Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“That’s ammonia, all right,” Abrams said. “But it’s not from us. And that’s even more interesting. Look down there. See those smears on the tile? And the little beads of spray over there? Our shooter sprayed ammonia around here.” He pointed to a young CSI tech who was bending over the Doberman. “Jeff thinks the perp was using it to break down blood stains. Destroy any DNA.”

“ His blood, then,” Cronin said. “Our boy was injured.”

“That’s how I see it. Only thing that makes sense. You don’t take on two monsters like these and walk away without a scratch.”

“So where’s the ammonia?” Erskine asked, looking around in the kitchen.

“There isn’t any. None that we found yet, anyway.”

“You mean he took it with him?” Erskine asked.

“Maybe he brought it here with him,” Cronin said. “For exactly these kinds of situations.”

Abrams said, “These guys think of everything.”

“Which means we won’t find the shooter’s DNA here,” Cronin said wearily.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said a nearby voice.

They turned. It was Jeff, the tech. He was grinning. He wore white latex gloves, and he had lifted dog’s head, displaying its muzzle and teeth and hanging tongue.

All covered with blood.

“Gentlemen,” Abrams said slowly, a smile crossing his lips, “Maybe we just got our first big break.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Monday, December 12, 10:12 a.m.

The hot, pulsing spray from the shower beat down onto the back of his neck and shoulders. After five minutes, he felt the tight knots slowly loosening.

This morning’s workout in the gym downstairs had been exceptionally long and hard, the first good one he’d had in a while. But he knew that wasn’t the only reason for the tension in his body.

He was tense about the call he was about to make.

He’d thought a couple of weeks away from her would allow him to detach completely. He hadn’t expected how difficult that would be. It used to be easy for him to acquire and hold an Olympian perspective on things. He was always able to climb to a kind of cold, watchful height, a place above it all, where he could look down upon the world below with an icy calm. That habit or skill or discipline, whatever it was, let him maintain objective control whenever it was necessary to confront circumstances or do things that others found to be stressful, distasteful, even overwhelming.

But something had changed after he met her. From the beginning, she was an exception, the one element in his universe about which he could not maintain emotional distance. He seemed to have no will in the matter, and he didn’t understand it. And what he couldn’t understand or control unsettled him. He’d been honest enough to admit that fear to her, at the beginning.

Now he felt exposed. At a time when he needed to do everything possible to protect himself.

All the facts, looked at objectively, told him that she was working with Cronin and the other cops to bring him down. Only one fact stood against the growing pile of evidence: her eyes. Or, rather, what he saw in them, when she looked at him. What he saw in her eyes, and what he felt from her body when she was in his arms. That response couldn’t be an act, couldn’t be faked.

Try as he might, he simply couldn’t make himself believe that she was betraying him. Or ultimately would.

He flipped the shower faucet to cold, hoping to shake himself out of this mood-to escape this emotional straitjacket that threatened to immobilize him, stop him from doing what he had to do.

What he had to do was use her. Use her, in order to find out what the cops knew and what they were planning. And to accomplish that, he had to resume his relationship with her. Pretend to be in love with her.

Then hope, for his own sake, that it was mere pretense.

*

After he’d toweled off and dressed, he went into the den. Put a fresh battery into a fresh phone. Steeled himself. Keyed in her cell number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, you,” he said.

He felt five heartbeats before she spoke.

“Hi, you.” Cautious pleasure in the voice.

“I said I’d call.”

“And you kept your word. I knew you would, Dylan.”

It disarmed him. After a few seconds: “I’ve been busy and still have things going on all this week, evenings included. But I hoped we might get together next weekend.”

“I’d like that.”

“My place, Saturday? Luna misses you.”

She laughed; it sounded wonderful. “I miss Luna. And you.”

“I miss you, too, Annie Woods,” he said, knowing it was true.

He heard voices over the phone in the distant background. “Am I interrupting a meeting?”

“Just some co-workers outside my office on coffee break.”

“When we get together, you’ll finally have to tell me about the company.”

She burst out laughing. “The company… Yes, of course, Dylan. It’s time I told you all about the company.”

“Private joke?”

“Very private.” She giggled again. “I’ll let you in on it next Saturday. I have some chores during the day. I can get to your place in the early evening. Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Can’t wait.”

“Me, too.”

Washington, D.C.

Monday, December 12, 3:05 p.m.

“Ken, take a look at this.”

Startled, MacLean looked up from his desk. Carl Frankfurt had barged into his office without knocking and marched right over to his desk, holding a white business envelope between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were wide with excitement.

MacLean pushed aside his irritation at the interruption and took the envelope from Frankfurt’s hand. It was unsealed. He reached inside and extracted a light blue-colored check and a business card. He flipped over the check and looked at it.

Then stared.

It was made out to the order of the MacLean Family Foundation in the amount of $150,000.

He looked up at Frankfurt, astonished. “What’s this all about?”

Frankfurt was grinning. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I left him in the conference room.”

He glanced down at the pile of papers on his desk. They would keep.

He looked at the check. He’d been stiffed before. “Carl, could you call his bank and make sure this is legitimate? Then please join us.”

When he reached the conference room, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man rose from a seat at the table.

“How do you do, sir,” the man said. “Wayne Grayson.”

“Hello, I’m Ken MacLean,” he replied, shaking the gentleman’s hand. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Grayson.”

“Thank you.” The man had blonde hair, an impressive mustache, a deep suntan, and a suit that must have cost at least one-tenth of the amount of his check. “It’s generous of you to make time for me, Mr. MacLean.” There was a faint accent, perhaps Boston.

“Let’s not speak of my generosity, but yours. Am I correct in understanding that you wish to make a donation to our foundation?”

“You are.”

“Frankly, I’m at a loss for words, Mr. Grayson. ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate, given the size of your gift.”

He waved it off nonchalantly. “I have witnessed first-hand the powerful impact of your foundation’s work on many lives, sir. You may consider this as only the beginning of a personal campaign to repay you for all that you have done.”

“You’re most kind. Tell me: How are you familiar with us?”

The man smiled. “Individuals close to me have undergone life-changing experiences, directly as a result of your programs-especially those run by Dr. Frankfurt. I just can’t tell you what his efforts have meant for them.”