BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Oh, yeah. I remember. You … you were nice to my mom.”

  “Is she home right now?”

  “Sure. I’ll get her.”

  The boy led him into the living room, then left. He stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, taking in the photos on the walls and the top of their piano. Family photos. Images of love and vacation fun. Ghosts from happy days, gone forever …

  She entered the room so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. He turned to face her.

  Sharon Silva had lost even more weight. The pretty blonde from the photos around him had become almost unrecognizable. She wore no makeup and looked emaciated—cheeks sunken, eyes too prominent, stick-like limbs protruding from her blouse and skirt. He wondered how long it had been since she had eaten a full meal.

  “You’re the reporter.”

  “Yes. Dylan Hunter … I have some news for you, Mrs. Silva.” He gestured to the sofa. “May we sit down?”

  She followed him obediently and sat. Clasped her hands in her lap. Looked at him without curiosity, almost abstractly. Waiting for him to say something.

  “Mrs. Silva … when I met you not long ago, I made you a promise. Do you remember? I promised to find out who did this to your husband. And to make them pay.”

  She blinked. Something seemed to stir in her.

  He went on.

  “Please don’t ask me how I know what I’m about to tell you. Not even the police know—at least not yet. But I want you to know … Mrs. Silva, I did find the men who were responsible. Two men. Their names are Zachariah Boggs and Rusty Nash.” He paused. “And I came here to tell you that they have paid, Mrs. Silva … The two men who killed your Adam are now dead.”

  She sat completely still, not blinking, her blue eyes frozen on his. For the second time, he watched those eyes fill. She began to tremble. He slid closer to her.

  Let her collapse into his arms.

  He heard something and looked up. Martin and Naomi stood in the entranceway of the living room, tears streaming down their faces. They had heard, too.

  He tried to imagine the grief of these two kids losing their dad.

  Then thought of Big Mike …

  Hunter held out his hand toward them.

  They hesitated. Naomi came forward first. She knelt at their feet and hugged her mother.

  Then Martin joined them.

  Hunter sat in their midst, embracing them all in the circle of his arms. Held them as they sobbed. He sat still, trying hard to remain in control, trying very hard to stay up there, in his cold, high place … Trying …

  And failing.

  The digital clock on the roll top desk in the corner read 11:14 p.m.

  Ashton Conn took another swallow of bourbon as the disastrous images flickered on the big-screen TV in his den. All day he just hadn’t been able to tear himself away from the cable news. He kept changing channels obsessively, flipping between Fox News and CNN, then over to CNBC, finding no solace anywhere.

  Over the past twenty-four hours, things had only gone from bad to worse. The demolition of Capital Resources had been bad enough, but that was dwarfed by the hit on his CarboNot stock. Almost all his assets had been tied up between the two companies. The simultaneous attack on both had just about ruined him.

  And it was a deliberate attack. That was obvious, now. A highly coordinated attack, very sophisticated, conducted in sequence. First, Capital Resources. Then the run on the CarboNot stock—with somebody giving out fake phone numbers, to make sure that none of them could reach Robin in time to sell and avoid crushing losses. Then the attacks on Gavin’s boat, Avery’s jet, Jon Weaver’s summer home—with the attackers canceling the property insurance in advance.

  Then the bomb at CarboNot. And the bomb sent to him …

  It had been too much for Emmalee, especially the bomb sent here. They’d had a big fight after that, and she stormed out. She still hadn’t returned …

  Well, the bitch was the least of his worries.

  Most immediately, there was the money. He had to tell Barry to send most of the security detail packing. Scary though it was with Boggs still out there somewhere, he could no longer afford full-time protection from a first-rate outfit like Public Security LLC. Now he was down to only two bodyguards: Barry at the driveway gate, and another guy patrolling the grounds. He could only hope they’d be enough.

  Most importantly, though, there were the long-term political implications. Those were even more ominous. He sensed that Avery was getting cold feet about his candidacy, now. The articles had revealed nothing criminal, exactly, but things just didn’t smell right—especially Conn’s links to Capital Resources. Prior to the newspaper articles, nobody, Avery included, had known about his involvement with the company. Not that it was anyone else’s business. Capital Resources was a side investment, a way for him to capitalize on the anti-fracking campaign. What was so wrong with that? Why shouldn’t he benefit a little from all his hard work to stop that rapacious industry in its tracks?

  He saw that his glass was nearly empty. He poured some more of the amber liquid from the bottle on the nearby tray, and tried once again to figure out who was out to get them all.

  The bombs had to be from Boggs. They bore his stylistic signatures. And after their confrontation Monday night, Boggs had every reason to go after him and Sloan. But he couldn’t have pulled off all the rest of this—not in a million years. Whoever put this complicated scheme together had to have high-tech resources and a team of specialists.

  Conn pressed the remote button, switching from CNBC’s stock futures report back to CNN. They were running a commercial. He got up and began to pace, glass in one hand, remote in the other.

  Everything had been proceeding swimmingly until that Hunter prick started going after them, painting big fat targets on their backs. His articles instigated much of this; some of his columns were even turning up at the vandalism scenes …

  He stopped pacing. Just like during those vigilante killings last year. Hunter articles had been found at those crime scenes, too … Well, copycats obviously loved that idea and had adopted it … though it did seem strange that it was always Hunter’s columns …

  His eyes drifted over to the CNN news crawl and spotted the words Allegheny Forest. He frowned and moved closer to read the rest of the words marching across the bottom of the screen. Saw that somebody had just gotten stabbed up there in the woods.

  He raised the glass to his lips when the name of the victim drifted into view.

  … Russell “Rusty” Nash, 49, of Nashville, Tennessee …

  He lowered his glass, returned to the recliner, and sat down heavily.

  He knew who Rusty Nash was. Boggs had mentioned him many times: his best friend, his right-hand man …

  What in hell was going on here?

  Dressed in black, Hunter slipped like a wraith through the trees and shadows of Conn’s sprawling yard, heading back down the slope toward the street. Vaulting the rail fence again, he jogged back to where his van was parked on the side of the road. He unlocked and entered its rear, used a towel to wipe the grime from his hands, then quickly changed back into casual street clothes.

  It was time now to end this.

  He picked up a burner and dialed Conn’s number.

  No one answered. He tried again.

  It took four tries before he heard Conn’s voice.

  “Who is calling this number, and at this hour?”

  “It’s Dylan Hunter, Senator. And I’ve just had a long, informative chat with your pal, Zachariah Boggs.”

  Ten seconds passed before Conn spoke again.

  “Did you say Boggs? Isn’t he that crazy ecoterrorist?”

  “That’s a strange way to describe a man who told me he’s your bosom buddy.”

  “What? Is this some kind of joke? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “I’d love to tell you all about it, Senator—and especially hear what you have to say. Maybe Boggs was lying to me. Maybe yo
u have a simple explanation that will prevent me from writing about this.”

  Ten more seconds of silence.

  “If that criminal claimed to know me, you’re damned right he’s lying. But of course: I’ll be happy to talk to you. The last thing I need is to have you spreading more ugly rumors about me. I’ll have my assistant schedule an appointment with—”

  “I’m afraid I’m on a very tight deadline, Senator. My editor needs my next piece late tomorrow morning. I happen to be just a minute or two from your home. Do you mind if I stop by now?”

  “Right now? … Well, all right. I’ll tell my security officer down at the gate to let you in.”

  Hunter smiled to himself and turned over the ignition.

  Three minutes later he was seated across from Ashton Conn in his den. He pulled a recorder out of his sports jacket.

  “Mind if we go on the record?”

  “Yes, I do mind, until you tell me what this nonsense is all about. Then I shall be happy to give you a statement for the record.”

  Hunter shrugged and put it away. “Fair enough. Anyway, I got this phone call today. The caller identified himself as Boggs, and from the details he gave me, I believe him. He had quite a tale to tell, too. He told me everything about the two of you, Senator. Your whole history together, from back in college. How you were allies, from your earliest—”

  “What?”

  “How he actually was the Technobomber. How you helped him cover up his acts of terrorism by framing an innocent student for the crimes. How you conspired to commit other crimes ever since—including the recent murder of Dr. Adam Silva.”

  Conn leaped to his feet.

  “That’s outrageous! That’s insane! I didn’t kill Silva—or anyone else!”

  “I have good reasons to believe otherwise.”

  “Bullshit! You can’t prove that I had anything to do with Boggs, let alone—”

  “What if I were to tell you he gave me a taped confession?”

  “That’s hearsay! From a criminal, a killer, no less. I suspect that he even tried to kill me with that bomb that was sent here.”

  “And with good reason. You betrayed him. Just as you betrayed your alleged cause. You’re good at double-crossing people and betraying principles, Conn—but Boggs was too stupid to see it. He believed what he wanted to believe about you. Because you gave him a narrative he wanted to believe. The same narrative that millions have bought into, for thousands of years. The myth of Eden. The myth of the lost Golden Age. The ancient fairy tale of evil humans corrupting a perfect, primitive past.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have to listen to this! I can’t believe you’d come here to—”

  “Boggs used that narrative as his rationalization for killing and destruction. You’ve used it as a tool of manipulation—and as a rationalization for your ruthless climb to political power.”

  Conn stomped across the room and stood over him. His eyes were narrowed slits in his fleshy face.

  “If you dare print such libelous accusations, I shall initiate a lawsuit that will shut down your goddamned newspaper and end your career!”

  Hunter sat back, crossed his legs, and continued as if Conn had never spoken.

  “You’ve paved your career path over anyone who got in your way. Over the property owners your company plundered in Pennsylvania. Over former allies, like Boggs. Over the dead bodies of good people—like Adam Silva.”

  “Get out of my house!”

  “You conspired with Boggs to kill Silva. In fact, you used Boggs for years to do your dirty work for you. Mainly so that you could continue to pretend to yourself that your hands were clean.”

  Conn was sweating and breathing hard. “I said, get out!”

  “But your hands aren’t clean. He couldn’t have done those things without your help. You were the sponsor of a killer. And that makes you a killer, too, Conn. A disgrace to your current office—and someone far too dangerous to allow to seek the presidency.”

  “My right to seek the presidency is not yours to decide!”

  Hunter stood. Stepped in close, inches from Conn’s face.

  “Adam Silva’s right to go on living was not yours to decide—you bastard.”

  Conn took an uneasy step back.

  “You have nothing on me! Nothing but the word of a lunatic killer.”

  “Also his girlfriend, Dawn Ferine. She saw you two talking and heard what you said.”

  “Her? Another mental case?” He barked out a laugh. “You’ve got nothing. Not a thing that can stand up in a court of law. There’s no independent evidence, is there? Is there?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Alas, that is true.”

  “Of course there isn’t! Because it doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh, it exists. I just have to find it. Then write about it. Then perhaps leave my published articles at the scenes of your crimes … as I usually do.”

  Conn stared at him. His mouth hung open.

  “My God,” he said softly. “You’re the one. The one they’ve been looking for. Aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Hunter smiled. “Whatever could you possibly be referring to?”

  Conn shook his head slowly. “Well, well. Things make perfect sense, now.”

  “Things always do.”

  “Well, you won’t get away with it!” he shouted. “Now that I know, I’ll make it my personal mission to bring you down, you son of a bitch. To put you behind bars, where you belong. I’ll hire detectives to follow you—no, better: I’ll put federal agencies onto you. I am going to bury you, Hunter.”

  “Gee, I certainly wouldn’t want any of that. But two can play at that game. For instance, there are the wiretap recordings I have from your phone calls. In fact, I have an interview scheduled tomorrow morning with Avery Trammel, who is on some of those recorded phone chats with you. It will be interesting to match his story against yours. You know, I think you should call him right away—get together with him tonight to get your stories straight … before I go to press tomorrow morning. Have a nice evening, Senator.”

  He turned on his heel and headed for the door, leaving Conn standing with his mouth open.

  He walked to his van, which he’d parked behind Conn’s Bentley. He rolled out past it, then coasted down the long drive to the gate. Waited while the security man opened it. Then exited, turned down the street … and parked again, about fifty yards away.

  Hunter left the car. A pair of binoculars swung from a strap around his neck as he trotted back toward the gate in the darkness. He stopped about a hundred feet from it, hiding in the shadows of some trees. Then raised the binoculars to his eyes.

  Conn was visible through the window of his den, a phone to his ear, gesturing wildly. He was on the call for less than a minute before rushing out of the room.

  Hunter smiled to himself and lowered the binoculars, letting them hang on their strap.

  Then he retrieved two burner phones from his jacket pockets, and held one in each hand.

  After a moment, Conn emerged from the front door, struggling into an overcoat. He clambered down the steps and hurried to the Bentley.

  Hunter heard the engine rev. Just as the car began to roll forward, he hit a speed-dial button on the cell in his left hand. It was spoofing Trammel’s cell number.

  “Yes, Avery?” Conn answered.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention, Senator: Boggs is dead. I know, because I killed him. I killed him for leaving a bomb in my cabin, and a much bigger one in Dan Adair’s house. It’s only fitting that I return those bombs to his sponsor, now. In fact, they’re inside and underneath your car.”

  He thumbed a speed-dial button on the cell in his right hand as he said:

  “Senator—you’re unsustainable.”

  He saw the brake lights flare in the dark at the top of the driveway. The Bentley had almost squealed to a halt when a dazzling blue flash lit its interior, blasting out its windows. An enormous detonation followed an instant later, this time fr
om beneath the vehicle. It blew the sedan skyward, riding a blinding column of orange-white flame into the black sky, then flipped it in mid-air. As the thundering blast shook the ground and echoed throughout the neighborhood, the Bentley plunged back to earth and landed on its roof, sliding down the ice-slicked grass to rest against the flagpole in Ashton Conn’s perfectly manicured front lawn.

  The American flag waved brightly above the blazing vehicle.

  Hunter trotted back to the van. He drove slowly back past the gate. Near the top of the hill, the two security men stood transfixed, dark silhouettes against the inferno.

  He lowered the window as he rolled by. Opened the small plastic bag in his hand, and dumped Zachariah Boggs’s smartphone next to the mailbox outside the gate.

  Then Dylan Hunter headed home.

  FORTY-ONE

  He entered the reception area just before ten in the morning and approached her desk.

  “Hi, Danika.”

  She looked up. A radiant smile blossomed.

  “Hell-o, Mr. Hunter!” Then frowned. “My, you look as tired as you sounded when I called you this morning.”

  “I’ve been up late working on that CarboNot story. I have to submit a new article later today.”

  Danika rocked back in her chair. She wore a smile, plus a snug, cream-colored sheath dress in what looked like satin, cut low at the top and high at the bottom. The smile seemed bigger than the dress. Her dark, sculpted thighs were crossed, and she bounced the top leg rhythmically, from the knee. A beige shoe with a spiked heel dangled only from her toes, swinging hypnotically.

  “I read your latest article,” she said. “It made me so mad! I just can’t believe the stuff that goes on in this town.”

  “Believe it,” he said. “Are my two police guests here, yet?”

  “In room 8. But just one,” she said, her smile taking on a dreamy quality. “Detective Cronin.”

  He chuckled. “Danika … remember Melvin?”

  She pouted. “Oh. Yeah.”

  Cronin surprised him. He was seated behind the office desk, leaning back in the swivel chair, his fingers steepled.