“See this face? I want you to remember it in your nightmares. Because someday, it’ll be the last face you’ll ever see.”
*
The three of them sat in a small diner on the outskirts of Claibourne, the old-fashioned kind that looked like a railroad car parked on the side of the highway. She and Susie faced Dylan Hunter on the opposite side of the booth. Annie suspected that he was hungry, but since they were only having hot tea, he stuck to coffee.
“You actually spoke to him, then,” Susie said.
“Briefly.”
“What did you say to him?”
He took a sip from his mug. “Enough.”
Annie studied him more closely. His was a masculine face, not pretty-boy handsome, but rough-handsome. Skin creased and slightly weathered, as if he spent his years outdoors. Deep-set eyes, constantly on the move, seeming to miss nothing. Cleft chin, broad nose, thick tangle of dark brown hair. She thought she saw a thin, faint scar along his jawline. He looked more like a prizefighter than a reporter.
Those eyes caught her watching him; she lowered her gaze to her teacup.
“You think it was all some kind of ruse, then.”
“Yes, Susanne, I do.”
“What could he possibly hope to gain?”
He shrugged. “Virginia abolished parole years ago. So he can’t be trying to suck up to the parole board. But his plea bargain minimized the time he’ll stay behind bars.”
Susie looked down. “I suppose you wonder why I agreed to that.”
“None of my business.”
“Well, I want to tell you, anyway. It wasn’t so much the ordeal of testifying in court. Yes, I knew it would be hard to face my friends and co-workers if they had all of those…images in their minds. But that wasn’t the biggest thing. It was mostly for Arthur’s sake. He was having so much trouble with it. I couldn’t bear the thought of forcing him to relive it in court.”
“I understand.”
“And when their lawyers made it clear that they would really go after us at trial-well, I told the Commonwealth Attorney’s office I wouldn’t fight a plea deal. Not as long as they’d be convicted of a sex crime of some sort. I wanted them branded as sex criminals, with their names in a registry. So that other people would be warned that they’re predators.”
“You figured that if they were convicted for sex crimes, they’d be gone for a long time.”
“I still don’t understand why not.”
Dylan took another sip, put down the mug. Spread his big hands on the paper placemat. “From what I’ve been able to figure out, Wulfe initially was charged with rape and conspiracy to commit a felony. But because he didn’t actually assault you-”
“Only because the cops got there in time,” Annie interrupted.
“Only because. So they charged him with ‘attempt to commit rape.’ In this state, that’s a Class 4 felony-which means he was eligible for a two-to-ten-year sentence. The conspiracy charge could’ve added another year or so behind bars. But by the terms of the plea deal, the judge ordered the two sentences to run concurrently, not consecutively.”
“So, their conspiracy-their gang attack-added nothing, then?” Annie demanded.
“I’m afraid not. Wulfe received just a little over three years. But with all these early-release programs, who knows what that really means?”
“What about the other two?” Susie asked.
“When they attacked you, Bracey and Valenti were still juveniles, if only by a few months. Still, because of the seriousness of the charges, they were indicted in circuit court. They could have been convicted and sentenced as adults. But again, the plea bargains changed all that. They bounced those two back to the juvie system. Which, as we know, is a joke. Since they didn’t have any serious previous convictions, they were eligible for shorter sentences.”
“Even though we know they probably both committed murders in the past?”
“Even though.”
“That’s crazy!”
“Crazy. And immoral. Because our so-called justice system has nothing to do with justice.”
“So what happens to Bracey and Valenti now?”
Annie thought something moved in his eyes.
“They were in sex-offender ‘therapy’ in the juvenile correction centers. Then they were transferred to a ‘community-based alternative’ in Alexandria called Youth Horizons. It is a group home in a residential neighborhood. When I wrote my article last week, I thought these guys were still living there, locked up.”
“They’re not?” Susie looked shocked.
Dylan shook his head. “All they really have to do is show up each morning for four hours of counseling. In the afternoons, they’re released, supposedly to look for jobs. But at night, those two are out roaming the streets. You can thank the idiots promoting all these ‘alternatives to incarceration’ programs. They’re responsible for- Something wrong, Annie?”
She tried to cover her reaction. “Sorry. I, I just remembered-I have to visit someone tonight.”
“Anyway, next year, when they turn twenty-one, they can’t be held any longer. But I think they’ll be out even sooner, because they get months of ‘good behavior’ credits that shorten their sentences.”
“You’re telling me these animals will serve less than three years , then be back on the streets?”
“Susanne, I’m telling you they’re already back on the streets.”
She put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this. They took my Arthur forever, and they lose only three years of their lives.”
Dylan turned away and looked at the passing traffic.
“I appreciate your honesty. I wish the prosecutor had been this honest with me.”
They were silent for a moment. Then Susie spoke again. “Dylan, for a reporter, you’re unusually sympathetic to crime victims. I was thinking. I’d like to invite you to the next executive committee meeting of our Vigilance for Victims group. I think the members would like to meet you.”
He nodded immediately. “Susanne, I’d be honored.”
“You, too, Annie. I’ve been inviting you for months, and you haven’t shown up yet.”
“Well…when is it?”
“Wednesday night, 7:30. I know it’s short notice, but-”
“Works for me,” Hunter said, looking not at Susie, but at her.
“Sure,” she found herself saying, breaking eye contact. “I think I’m clear, too.”
“Great. It’s at our…it’s at my home just off Route 193, north of Tysons Corner. Annie knows where it is, but I’ll email you the directions. You’ll be glad you came. The people are wonderful. Inspiring. For me, they’ve meant so-”
“Excuse me,” Dylan said, pulling his ringing cell phone from a jacket pocket. “Yes?… Oh, Danika. Hi. Look, I’m tied up right now. Could I- What?”
His eyes widened, his lips parted. She exchanged glances with Susie.
“Sure… I understand… Listen, let the detective know I can meet him there about 4:30. Then call Bronowski back and tell him I’ll phone in about an hour, okay?… Thanks.”
He closed the phone. “Sorry for the interruption. That was my answering service. Considering what we’ve just been talking about, you’re not going to believe this.”
He pushed his cup and saucer aside, reached across the table and rested his hand on Susie’s. “Susanne, it seems that you have one less criminal to worry about. William Bracey has just been found shot dead.”
Her shoulders began to shake.
Then he was around the table, holding her close as she began to sob.
TWELVE
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 8, 4:40 p.m.
Dylan Hunter liked Ed Cronin’s face.
The Alexandria homicide investigator had a squarish jaw, a fringe of close-cropped blond hair, and blue eyes that sparked with intelligence. He looked to be in his mid-forties; beneath his blue sports jacket he seemed trim and athletic. Maybe a handball player or runner. One
of that minority of balding guys that women go for.
“I appreciate this, Mr. Hunter. I won’t take much of your time.”
“It’s okay, Sergeant Cronin. End of the workday. What can I do for you?”
“As I told your receptionist when I called, it’s about the murder of William Bracey.”
“Right. One of the trio I wrote about last week. I caught the news on the radio on my way here.”
“That’s the guy.”
“Well, I don’t think many people will lament his passing.”
Cronin smiled, the only editorial he would permit himself.
“But I put everything that I learned about the guy in the article. So if you’re looking for more information, I’m not sure I can help you.”
The detective leaned back in the guest chair. It didn’t creak as it had under the weight of its previous occupant. “Maybe you can. We found something unusual at the crime scene.”
He shut up. Waiting for him to fill the silence. The guy was good. But it would seem suspicious not to bite. “Unusual?”
Cronin reached into the large manila envelope he’d brought with him. Extracted a clear, zip-lock plastic bag and slid it across the desk toward him. He leaned over to look at it. Inside was a newspaper clipping with brownish spatters on it.
He looked up at his visitor. “You found this at the crime scene?”
Cronin nodded, watching him.
Hunter sat back, frowned, and spread his hands. “I don’t understand.”
Cronin stared at him for a moment. Then relaxed and sighed. “Neither do we, frankly. We can only speculate. Most likely thing is, somebody read your article, got royally pissed off, and decided to whack the guy. Then leave the clipping at the crime scene. As his justification.”
“You think my article motivated somebody to kill this guy?”
The detective shrugged. “Sure looks like it. From the way the crime scene was staged.”
“Staged?”
“Look, I tell you this, it’s not for public consumption, okay? I don’t want to read about it in the paper tomorrow.”
Hunter didn’t like it, but he raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, Bracey was shot lying in his bed. But that’s not where we found him. The perp, or perps, dragged him off the bed and perched him in a stuffed chair facing his front door. Then they positioned his hands on his lap. And they put your article in his hands. Like he was reading it.”
He blinked, his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”
“Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”
He stared at the cop. Then began to laugh.
Cronin smiled. “We thought it was funny, too.”
Hunter clapped several times. “Bravo! Somebody out there has a sense of-I don’t know, what would you call it?”
“Humor, for sure.”
“I was going to say ‘poetic justice,’ but that’s not quite right. And I don’t pretend my writing is poetic.”
“Whatever it is-between us, the guys in the department like it. We’re glad somebody’s saying this stuff, because we can’t. You know how it is.”
“I know exactly how it is.”
Cronin reached for the plastic evidence bag, returned it to the envelope. “No matter what I think about this privately, though, I have a job to do.”
“Of course. We can’t have killers walking the streets, now, can we?”
The cop caught the irony and chuckled. “No, of course not. Anyway, we’re doing the usual. Looking at Bracey’s associates, enemies. Checking out the families of his vics, to see if anybody might have gone over the edge. They’d probably have the most motive. We also talked to your editor, asked him for all the mail that came in about your article. Has anybody really upset contacted you privately about it? Mail, email, calls?”
Hunter looked off into space. “Not really. Certainly no one who sticks out as being unhinged.”
The detective got up, pulled out a business card, and left it on the desk. “Well, you let me know if anybody communicates with you that we should check out.”
Hunter walked with the detective back to the reception area. Danika looked up and smiled at them both.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Cronin turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Hunter, what you do, that’s already a big help. To everybody. Please keep it up.”
He held the man’s eyes. “Count on it.”
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 8, 7:30 p.m.
She turned off 16th onto a side street that curved back into an upscale residential neighborhood of northwest Washington. In a couple of blocks, she pulled into the driveway of a large, stately home. After turning off the ignition, she remained at the wheel a moment, steadying herself for the conversation to come. They’d had a few such conversations before. They never lasted long. They never got easier. And they never got anywhere.
Maybe this time.
She got out and walked up the tidy brick sidewalk that arced toward the front door. Even before she rang the bell, Gracie, the old Irish Setter, began to bark inside.
Kenneth MacLean peered through the arched window of the door, and a smile spread over his face. The door opened a few seconds later.
“Annie dear! What a lovely surprise.” He opened his arms and she returned his hearty hug.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Come, sit down.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the den. Gracie followed and Annie bent to pat her for a minute until, satisfied, the dog wandered off.
Paneled in dark oak, the room was a gentleman’s sanctuary from another era. The wall to the left was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. The wall opposite featured a massive stone fireplace. Family photos adorned the mantelpiece, and a few paintings surrounded the window on the far wall. It had been her favorite place in the house as a little girl. Curled up with a story book in one of the big club chairs, she felt a sense of security, stability, and permanence.
She had not felt that here for a long time. She tried to recapture it now, as she took one of the twin stuffed chairs facing the fire.
“Let me pour some wine, sweetie. You still like Shiraz?” She nodded. “Good. I have something here you might enjoy.” He fetched a half-filled Wedgewood decanter and two crystal glasses from a sideboard and brought them to the coffee table between her chair and his.
Looking at him as he poured the ruby liquid, she marveled at how well he had aged. In his youth, Kenneth Martin MacLean had movie-star good looks, a boyish grin, and thick, unruly hair that, on a woman, would be called strawberry blond. Back then, he cynically exploited those looks, aided and abetted by a fortune inherited from the family banking empire. The looks and money had allowed him every advantage of social status, including the ability to break most of society’s rules and get away with it.
But that was then, and then was long ago. Today he dressed unpretentiously in corduroy slacks and a cable-knit sweater, both dark brown. The clothes reflected the different man he was now: spiritual rather than materialistic, self-effacing rather than self-indulgent, idealistic rather than hedonistic. He was still a handsome man, though the once-boyish face was lined and drawn; he still sported a full head of hair, though the rusty waves were streaked with gray.
He offered her a glass, tapped his against hers in a wordless toast, and settled into his chair. They exchanged idle questions and answers about each other’s work. Then the conversation petered out. For a few minutes they sipped in silence, enjoying the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
He closed his eyes. “What brings you here, Annie?”
He can read me, of course. He knows something’s wrong.
“I had a tough day.”
He opened his eyes, looked at her. “Tell me.”
She did. She told him about the prison visit. About Susie’s confrontation with Wulfe. About the news of Bracey’s death. About their discovery of
Bracey’s and Valenti’s participation in the Youth Horizons program. For some reason, she found that she didn’t want to mention the presence of Dylan Hunter.
“Dad, I’m just trying to understand all these programs that you run. Like this Youth Horizons. All for the benefit of those- animals .”
“Animals?”
“Well, what would you call the likes of Wulfe and Bracey and Valenti? Give me a name for creatures that could do things like that to decent people like Susie and Arthur.”
He stared into his wine glass, swirling the contents; firelight flashed from the crystal facets. “I suppose I’d call them what our Lord and Savior called them: His children.” He looked over at her, smiling gently. “They’re human beings, Annie. Not animals. Tragically flawed human beings.”
“Dad, look. I know how much your faith means to you. And how strongly you feel about compassion, and mercy, and rehabilitation, and all that. Very nice, in the abstract. But it all boils down to one ugly reality: You’re talking about letting bad people off the hook. You’re helping bad people get away with their bad behavior.”
He drained the last of his wine, set the glass on the coffee table. “I just don’t accept your premise, Annie. People can change. Look at me: I was a hell-raiser as a kid. But I changed. Rehabilitation is possible. That’s why I don’t think there is such a thing as a truly ‘bad person.’ To varying degrees, all of us are just victims of bad circumstances. And sometimes, circumstances drive even very good people to do very bad things.”
“You mean that people aren’t responsible for what they do?”
“Well, if you put it that way, I suppose I’d have to say-no. Not ultimately.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me that Adrian Wulfe isn’t responsble for what he did to Susie and Arthur? That he was just driven against his will to rape her?”
He shook his head. “That’s overly simplistic. But I can’t presume to know what terrible influences in his past could have twisted his thinking and urges so terribly. It must have been awful, though. So I have to feel some compassion for the miserable little kid who grew up to be such an unhappy adult.”
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