HUNTER

by Bidinotto, Robert

  Then, amid the chaos, he noticed one point of calm.

  He saw her rise slowly from her chair. Then, just as slowly, scan the audience from one side of the room to the other.

  He knew the face she was looking for.

  He watched her move to her father. Kneel and hold him.

  After four minutes, he stopped the DVD. Closed the laptop and slid it back into the briefcase.

  Slipped on his tuxedo jacket, then his coat and gloves.

  When the police searched for Shane Stone, they would find only this empty room.

  When they checked for Wayne Grayson, they would find that he had paid for this with cash and prepaid, store-bought credit cards. All untraceable.

  When they examined the equipment he left behind, they would find nothing that would lead them anywhere, either.

  He paused at the open door to take one last look around.

  “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,” he said aloud.

  He closed the door behind him.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Wednesday, December 24, 10:47 p.m.

  He backed the BMW into its slot in the garage. Before leaving the car, he took a moment to strip off the fake goatee. He left the groceries in the trunk; he wouldn’t be long, and they’d keep a while. Gas and groceries had been the last items on his long mental checklist. Now, he and the cat would be able to cover some distance, then stay out of sight for a couple of weeks while the manhunt was most intense.

  He entered the elevator, pressed 9. The door hissed shut.

  As he ascended to his apartment, he considered once again what he was leaving behind.

  Then angrily dismissed it.

  It was all an illusion. A fantasy. Get over it.

  You were kidding yourself that you could ever have that kind of life. That kind of love. You never have. You never will. And you were an idiot to imagine that you could.

  The elevator door opened and he headed down the hallway toward his apartment.

  Now, to change out of this tux. Get Luna into the carrier—which won’t be fun. Dump her litter box and food into the garbage bag, seal it up. Grab that, her carrier, the bug-out bag, and you’re out of here.

  He stuck the key card in his lock and pushed open the door.

  “Hello, Dylan Lee Hunter,” she snapped. “Or should I say: Matthew Everett Malone?”

  *

  She stood in the foyer, arms crossed, feet apart. Still in her gown from the party.

  Eyes blazing. Cheeks livid.

  He stood still for a moment in the entrance, key in hand.

  Then took a step inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

  Well, well.

  “Hello, Annie Woods. Or should I say Ann MacLean of the CIA’s Office of Security?”

  She blinked, startled.

  “Oops. I’m sorry, but I just can’t quite keep up with you. You’re working for Garrett, now—aren’t you, Miss MacLean?”

  Shock replaced the fury in her eyes.

  “Oh yes. I know all about you,” he went on. “Although I must confess, you were way ahead of me. I only learned the truth over the past few days. But what a small world it is! Why, we shared the same employer. Then, I’m tricked into sleeping with the daughter of my worst enemy. Speaking of the devil, how’s Daddy feeling tonight?”

  She flared up again. “You bastard! You fake!” she shouted, trying to regain her advantage. “You’re a fraud and a liar—”

  “Oh please!” He spat the words out. “It’s not as if I’m the only liar here. Or even the biggest. In fact, I’m a rank amateur compared with you, Annie what’s-your-name. So: How long has the Agency been on to me? Months? Just how long have you been working to set me up?”

  The last words seemed to startle her.

  “I have to say, though, they did choose well in sending you after me.” He yanked off his overcoat and threw it at a wingback chair. “I never thought much of shrinks, but whichever one at Langley selected you deserves a raise. He obviously knew my type better than I did. Tell me: Did you enjoy your performance as the phony little seductress?”

  “That’s not true!” she gasped.

  “True? Who the hell are you to lecture me about truth? About trust?” A sadistic desire to hurt her was pulling him recklessly past some kind of inner barrier. “Hell, I’m no saint. For sure. Yes, I lied to you. Sure, I did. I lied to protect my life. But at least I never lied about the one thing that I thought really mattered between us: how I felt about you. But you took that and used it against me.”

  She was shaking her head slowly, eyes wide.

  “I know, I know: You were just doing it to protect Daddy, right?”

  “No! It wasn’t that!”

  “No? Well, what else, then? Money?”

  “How can you say—”

  “Who was it easier to betray me to: Cronin or Garrett? Were they in a bidding war for your services? Did they offer you bonuses for seducing me?”

  “Dylan!” She began to cry.

  But he was too furious now to stop. “No, seriously. You’re very good, you know. Did you undergo special physical training at the Farm for this little Mata Hari role?”

  “Dylan!” she screamed, sobbing. “Stop!.... Please stop!.... Please!”

  He stopped.

  She stumbled to the sofa, collapsed onto it, her face buried in her hands.

  He stared at her a long time.

  What is happening here?

  He went to the sink, drew some water in a paper cup, took it to her and offered it wordlessly. She took it, sipped, and looked up at him, shivering. The despair in her eyes could not be feigned.

  He sat in the chair across from her. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He saw every word of his cruelty etched in her face.

  What have I done?

  When he could trust his voice, he said:

  “We’ve both been living lies too long, Annie. We need to know what was real.”

  She looked at the floor a moment, then back into his eyes.

  “No. We need to know what is real.”

  TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

  Wednesday, December 24, 11:07 p.m.

  She gazed at their framed wedding portrait hanging above the fireplace, and she fought down the urge to cry again.

  She had told her friends that she didn’t want to go out and celebrate with them tonight, that she’d prefer to remain home by herself. They’d tried hard to convince her, even threatening to show up and visit her, anyway. But she was firm about it.

  She had to get used to her first Christmas without him.

  She hadn’t put up the tree or any decorations, nor had she displayed any of the many Christmas cards she’d received. There were several hundred this year, many more than they had ever received in years past. People were trying to be nice, they meant well. But their gestures of caring were still reminders. And reminders were painful.

  She had plenty of reminders here.

  She sat in her favorite chair in the living room, sipping a Coke. She had sworn off wine and any alcohol after that night, several years ago. And she had not been tempted even after Arthur’s death. She had seen what happened to people when they tried to numb pain and escape memories in booze. Not her.

  It had been so hard at first. Both times. Losing Arthur had been harder. But you took it one day at a time. She had learned the truth of the saying: “That which doesn’t kill you, strengthens you.” She felt herself a bit stronger each day, now.

  Her eyes roamed, taking in their furnishings, their framed prints, their hanging plants, their photos on the end tables. Their. She could accept that word. At first, she’d been tempted to redecorate. But that felt like running away, too. Learning to accept his ongoing presence in the things they’d shared strengthened her.

  The doorbell rang.

  She looked at the wall clock in disbelief. After eleven! She had told them she preferred to be alone tonight. But as she went to the door,
she had to smile to herself, suppressing her irritation. She should feel lucky to have friends like this.

  She flipped on the switch for the outside light next to the door, but it remained dark outside. She’d have to replace the bulb.

  “Yes?” she called through the door.

  She heard faint whistling, then made out the tune.

  We wish you a Merry Christmas.

  She chuckled as she unlocked the door, pulled it open.

  “Merry Christmas, Susanne,” he said, a sick grin on his lips.

  The shock paralyzed her. Before she could move a muscle or open her mouth to scream, he rushed in, smashing into her, lifting her right off the floor with one arm around her back, clamping his other huge hand over her mouth and nose. Holding her crushed against him, he kicked backward, slamming the door shut behind him.

  He swept forward like a giant wave, carrying her with him through the entryway, out of the living room, down the hall. She flailed helplessly, uselessly, trying to scream through the pressure of his fingers, unable to breathe, walls and doors flashing by, lights, then no lights no air I’m falling I can’t breathe God I’m dying my lungs the pain…

  *

  Something smacked her across the face, jerking her head to the side. Stinging pain. Her eyes twitched open. Light, shadows, blurred. Something over her mouth. Something tight on her wrists, pulling her arms behind her, setting her shoulders on fire. The room fuzzy, out of focus, spinning.

  A face.

  His face.

  She tried to scream, but the thing across her mouth made it a muffled moan.

  “Now that’s silly, Susanne. No one can hear you down here.”

  Her head snapped around. She was in her basement den.

  “See? There’s no point in yelling, calling for help. No point in fighting me, no point in cursing me, blessing me, begging me. No point at all, Susanne.”

  She began to cry, her eyes blurring with tears.

  “Poor, poor Susanne. The big bad man is back, isn’t he?”

  She sobbed, breathing only through her nose. Then started to choke.

  He knelt and leaned close, inches from her face, frowning. “No, don’t die on me, Susanne.” He raised his hand; she felt the pressure of his finger tips against her cheek; then his hand tugged across her face. She felt a tearing sensation across her lips.

  Suddenly her mouth was free and she gasped, filling her lungs with a rush of air. She started to cough uncontrollably.

  “Better? Be nice, now, or the duct tape goes right back on.” He grabbed her hair. “Understand?”

  She nodded weakly. Began to cry softly.

  “Good girl! Now remember: No carrying on. Nobody is going to hear you, anyway, but if you irritate me, you’re going to be punished. And you wouldn’t like that.”

  He stood, a giant, his head almost touching the basement ceiling. He had taken off whatever jacket he had worn, and now towered above her in a red flannel shirt and jeans. He began to wander around the den, idly examining the bookcases, the photos on the wall. He paused in front of the display of their vacation photos. Pulled one off the wall.

  She closed her eyes.

  “What is this? London? How nice. You were quite the romantic couple, weren’t you?”

  “Please....”

  She heard his sudden footsteps closing on her. Snapped her eyes open. He bent over her. Seized her shoulder near the neck and squeezed with his forefinger and thumb.

  She screamed.

  “You broke the rule, Susanne. You begged. I told you not to do that. You don’t ask for anything, you don’t beg for anything, you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understand?”

  She nodded frantically, biting her lip.

  He took his hand away. “Good.” He knelt again, leaned right into her, rested his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes. His breath was foul, like onions.

  “Now, before we get cozy,” he said quietly, “there’s a phone call you are going to make. And there are going to be rules for that, too, Susanne. You say exactly what I tell you to say. And if you say anything else—if I even begin to suspect you’re trying to warn the person—”

  She felt his heavy palm on her shoulder again. His fingers lightly stroked the place where he had just squeezed.

  “—then the pain you’ll feel will be nothing like you have ever imagined. Okay?”

  She felt dizzy, as if she were about to pass out again. How was he free? How was he here? How could this happen?

  She could not think. There was no will left in her.

  Kill me now, get it over with, be done with it. Let me see my Arthur again....

  “Stay with me, now, Susanne. We’re going to call your dear friend, Annie. And here is what you’re going to say....”

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Wednesday, December 24, 11:20 p.m.

  They had been quiet for a while.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  She glanced up at him, clutching the small paper cup in both hands.

  “It wasn’t true,” he said. “Any of what I said. I knew it when I said it. Look, you couldn’t have known who I was when we first met. And I went after you. So I know that what happened between us—and what we felt—none of that could be a lie. We weren’t faking our feelings. It was all real.”

  “Then how could you say those things?”

  It was hard for him to admit it. So he knew he had to.

  “I wanted to hurt you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I was hurt. Because I wanted so much to make this work. Because I loved you, but all the lies were killing it.”

  “Loved?” she asked.

  He saw her struggle to suppress any more tears, to regain control, to reassert her dignity. He suddenly understood the courage that it had required for her to get this far with him. Of the terrible price she had been willing to pay for her love. Of the price she had paid tonight. And even now.

  He searched her eyes and searched his feelings.

  “Love,” he answered.

  Her chin trembled. But she did not cry again.

  “I needed to know that,” she said. “Because if you hadn’t said that, then I couldn’t do this.”

  She rose from the sofa, went to the kitchen counter, where she had left her purse. Brought it back with her to the sofa.

  “I needed to hear that first, because I had to know that you trust me enough to still love me. That you trust me not to betray you. I needed your absolute trust—before I offer you proof that I wouldn’t betray you.”

  “Proof? I don’t understand.”

  “Dylan, there’s something important you don’t know. And if I truly wanted to betray you, I wouldn’t tell you this. The police—Cronin and his people—they have a sample of your blood. Of your DNA. They got it off that dog.” She looked at his arm, smiling weakly. “You know—that ‘poodle’ that bit you.”

  A chill touched his spine.

  “I didn’t know about the DNA,” he said. “I could tell you knew about the dog bite, though, from the way you reacted when you saw my arm. From that, I deduced that Cronin had told you about the dog.” He paused, thinking it through. “But now I realize that I completely missed something. It never occurred to me to ask myself: How the hell would he, or you, know that the dog had bitten me? Unless, of course, I’d left my blood behind?”

  She nodded. “On the dog. That’s how they knew.”

  “So they have my DNA.”

  “No. They have some vigilante’s DNA.”

  He saw what she meant. “Of course. They don’t know it’s mine. Because they don’t have a sample of mine to match it.”

  “But I do.”

  He watched as she poked into her purse. Came up with a small plastic bag. From where he sat, it looked empty. She looked at him and smiled.

  “And now you can have it back,” she said, tossing it onto the coffee table.

  He picked up bag. Held it up to the light.

  Saw the
fingernail clippings.

  It took him a few seconds to get it.

  She laughed. “Close your mouth. You look like an idiot.”