Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

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.”

“ Unhappy? I’m not hearing this. How about a little compassion for his victims, Dad?”

“Of course I feel for them, Annie! I feel terrible for them. Because they’re victims, too-victims of whatever happened to him early in his life.”

“You mean they’re-what? Collateral damage?”

“That’s a strange way of putting it. But in a sense, it’s causally true.”

She looked at him, speechless.

“Forget Adrian Wulfe for the moment,” he went on. “Let’s talk about your friend, Susie. She just can’t continue to wallow in anger. You can’t live that way. You have to learn at some point to forgive and move on.”

Her eyes returned to a photo on his mantelpiece. “Like you forgave Julia?”

From the corner of her eye she saw him wince. A moment passed. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

“Annie, why don’t you call her ‘Mother’?”

She had to fight down the anger to keep her own tone even. “She’s no mother to me. Just like she was no wife to you. Dad, she betrayed you. She betrayed both of us. How can you keep her photo up there?”

He shook his head. “I forgave her long ago. I had to turn away from anger, or it would have consumed me.” He hesitated. “Just as you ought to forgive Frank.”

“You want to forgive, go ahead. I don’t forgive the unforgivable.”

“You should try to understand her. And him. Victor Hugo said it well. ‘To understand all is to forgive all.’ And you should give the Church a try, too. It turned my life around after your-after Julia left.”

“You mean, after she betrayed you and abandoned both of us.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“For deception? For betraying her marriage vows? Are you saying she had no choice? That she was like some sleepwalker, driven by forces beyond her control?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was to blame. Maybe I didn’t give her enough attention. Perhaps-”

She picked up her purse from the floor and stood. “Well, you can believe whatever you want to believe about her. But I’ll tell you this: I wasn’t to blame for her leaving us. I didn’t deserve that. And I sure as hell didn’t deserve what Frank did to me, either.” She headed for the door.

He rose. “Annie, please, wait-”

She stopped. Faced him.

“Wait? For what? For more excuses? For you to try to convince me that it’s acceptable for people like Julia and Frank and Wulfe to do monstrous things to other people?” She looked at him, thinking about it. “Or are you just trying to convince yourself, Dad? Does it make you feel better to imagine that she really didn’t want to hurt you?”

She didn’t wait to see the impact of her words.

Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia

Tuesday, September 9, 12:15 p.m.

Adrian Wulfe sprawled across the cement steps, letting the mid-day sun dry the sweat from his T-shirt.

The steps led from the cellblock door down into the prison yard. He’d just finished his workout out there. Now a group of Hispanics had moved in to pump iron-grunting, clanking the plates on the bars, and spotting for each other. Most of them were big, some bigger than him. But they’d all gotten out of the way when he showed up. Just as the guys entering and leaving the entrance behind him made sure to pass by without touching him or asking him to move.

He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of his first week here, when he’d settled all that. When that Spic giant in the shower had tried to make him his punk. He’d broken the bastard’s nose, right arm, and left tibia.