Hunter: A Thriller (25 page)

“This isn’t my idea. Anyway, why didn’t you just tell me all this stuff last time? Save us all a lot of misunderstandings?”

Time to toss him a bone. He sighed, lowered his voice.

“Look. I do appreciate your position, Detective Cronin. But you see how I make enemies. And if you keep poking around and asking questions about me, the people I’ve been trying to avoid all these years might hear about it. And put two and two together. And then I could wind up dead.”

Cronin watched him, unblinking, for a long time. Then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try to tread lightly in the future.”

Hunter nodded, stood, and offered his hand. “I’d appreciate that. So would some far-off relatives. They don’t like me much, but they’d feel obligated to show up at my funeral.”

Cronin smiled and shook his hand.

FALLS CHURCH
,
VIRGINIA
Tuesday, November 18, 6:10 p.m.

“Okay, I talked to him,” was the first sentence out of Cronin’s mouth.

She tightened her grip on the phone. “Go ahead.”

He told her. It surprised her. Then disturbed her.

“I don’t understand. He never said a thing about being in the federal Witness Security program. He told me that other story—about consulting a skip tracer, then doing it all himself.”

“Maybe he was trying to protect you in some way. Or himself. I don’t know. Maybe he thought telling you that the feds were hiding him might scare you off.”

“Why would being in Witness Protection be any scarier than what he told me?”

“Yeah, you’re right. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it.”

How could he lie to her?

She began to pace in front of her fireplace. “Tell me honestly, Detective,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Do you believe him?”

He was silent a moment. She heard a ringing phone and voices in the background.

“Ms. Woods, I deal in facts. I can only tell you what I know. I know his SSN is real, and that it’s issued to his current name—I confirmed that with Social Security in
Baltimore
. His IDs—driver’s license, credit cards—they’re all real, too, just as you thought. And all the dates of issue conform to his story.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She heard him sigh. “Okay, let me put it this way: Nothing so far contradicts him being in Witness Protection. But, could he be conning us? Sure. It’s possible. He’s very smart. Very cagey.”

Not what she wanted to hear. “Can’t you check out his story with the feds?”

“I can try. Maybe get somebody in the
U.S.
Marshals to talk. They run Witness Protection. But I’m not optimistic. It would take a court order to force them to open up his records. And to get court paper, I’d need to give the judge a damned good reason. Right now, I’ve got jack.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes tracked around her living room, pausing on furnishings that she and Frank had picked out and purchased years before. She suddenly felt as she did in the days after he left. Small. Exposed.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you something definitive,” Cronin was saying. “Ms. Woods, in my experience, everybody has baggage. But your guy—he’s carrying more than Amtrak.”

She had to laugh. “All right. Thanks for telling me what you’ve found out, Detective. It’s a relief to know this much.”

He was silent.

“Is there something else?” she prompted.

He took his time before replying. “You’re on the job this many years, you get feelings about things. This somehow doesn’t feel right.”

“I know.” Her throat felt tight.

“So, you feel it, too.... Okay, tell you what: I’m going to stay on this. And I suggest you try to keep an eye on him, too. Jot down notes of his comings and goings. You never know when a timeline might come in handy.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore the quivering knot in the pit of her stomach. “You never know.”

“I haven’t asked you before. But it would help if you told me where he lives.”

She took a slow breath. “I’m not ready to do that,” she said. Then added: “Not yet.”

BETHESDA
,
MARYLAND
Tuesday, November 18, 8:25 p.m.

“Hi, you,” he said.

She stood in his doorway with an overnight bag and a little smile. “Hi, you.”

He searched her eyes for an instant, then drew her close and kissed her.

“Missed you last night,” he murmured.

“Me, too.” She squeezed him.

He took the bag from her, then her coat. “Feeling better today?”

“Much. Thanks.”

His eyes followed her as she wandered into the living room, then stopped to pet Luna, who was sprawled on the sofa. She wore a brown pantsuit. It was the first time she had dressed in anything other than a skirt or dress in his presence.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, hanging the coat in the entryway closet.

She tossed her purse on the sofa and sat. “Yes.... No. I mean, I’m not hungry. Some wine would be nice, though.”

“Relax there and I’ll fetch some.”

He observed her out of the corner of his eye from the kitchen while he pulled a Chardonnay from the refrigerator, uncorked, then poured it. She was stroking the cat, but watching his reflected image in the dark window of the balcony’s sliding door.

He felt the tension.

He pasted on a grin and brought their glasses over. Handed her one, clinked it with his, then took a nearby armchair instead of sitting beside her. So that he could watch her.

“How was work today?” he asked.

“Oh. All right. Not as bad as usual.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She took a sip.

He had debated whether to wait her out or simply confront her. Her eyes remained focused on the cat, not him. That decided it for him. She was trying to gloss over whatever it was.

But he never let anyone gloss over anything.

As she raised her wine glass again, he asked: “Then what else could be bothering you, Annie Woods?”

Her glass paused in mid-air; her eyes shot to his, startled. “What do you mean?”

He held her glance and very deliberately lowered his own glass to the coffee table. “Something’s been bugging you. Since Sunday morning. And it wasn’t just the Mexican food from Saturday night. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”

She took a deep breath, her breasts rising against her suit jacket, then falling.

“All right. It was your article. That started it.”

“Figured as much. What about it?”

She put down her glass, sat back. Her eyes were—what? Worried?

No. Wary.

“Dylan,” she said carefully, “you know that I’ve believed in what you’re doing. For crime victims. They didn’t have a voice until you came along.” She stopped.

“But....”

“Yes.
But.
But I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”

“Annie, if anyone else on the planet said that to me, I’d answer: ‘Why should I give a damn what you think?’ But because it’s you, I’ll bite: How have I gone too far?”

“You’ve gone beyond attacking criminals and the people in the legal system who free them. Yes, they deserve to be exposed. And I’m proud of you for doing that. But now—now you’re targeting private individuals. Reformers. People who sincerely believe in rehabilitation and are only trying to do what they think is the right thing. Okay, maybe they’re naïve do-gooders; but their only real sin seems to be an excess of idealism.”

“Idealism,” he repeated. “And what are their ‘ideals’?”

She shrugged. “Turning criminals away from crime.”

“By making excuses for them?”

“Maybe some of them are trying to understand
why
they commit crimes. Perhaps they’re looking for explanations.”

“Tell me: What, exactly, is the difference between an ‘explanation’ for crime and an ‘excuse’ for crime?”

“Look, Dylan, you know that I don’t agree with them. I’m not trying to defend what they advocate.”

“Aren’t you?” he asked. “You seem to be saying that I’m attacking them unfairly.”

She looked away. “But why focus attention on them? I just don’t see how
they
are responsible for what those in charge of the courts and jails do.”

“You don’t? Annie, my article laid it out. The MacLean Foundation has supported or engineered everything that’s wrong in the system. They’re professional excuse-makers for criminals. Politicians quote their studies and statistics when they gut tough sentencing laws. Lawyers and judges rely on their excuses and recommendations when they turn criminals loose.”

“But the counselors, the people running the programs—they’re not the ones actually freeing the criminals. They’re just talkers.”

“Talkers who empower the bad actors.”

“Empower? What do you mean?”

“I’m saying that Edmund Burke was wrong.”

“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”

He had to stand, move. He went to the window of the balcony. Stared into the night.

“Burke famously stated, ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”

“How true.”

“
Not
true
.
He made it sound as if evil people are powerful. But they’re not. Evil people are nothing more than parasites who feed on others. They’re losers. Most can barely survive on their own, let alone triumph on their own.”

“But that’s silly! Bad people
are
powerful. They’re thriving. Sometimes, I think they run the world.”

He turned to her. “Ask yourself why, Annie. Ask yourself why there are such things as ‘career criminals’—losers like Bracey and
Valenti
, with rap sheets a mile long. Why weren’t they stopped cold after their first few crimes? And how did they get out again, even after what they did to Susie and Arthur Copeland? It’s not because they’re powerful; it’s because they’ve been
empowered.
They have millions of eager, do-gooder accomplices. All those ‘nice’ people who blabber about mercy and forgiveness, instead of simple justice. All those ‘nice’ folks who feel so sad and sorry for bad people—then feel so holy and self-righteous whenever they give monsters ‘second chances.’ Third chances. Tenth chances, fifty-ninth chances. Endless chances to hurt more innocent people. People like Susie and Arthur. And George
Banacek’s
boy. And Kate Higgins’s kid.”

Her gaze was directed at the floor; he went on.

“Yes, Annie, evil people do triumph, too often. But it’s not because ‘good people’ do nothing; it’s because of what they
do.
They actively
encourage
evil. While kidding themselves that they’re engaging in saintly acts of virtue. If I were into psychobabble, I’d call them ‘enablers.’ Enablers of predators. Do-gooders like that MacLean guy—they’re giving aid and comfort to society’s enemies.”