Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“So, I figured I’d better vanish. I consulted a professional skip tracer, and he instructed me on how to disappear and leave no tracks. Things like how to obliterate personal information online, how to alter records of my contact information with banks and utility companies, and a lot more. After cutting my old ties, I applied for and got a legal change of name to Dylan Hunter. I moved away, but I didn’t write under that name. Instead, to hide my tracks further, I began to write under various pen names. I telecommuted from home, moved around frequently, used post office boxes and prepaid cell phones. Like this one.” He pulled out his current model and showed it to her.

She looked astonished. “You still do all this?”

“You have no idea just how much I upset them.” He looked straight at her. “And as I said, I don’t want anyone that I get close to, to get hurt.”

She held his glance; his words hung in the air for a moment.

“That explains a few things, I suppose.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the way you look around all the time. You don’t seem to miss much.”

“Given what I’ve just said, I certainly hope not.”

“So you changed your name. Do you mind my asking what your name was before?”

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Will you tell me what your name was?”

“No.”

Her smile vanished. “So how am I supposed to trust some man when I don’t know who he really is?”

Steady now…

He took a breath, released it. Pulled out his wallet and slid it across the table to her. “Go ahead. Look. No, please-I want you to. Check all the IDs and cards. You’ll see they’re real.”

She hesitated a bit more, then took out each item and examined it.

“They all say ‘Dylan Lee Hunter.’”

“And that’s exactly who I am. That other guy you’re asking about-he’s dead and gone, Annie. As far as I’m concerned. I’ve forgotten about him. I hope the guys looking for me have, too.”

She slid the wallet back to him. She still looked troubled. “I would hope that someday you might trust me.”

“You mean: You would hope that someday you might trust me. ”

She didn’t reply.

“I guess we both have some trust issues,” he said.

“Mine are pretty serious. I’ve been betrayed before. More than once.”

“Me too, Annie.”

“Somebody hurt you badly?”

He had to smile. “You could say that.”

“Well. What are we going to do about this, then?”

“Maybe we can work on our trust issues together.”

She looked at him a long time.

Say yes.

She unfolded her napkin, spread it on her lap. Raised her head. Smiled at him.

“All right…Dylan Hunter.”

*

He enjoyed the rest of their evening immensely, and she clearly did, too. Over an incredible meal featuring gnocchi, duck, and pork ravioli, she told him that she worked as a claims investigator for an insurance company in Fairfax. He asked about it, but she said she hated her boss, was hoping to find a new position soon, and didn’t really want to talk shop tonight, anyway. He told her that was fine with him.

He learned that she had been raised in Colorado; that her father inherited a family fortune from a California banking chain; that he met her mother out there while she was modeling and trying to break into acting.

“So that explains where you got your looks,” he said.

She didn’t react as he expected. “Actually, it’s best if we don’t talk about my mother. She ran off with another man when I was still in my teens. I don’t have any contact with her.”

Trust issue.

“I’m sorry. Do you care to tell me about your father?”

She hesitated. “Well, that hasn’t been easy, either. He’s a very intelligent man, very idealistic. He’s into all sorts of nonprofit activities. You know, social reforms. Helping the downtrodden.”

Another liberal do-gooder.

“The usual liberal do-gooder stuff,” she said.

He laughed. “Precisely the words I was thinking.”

She laughed, too. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Dad dearly. But he and I don’t see eye-to-eye. At all… How about your upbringing, Dylan? Or can’t you say?”

“Born and raised in the Midwest. My dad was a successful businessman; my mother was a writer. They’re no longer living, but they were terrific parents. I obviously got my writing bug from Mom, but people who knew them say a lot of my personality came from Dad.” He took a sip of wine. “If you must know a dark secret about me, he once said I was the most stubborn individual he’d ever met. If so, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”

She enjoyed that. “Well, I can be pretty obstinate, too.”

“‘Obstinate.’ And I said ‘stubborn.’ Maybe you should be the writer… Anyway, we lived well. I had a happy childhood, a great education.”

“Did you always want to be a writer?”

“Actually, I was first interested in government and current events. I began to dabble in writing in school and liked it, but I didn’t really get my journalism career going until years after I graduated.” He paused, thinking back. “Some people would say I had to find myself. Or whatever they call it when you waste a lot of time traveling down a bumpy road and reach a dead end.”

“Are you working on anything special right now?”

“I meant to tell you. I’ve been digging into the crimes against those members of Vigilance for Victims whom we met the other night. I uncovered some explosive information about the perps, and I’ve just about finished a big expose. The paper will run it on Sunday.”

“Oh! Can you give me a sneak preview?”

“Sure. Here’s one for you. Conrad Williams-the punk who shot Kate Higgins’s son, Michael, eight years ago? That was during a robbery in a Hyattsville, Maryland convenience store that Michael managed. Do you know that Williams never should have been on the street, even then? He was on probation at the time-a suspended sentence for a previous second-degree assault, where he stabbed a guy.”

“Probation-for stabbing somebody?”

“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.”