Hunter: A Thriller (15 page)

“Incredible, right? For that, he should have been behind bars for attempted murder—except for a ridiculous plea bargain rubber-stamped by a lenient judge. The prosecutor pled away the presence of the weapon, in exchange for Williams paying the victim’s doctor bills. Then he and the defense attorney got the judge to suspend even the two-year assault charge.”

“That’s horrible! Poor Kate.”

“And it got worse for her. Because after something like that, she at least had the right to expect some measure of justice. But no. You see, Williams was with two other creeps when he shot Michael. But each guy blamed the other for actually pulling the trigger. The prosecutor could have pushed for felony-murder convictions for them all, meaning: They’re all equally guilty of the murder, because they were all engaged in the same crime. Then he could have enhanced Williams’s sentence, because of his probation violation. If he’d pushed for it, he could have put Williams away for fifteen to twenty-five years. They call that a ‘life sentence’ in
Maryland
. But again—no. Instead, the prosecutor, wanting to avoid trial, let the lot of them plead down to a lower-degree sentence. Williams got ten years, but under
Maryland
law, he was eligible for a parole hearing after serving only half his sentence. Bottom line? He was out in just over six years.”

“That’s disgraceful.”

“You know what I find especially galling? The prosecutor in Williams’s murder case is now a wealthy judge up in
Prince George
's County. He lives in a gated lakeside community with a private country club. And the defense attorney is now retired and raising horses in
Kentucky
.”

“All that is in your article?”

“And a lot more. You should see the other cases.”

She reached across the table and lay her hand on his. He hadn’t noticed that he had balled it up into a fist.

“I said it before, Dylan. I just can’t tell you how much I admire you for what you’re doing.”

He saw the look on her face as she said it. His throat tightened again.

“You can try
.
”

*

It was past eleven when he brought her home. He went around to her side to help her from the car. They were both a bit unsteady from the Chianti, so he put his arm around her. Her thigh brushed against his as they walked toward the house.

The sky was clear, chilly, and brightly moonlit. Once again he felt the rising tension between them. The click of her heels against the pavement sounded like a ticking clock.

As they mounted the steps, she fished nervously for her keys, then turned away from him to face the door.

“Hey you,” he said quietly.

She slowly turned back to face him. The light from the overhead lantern gleamed in her eyes.

“I had a lovely time, Dylan. I really did. I—”

He put his palm gently under her chin, leaned in, and kissed her lightly.

Then their arms were around each other, hands moving greedily, mouths locked with ferocious urgency.

“No,” she gasped, pushing herself away.

He swayed, pulse pounding in his throat. “Why?”

“I.... It’s too soon.” There was naked fear in her eyes. “Dylan—we barely know each other!”

“Don’t we, Annie Woods?”

She didn’t reply right away. She stood there, fidgeting with her keys.

“I know. I can’t believe this.”

“Me either. Annie, I’ve never—”

She raised her fingers to his lips, stopping him. “
Shhhhh
. Don’t say anything you might regret.”

“I might regret not saying it.”

That made her smile. “Not now. Not tonight. This is way too fast. I need a little time.”

“And trust.”

She looked up at him, her palm against his chest. “And trust.”

He took the hand. “Me too.” He kissed her palm.

Then he turned abruptly and walked back to his car.

*

Tired of thrashing, knowing he wouldn’t sleep tonight, he sighed and turned on his bedside lamp. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw that the clock said it was one-fifteen in the morning.

Don’t be an idiot.

But he took his cell from the nightstand, inserted the battery, and pressed the speed-dial number.

She picked up after a single ring. “Well, mister. I see you can’t sleep, either.”

He felt himself grinning. “Not a chance.”

They remained silent for several moments. A comfortable silence. A connection more real than if she were present, here. In his bed. In his arms. Eyes closed, he listened to her breathe, drinking in the sound. Wondered if she were listening to his own breath.

“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.

“Is that an invitation?”

“No, silly,” she laughed.

“What a terrible waste of this great big king bed.”

“Maybe so. But not tonight.”

“Damn.... At least give me a description.”

“A picture present? Okay, then. I’m in a big old four-poster.” He heard a rustling sound. “Lots of soft, fluffy pillows.” A sigh. “Satin sheets.”

He groaned. “What are you wearing?”

Hesitation. Then:

“Not a stitch. Goodnight, Dylan Hunter.”

He heard her chuckle. Then she was gone.

He stared at the phone in disbelief. Then threw it at a stuffed chair across the room. It bounced off, clattered to the floor and popped open, spilling the battery.

“
Maaaoowww
!”

The cat jumped up on the bed, then strutted majestically toward his hand, where it lay on the covers. She nudged it with her forehead.

He sighed and scratched her between her ears. She purred contentedly, eyes closed.

“Luna, how could I let this happen?”

She opened her eyes. Looked at him disdainfully.

“No, it isn’t just testosterone poisoning.” He remembered how she had looked up at him, put her fingers to his lips. “This is different.”

He fell back onto the pillow, covered his eyes with his forearm.

“You’re insane,” he said. “What in hell are you doing?”

H STREET, N.E.,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.
Monday, September 15, 2:55 a.m.

Two days, two nights. It had been an exercise in patience. A good thing that he was a patient man, used to lying in wait for long periods, and usually under far worse circumstances. But given everything that had happened lately, this target was cautious and didn’t give him any opportunities last night.

Maybe now.

The bearded man had dressed down, far worse than usual. He wore torn, filthy clothes that reeked of the cheap liquor he’d doused them with earlier. In his hands was a paper bag; from its top emerged the mouth of a bottle, from which he occasionally pretended to sip. For most of the night, the booze smell had commingled with that of
Caribbean
food from the seedy bar and lounge a few doors away. It helped mask the urine stench in the recessed doorway where he sprawled, the entrance to an abandoned shop with plywood over its display window. Across the street from him stood a Salvation Army Thrift Store, a nail salon, and a hair-braiding place.

And down at the corner, leaning against the chain-link fence that surrounded a 24-hour check-cashing joint, was his target.

To put the guy at ease, he had made his presence known during both evenings, with loud, incoherent muttering. Last night, he’d even dared to weave toward him unsteadily, palm out, begging for change. He was rewarded only with a stream of f-bombs, which he returned loudly as he staggered back to his lair in the doorway. Nice touch, that. Because now, the guy wouldn’t see him as any kind of threat.

The target slid away from the fence and approached an ancient
Plymouth
that slowed and stopped at the curb. He watched the deal go down, saw the furtive swap of coke and cash through the vehicle’s open window. As it pulled away, the target glanced at his watch, then started moving down the sidewalk in his direction.

He waited, mumbling and letting his head bob about, so that he could check the streets and sidewalks. Nobody.

Show time.

As the target drew abreast of his position, he pulled the bottle from his paper bag, then hurled it at him. It hit the guy in the leg, splashing him. A calculated risk, but he knew the target’s reputation: He didn’t like to be
dissed
.

The guy stopped, looked down at his wet pants. Looked his way. Then stomped toward him, cursing.

He let him get within two strides, then launched himself to his feet, simultaneously drawing the 9mm Beretta 92FS from the bottom of the paper bag. He rammed the barrel into the guy’s solar plexus. As the man doubled over, he cracked him over the head with the pistol’s butt. The guy buckled and fell. He landed on the target’s back with both knees, knocking the wind out of him.

While the punk lay stunned, he checked the street again. Still clear. Then he did a fast search, retrieving a knife from his baggy jeans and a .38 Colt revolver from his long coat. He flipped the guy over and shoved the muzzle of the Beretta into the guy’s mouth. The whites of his eyes bugged out as he gasped for breath.

“Okay, Conrad. You and I are going to take a walk. You fight me, you yell, you do anything except what I say—you’re dead, right then. Got that? Nod your goddamned head if you understand.”

Conrad Williams nodded.

“Good boy. Now, get up.”

He yanked the skinny man to his feet by the tangle of his long dreads, then seized his arm and pressed the gun into Williams’s ribs. After retrieving his bag and bottle, he steered the guy back down the sidewalk. Doubled over, Williams could barely walk, which was good; his moans and staggering made them look like a pair of drunks. They turned the corner, then stumbled a short block, to the intersection of
Florida Avenue
and Holbrook. The area was completely deserted.

He hooked right, moving his quarry across the street. A wide dirt patch ran alongside the sidewalk here, serving as a parking spot for the locals. He pushed Williams to the rear of the small moving van that he’d left there hours earlier. He clipped the man again on the back of his skull, letting him collapse to the ground. After unlocking the padlock, he rolled up the rear door, then lifted the limp body inside. Climbing in after him, he quickly stuck a waiting strip of duct tape across the man’s mouth, bound his hands behind his back with a plastic tie, and wrapped his feet with a cord.

Within a minute, he was driving east.

BOWIE
,
MARYLAND
Monday, September 15, 3:50 a.m.

Forty-five minutes northeast of D.C., he pulled off a highway onto a gravel access road and killed the lights. He eased the van back into a wooded grove at the edge of a golf course. Parking where it wouldn’t be seen from the highway, he got out, then unlocked and opened the van’s rear door.

Conrad Williams was awake again, cringing against the golf cart in the back of the van. In the light of the full moon, his face glistened with tears.

At least the bastard hadn’t puked and choked himself. Not that it mattered.

He grabbed the cord around the man’s thrashing legs and yanked him from the van, dropping him hard onto the ground. Williams lay stunned, moaning behind the duct tape.

“You know what’s about to happen—don’t you, Conrad?” he said, keeping his voice low.

The killer issued a muffled wail. His eyes were filled with pain and terror.

“And you know why—don’t you, Conrad?” He pulled the SWR Trident 9 suppressor from his grimy jacket. Screwed the can onto the threaded barrel of the Beretta.

Williams stared in horror at the gun, breathing rapidly through his nose. He shook his head wildly, his dreadlocks whipping back and forth like panicked snakes.

He crouched beside his captive. “Oh, sure you do. Michael Higgins was a great kid. He worked his ass off, managing that convenience store at nights to support himself and his mom. And during the day, he was putting himself through community college. Do you know what he was studying, Conrad? Drug counseling. Think of the irony: He wanted to help pukes like you.... Hey, are you listening?”

Williams’s eyelids were fluttering; he was about to pass out. So he backhanded him, hard.

“Stay with me, you piece of crap. One more thing: Michael’s mom. She already was a widow when you and your pals took her son from her, too. I’ll deal with them later. But for now, I only have you here, so you’ll have to do. This is for her.” He pressed the end of the suppressor against the man’s chest.

Williams’s eyes were like white golf balls against his dark skin. His feet scrabbled the ground frantically, and from behind the tape, he made sounds like the muffled squeals of a pig.

“Go to hell, Conrad Williams.”

The sharp
snap
of the suppressed gunshot stopped the squeals and the movements.

*

He paused to think a moment before proceeding. This mission was the trickiest yet. He preferred simple and uncomplicated, but he couldn’t do that here. The golf course was part of a gated community, and the only vehicle entrance was past a guard booth and cameras. No good. It had taken him a full night of recon to find an access point this close to a highway. And then a lot of thought and planning to figure out how to pull this off.

He hid the guns and knife in the cab of the truck and locked it. He would not use a weapon against anyone here. If found and challenged, he’d have to rely on his wits.

After donning a pair of work gloves, he pulled out the van’s cargo ramp. It didn’t make much noise as it slid to the ground; he’d made sure to oil the tracks thoroughly beforehand. Then he eased the golf cart out of the van and down the ramp, using a rope and pulley. Moving to Williams’s body, he removed all the bindings he’d used and tossed them into a bag in the back of the van. Then he wrapped the corpse in a blanket, hoisted it onto the back seat of the cart, and strapped it down.

Inside the rear of the van, he stripped off his filthy clothing, wiped the grime off his face and body, then changed into clothes he’d brought, attire more suitable for a country club: slacks, polo shirt, golf shoes, cap, windbreaker, leather sports gloves. If any patrolling guard spotted him from a distance, maybe he’d think it was some crazy resident out on the course in the dark, for reasons known only to rich golfers.

During his earlier recon, he had already scoped out the home of his next target. As far as he could tell, there was no dog, and he spotted no motion detectors or cameras on the property—a testament to how secure a homeowner in this exclusive enclave must feel. He also timed the rounds of the security patrols. Like most guards, they had foolishly settled into an hourly routine, never varying their schedule during the five hours he’d observed.

He checked his watch, waiting until he knew that the latest patrol had returned to the security office. Then he climbed into the electric cart, got it going, and headed out onto the fairway.

He’d purchased this model because it had been rated as particularly quiet, and it didn’t disappoint. At a distance, its soft electric hum should blend in with far-off traffic sounds. He rolled slowly and cautiously over the manicured grass expanse, staying near the trees on the perimeter of the golf course, relieved that the full moon allowed him to pick his way easily and safely.

Soon he reached a paved path. It led to a stone bridge that crossed a narrow lake and continued into the residential area. Once on the other side, he wheeled left along the water’s edge, crossing the sprawling lawns of imposing mansions. Within a minute, he arrived at his destination.

Surrounded by old maples and beech trees, an immense, contemporary, gray stone edifice loomed against the night sky, its soaring lines broken into multiple gables and broad chimneys, its covered entrance flanked by tall white columns. A charming gazebo with white wicker tables and chairs graced the lawn next to the lake. All in all, a public monument to dignity and decency.

Camouflage for the moral rot within.

He stopped the cart about two hundred feet from the house. Leaving his golfer’s cap on the seat, he
unstrapped
Williams’s body from the back of the cart and lowered it to the grass. He removed another object from the cart and zipped it securely into the deep pocket of his windbreaker. Then, he slung a coil of plastic-covered cable over his shoulder.

The next tasks would be dangerous and physically punishing. Girding himself, he bent his knees, hugged his arms around the middle of the still-covered body, and heaved it onto his other shoulder. He had to stagger a bit to regain his balance. Then, placing his feet with infinite care, he advanced step by step toward the front yard.

His legs were screaming and he was sweating profusely by the time he reached the flagpole. Keeping an eye on the house, he eased the body to the ground, then unwrapped it. He took a breather while studying the top of the pole. There was no flag present at this hour, which was good: He would never dishonor Old Glory. But he knew that the pulley up there was capable of supporting only the light weight of a flag. It had taken him several hours in the shop to fashion his work-around.

Flexing his hands inside the gloves and taking a deep breath, he grabbed the flagpole and began his ascent.

From past training, he was used to shimmying up poles; but this one’s metal surface was damp with dew and proved to be tougher going than he expected. He had to pause twice to rest and regain his grip before he finally reached the top.

Clinging mainly with his legs, he unzipped his windbreaker pocket and carefully extracted the gadget. About eight inches long, it was a hollow steel cylinder, slightly greater in diameter than the flagpole itself. The cylinder was closed on one end and open at the other. On the sealed end he’d welded a much-stronger pulley. He slipped the open end of the cylinder over the ball atop the flagpole, then slid it down, like a sleeve. The flagpole now was capped by a new, heavy-duty pulley.

Then he took the coiled cable from his shoulder and fed one end through the pulley. Holding that end, he let the rest of the coil drop to the ground. Then he slid down the pole, taking the end of the cable with him.