Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“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.