HUNTER

by Bidinotto, Robert

  He smiled. “That’s not a stupid question. And thank you, Grant. But no.”

  Garrett looked sad. “You know, son, there are many days that I envy you.”

  “Don’t. I’m glad you’re there. You’re holding it all together, Grant. I shudder to think of how bad things would get if you weren’t.”

  Garrett coughed.

  “Still smoking?”

  Garrett shrugged.

  “Please stop.”

  Garrett shrugged again. “I’ll check on you later. You’ll be here for a bit. Not too long, maybe a week. But you’ve been busted up pretty badly, and they have to put you back together again. Don’t worry, it’s on the Company’s tab.”

  He picked up his overcoat from the other chair. “Don’t run off again, Matt. You won’t have to do that anymore. Promise?”

  He smiled again. “I promise.” Then added: “Grant?”

  “Yes?”

  “Call me Dylan.”

  They looked at each other. A moment passed.

  Grant Garrett smiled. Actually smiled.

  “See you later, Dylan Hunter.”

  Then turned and left.

  He shut his eyes again.

  *

  Felt something.

  Someone lifting the sheets from his body. He opened his eyes.

  She was climbing into the bed with him.

  He seized her, and she him.

  They clung to each other and looked into each other’s eyes.

  Then, like her, he began to tremble.

  Then, like her—and for the first time since his father died—he cried.

  *

  The morning sun had moved, leaving only a soft afterglow in the window. It framed her as she sat in the chair next to his bed. She held his right hand in both of hers, neither of them wanting to let go. After a while, she said:

  “My father visited me here this morning.”

  He knew they had to face this together. “Yes?”

  “This was even harder for him, you know. He almost lost me. To somebody from one of his own programs. The guilt over this is almost killing him.”

  He could only listen.

  “I tried to calm him down. We talked a long time. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, now. But I know there will be big changes in the foundation. For one thing, what he saw on the screen at the Christmas party...it really opened his eyes about Frankfurt. That, and now Wulfe. He told me that he was going to call Frankfurt today and fire him.”

  “On Christmas Day?”

  “He said he couldn’t do it fast enough. Then he’s going to cut off funding of Frankfurt’s programs and others like it. He doesn’t want to be responsible for any more things like...what happened.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I suggested that maybe he could direct money toward victims of crime, instead. Groups such as Vigilance for Victims. He liked that.”

  “That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Annie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think there’s a big difference between people like Frankfurt, and people like your father. Frankfurt and his kind actually sympathize with the monsters. But your father and those like him—I don’t think they’re malicious. They just seem to be terribly confused about justice and compassion. They don’t realize that you can’t grant compassion toward bad people without committing injustices against their victims. You have to save your compassion for those who have earned it. Compassion without justice is just enabling.”

  “I see that a lot more clearly since I met you, Dylan.”

  “Maybe you can help him see it, too.”

  *

  The sound of soft rapping on the door.

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to intrude.”

  Cronin stood in the doorway.

  He felt Annie’s hands squeeze his tighter.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “Come in and have a seat.”

  Cronin did. He didn’t bother to take off his coat.

  “Just thought I’d check in and see how both of you were doing,” he said.

  “Much better now, thanks. They say I should be out of here in five days or so, a week tops. And Annie is all right.”

  He smiled. “So I see. I’m relieved.... How’s Mrs. Copeland doing?”

  Annie answered. “A few bumps and bruises. The main damage is psychological. It will take a long time for her to process this. To believe it’s really all over.”

  “I’m sure. But she has a lot of good friends like you to help her.”

  No point in dancing around it.

  “So, what’s happening with the investigation, Detective?”

  Cronin looked straight at him.

  “Of course, I’ll need a statement from you. When you’re feeling up to it. But I think the facts are pretty clear-cut. The way we reconstruct things, Ms. Woods managed to sneak a phone call to you and let you know where they were. You showed up and fought with Wulfe, and both of you grabbed knives from the kitchen. He almost killed you, but after you were stabbed in the leg, you picked up this combat knife that he’d dropped, and you managed to stab him fatally. Isn’t that the way it was, Mr.”—he paused—“Hunter?”

  He didn’t answer. Just held the cop’s eyes.

  “That’s exactly the way it was,” Annie interjected, fighting a smile.

  Cronin turned to her. “And, of course, you’ll sign a statement to that effect, won’t you, Ms. Woods?”

  “Why, of course, Detective.”

  “What about you, Mr....Hunter?”

  “Gee, it all happened so fast. But that seems to be about right.”

  “There. I figured it was pretty cut and dried. Nothing at the crime scene appears to contradict that interpretation.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “And that’s one dead criminal I won’t have to chalk up to the vigilantes, either.”

  “What a relief for you.”

  “Sure is. I’m glad we don’t have Wulfe around to worry about anymore. He was a scary dude. I mean, with all his advanced belts in hand-to-hand combat—why, it’s a damned miracle that a mere newspaper reporter like you was somehow able to overpower and kill him.”

  “It had to be a miracle.”

  “You’re lucky you survived. And you left a lot of your blood there, Mr. Hunter. Lucky for you that Ms. Woods works for the CIA, so close by, and could have them send help so quickly.”

  “As you say, I’m lucky.”

  “You sure are.”

  “Speaking of blood, Detective: Annie told me about the DNA matching you’re trying to do from one of the vigilante crime scenes. How’s that going?”

  Cronin’s eyes lost their glimmer of amusement. “Funniest thing about that. Last night I happened to be talking to Ms. Woods’s boss at the CIA—a Mr. Garrett. And he said they have a priority need for that DNA sample. Something about some highly classified national security investigation involving an assassination. So, it looks like we’ll be turning that DNA sample over to them.”

  Annie squeezed his hand harder.

  “How unlucky for you.”

  “Yes. How unlucky.” The cop leaned forward in the chair. “You know, Mr. Hunter, those vigilantes must really like you. If they ever try to contact you, I wonder if I might count on you to let me know?”

  “Why, Detective Cronin! I’m a journalist. I have to protect my sources.” He turned to look at Annie. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to violate a trust, would you?”

  She beamed at him.

  “No, I suppose not.” He got up. “Well, it’s time I got back to the wife and kids. I only had a couple hours with them this morning to open the presents. I hope both of you get better real soon. Merry Christmas, Ms. Woods. And Mr….Hunter.”

  “Merry Christmas, Detective Cronin,” Hunter said.

  Annie stood and went to Cronin. Kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded.

  He moved to the door, then stopped. Not turning to
face them, he said:

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay the hell away from Alexandria.”

  He walked out.

  They looked at each other and broke out laughing.

  CONNOR’S POINT

  MARYLAND’S EASTERN SHORE

  Tuesday, December 30, 10:32 a.m.

  When Billie Rutherford opened the front door, she was surprised to see Vic Rostand standing there in heavy winter clothes, holding a gaily wrapped box.

  “Hi there, Billie.”

  “My God! How are you, stranger? Jim—it’s Vic! Come on in out of the cold, it’s freezing out there.”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. I was just checking in on things here, making sure they shoveled the walk and saved the mail. I’m going to be gone again for about six weeks. But before I go, I just wanted to drop off a belated Christmas present, since I’ve been out of town.”

  Jim came up behind her. “Again? So soon? Don’t you ever get a break?”

  “Actually, that’s what this is about. I need some R & R. I took a spill while skiing last weekend and the doc says it’s going to take my arm and leg a while to heal properly.”

  She saw that he was shifting uncomfortably and balancing mostly on his right leg.

  “Well, it’s about time you had a vacation. You work too hard.”

  He laughed; she wished she could see his eyes better, behind those tinted glasses. “Well, Billie, as they say, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s playground.’”

  She had to ask. “Were you alone on that ski trip, Vic? Or were you with anyone special?”

  He grinned. “Well, yes. There is someone special. I’ll introduce her sometime. She’s quite a lady. And she owns an interesting cat.” He handed them the package. “Anyway, Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year. I’ll see you again sometime in early February.”

  “Same to you, Vic. Drive safe.”

  She closed the door and through the window they watched him limp back to his Honda CR-V.

  “What a nice, sweet man,” Billie said. “I hope she’s good enough for him.”

  *

  “Bronowski.” The impatient growl over the phone.

  “And happy holidays to you, too, Bill.”

  “Where the hell have you been these weeks? I thought you’d fallen off the planet! It’s been nuts around here since you left.”

  “I know a little about that.”

  “Well, thank God you’re back. Just today, all kinds of fallout from your last piece and that Adrian Wulfe escape. Here’s from A.P. this morning: ‘Prominent charity benefactor Kenneth MacLean issued a statement today that he is initiating reorganization of his foundation, with a focus on advocacy for crime victims.’”

  “It’s about time.”

  “Hunter, you have the inside track on this stuff. I need you to follow up, now.”

  He gazed down at the iron expanse of the Chesapeake from the lofty height of the Bay Bridge as his car sped westward.

  “Your coverage has been just great without me, Bill. In fact, I’m just calling to wish you happy holidays and let you know I’ll be gone till the beginning of February.”

  “What! Now?” Bronowski moaned. “You’re kidding me!”

  “Don’t worry. I promise you lots of fresh meat when I get back.”

  TIONESTA, PENNSYLVANIA

  Tuesday, December 30, 8:13 p.m.

  His bouncing headlights illuminated the rutted, snow-covered drive leading to the cabin. He pulled up and parked near the door, in the clearing embraced by the pines and oaks. Left the engine running until he could go unlock the door and turn on the lights.

  Then he came back for her.

  “You’re going to love it here.”

  He brought her inside. Then he turned her loose to explore.

  At first Luna stood outside her carrier bag, hunched nervously, sniffing the bare planks of the cabin floor. Then, after a few tentative steps, during which no beasts of prey leaped from hiding places, she straightened and began to trot from item to item, checking them out.

  He let her wander and went back outside to bring in and store the rest of their gear.

  He kicked off his boots and hung his parka on the deer antlers next to the door—the trophy of a hunting trip so long ago.

  He went to the kitchen area and, after uncorking and pouring some wine, sat on the couch. Put his stocking feet up on the knotty pine coffee table. Looked around at the bare wood walls. At the empty mantelpiece over the big stone fireplace.

  It hurt not to be able to put out photos. But at least he had his memories, and particularly fond ones of this place.

  He knew that he had undergone an important passage in his life since he was here last. That a new chapter was beginning. He knew he had to mark it now, alone.

  He had to answer the question that he had asked himself here, not quite three years earlier.

  He drank the glass. Then another.

  Poured a third.

  *

  Once again, he limped up the stairs, carrying his duffle bag and a glass of wine. Luna scampered up after him and immediately found a place on the bare mattress. He used a rag to wipe the gathered dust from the vanity mirror. Then he sat down on the mattress beside the cat. He sipped the wine, stroked the cat, and looked into the mirror.

  “Okay. So, who are you?”

  The face that was now his own stared back at him, not answering.

  He took another sip. Placed the glass on the floor.

  Reached into the top of his duffle and extracted a leather pouch.

  Opened it and pulled out the drivers’ licenses.

  Spread them on the mattress next to him.

  Brad Roark Flynn

  Victor Edward Rostand

  Wayne Alan Grayson

  Shane Michael Stone

  Edmond Dantes

  Lex Talionis

  Then pulled out his wallet. Removed his driver’s license. Tossed it next to them.

  Dylan Lee Hunter

  He looked into the mirror, then down at all the cards.

  On several, the resemblance was close to the face in the mirror.

  But there were beards and wigs and mustaches on others, different colors.

  And makeup.

  And a great latex mask on one.

  He picked up the wine glass from the floor. Stood, unsteady now.

  Lifted his glass to the mirror.

  “Gentlemen—a toast now to our sire: the late, great Matt Malone. Mr. Malone, here we are. Your bastard offspring, standing in your shadow. Living not as real men, but as ghosts.”

  He took a last big swallow. Stared at himself.

  His face in the mirror looked sad.

  He sat again.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly.

  *

  He heard the sound of a car engine approach, then die.

  Heard quick steps marching up the porch stairs.

  Heard the cabin door creak open.

  Heard her call out:

  “Dylan?”

  And knew.

  About the Author

  Robert Bidinotto earned a national reputation as an authority on criminal justice while writing investigative articles as a former Staff Writer for Reader’s Digest. His famous 1988 article “Getting Away with Murder” stirred a national controversy about crime and prison furlough programs during that year’s presidential campaign, and it is widely credited with having affected the outcome of the election. It was honored by the American Society of Magazine Editors as one of five finalists for the National Magazine Award for “Best Magazine Article in the Public Interest Category.”

  Robert is author of the acclaimed book Criminal Justice? The Legal System vs. Individual Responsibility, with a foreword by John Walsh of the “America’s Most Wanted” television show, and of Freed to Kill—a compendium of horror stories exposing the failings of the justice system.