.”

  Her face remained averted from him, eyes looking rigidly forward. But even from the side, he could see her eyes narrow, her jaw set. She was closing up fast.

  He had to gamble.

  “Miss Haight—do you know Dylan Hunter?”

  She was good. If he hadn’t gotten this close, he would have missed it. But he watched the flicker of shock pass across her features like a small wave.

  “You do, don’t you.”

  Not a question. She didn’t respond or protest.

  Keep talking.

  “Okay, here’s what I know. Hunter has been investigating your husband for illegal stuff involving the election. I read his articles about it. Mr. Trammel was apparently pouring money into the Spencer campaign in ways he shouldn’t. And something else, something really, really serious had to be at stake or going on, too.”

  Great actress or not, she couldn’t stop herself from turning pale.

  Time for a Hail Mary.

  “I want to tell you something confidentially. I have been investigating
Hunter for a long time,” he said softly. “You’ve probably read or heard that nobody knows anything about his background. But I do know several things about him. I know he has an obsession with justice. I know he is capable of violence—and that he’s very skilled at it, because he killed a man who was also extremely skilled at violence. And you know what else, Miss Haight? I know damned well that Dylan Hunter is the vigilante we’ve been looking for.”

  She pressed her lips in a tighter line.

  Yes.

  “Here are a few other things I know about him. He has a code, his own code of honor. He won’t hurt anyone who hasn’t hurt someone else first. And he won’t kill anyone except people who have been involved in committing murder.”

  Her eyes closed.

  “Miss Haight, here is what I think happened tonight. I think Dylan Hunter came here and did all this—then arranged the scene to look like something else. Like something involving drugs. I also don’t think you were hiding in your safe room. I think you were here, at least long enough to see him. Maybe you even saw him kill your husband. And if he did that, it was because he believed your husband was involved in murder.”

  Her shoulders quivered.

  “Miss Haight, I want to promise you something— something none of these other cops here will promise. I absolutely promise you that anything you tell me will go no farther than my ears. That is my solemn promise, on my wife and kids’ heads. I don’t want to bring down Mr. Hunter. I don’t want him in a cell. I just want him to stop.”

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye and crawled down her cheek.

  “Please look at me, Miss Haight.”

  It took a few seconds. Her eyelids fluttered, and more tears fell. But she turned to face him.

  “Thank you. Here,” he said, offering his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes with it.