Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

*

In Room 315, he moved the computer’s mouse and clicked two icons on the screen.

The first click sent a wireless command to a device he’d placed inside in the master computer in the ballroom, shutting it down. The dummy video he’d provided the staff would not play.

The second click sent a wireless command to activate a DVD player he’d hidden under the dais. It began to run his video, transmitting it through a cable he’d connected to the giant screen.

*

Annie watched the name of the foundation fill the screen.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said a booming, electronically distorted voice. “As supporters of the MacLean Family Foundation, we have gathered here to celebrate Christmas…”

The screen abruptly filled with a horrifying image of a woman’s body, half-naked and bound, sprawled in a field.

“Oh my God!” a man’s voice pierced the darkness from somewhere in the audience.

A woman shrieked.

Then a rising chorus of muttering, punctuated by angry shouts.

The booming voice went on, overpowering the cries from the audience.

“But unfortunately, this beneficiary of the Foundation’s programs won’t be celebrating Christmas with her husband and children. Because Julie Madison was murdered by”-the photo changed to a mug shot of a bald man with tattoos on his cheek-“Richard Garney, a serial rapist who was granted parole early this year, thanks to the testimony of”-the slide changed again-“ this man. That’s right, it’s our very own Dr. Carl Frankfurt! Dr. Frankfurt, you see-”

Shocked, she turned to her father. In the light from the screen she could make out his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Hey! What is this?” shouted the congressman seated next to him.

“Stop this!” screamed Frankfurt, leaping to his feet. “Shut that off!”

“…And this next beneficiary of the foundation’s work this past year was little Tommy Atkinson,” the unstoppable metallic voice thundered. “He doesn’t look too good in this photo, though, does he? That’s because one day, Tommy, age eight, met this man, Rory Miller-a pedophile who managed to avoid prison. How? By entering a foundation-funded treatment program-”

As the din from the audience rose, her father jumped up, knocking over his chair. He stumbled and pushed his way past others on the dais to reach the podium.

“Let’s have the house lights-and please, turn off that TV screen!”

The chandeliers suddenly blazed, exposing a scene of bedlam: hundreds on their feet, shouting, screaming-others staring at the screen in mute, open-mouthed horror-women covering their eyes-one throwing up convulsively at her table-couples rushing toward the exits-wine glasses falling-people yelling at the tech crew in the back, who were shaking their heads frantically and waving their arms in helpless frustration…

“Friends! Please! Don’t panic! Don’t run!”

Her father, standing helplessly at the podium, shouting into the microphone, unheeded, his ashen face reflecting the horror of the spectacle before him.

She had remained rooted to her chair, feeling as if all the blood in her body had been drained, leaving her paralyzed.

Then she rose slowly to her feet. She scanned the room, from one side to the other.

After a moment, a nearby sound penetrated her consciousness. She turned and saw her father crumpled in a chair on the now-empty dais, his body hunched forward, sobbing uncontrollably as he gazed out at the wreckage of his life.

She walked over to him, knelt. Let him bury his face on her shoulder. Stroked his thick, unruly hair.

*

In room 315, he watched the horror unfold.

It was the horror that he was simply reflecting back upon them.

The horror that they had caused for so many others.

He felt not a shred of pity for them. He thought instead of their victims. The countless victims that these self-righteous, sanctimonious bastards preferred to forget.

Well, he would not let them forget. This night was their reminder.

He watched as they scrambled for the exits, like roaches caught in the light and scurrying for cover.

Then, amid the chaos, he noticed one point of calm.

He saw her rise slowly from her chair. Then, just as slowly, scan the audience from one side of the room to the other.

He knew the face she was looking for.

He watched her move to her father. Kneel and hold him.

After four minutes, he stopped the DVD. Closed the laptop and slid it back into the briefcase.

Slipped on his tuxedo jacket, then his coat and gloves.

When the police searched for Shane Stone, they would find only this empty room.

When they checked for Wayne Grayson, they would find that he had paid for this with cash and prepaid, store-bought credit cards. All untraceable.

When they examined the equipment he left behind, they would find nothing that would lead them anywhere, either.

He paused at the open door to take one last look around.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,” he said aloud.

He closed the door behind him.

Bethesda, Maryland

Wednesday, December 24, 10:47 p.m.

He backed the BMW into its slot in the garage. Before leaving the car, he took a moment to strip off the fake goatee. He left the groceries in the trunk; he wouldn’t be long, and they’d keep a while. Gas and groceries had been the last items on his long mental checklist. Now, he and the cat would be able to cover some distance, then stay out of sight for a couple of weeks while the manhunt was most intense.

He entered the elevator, pressed 9. The door hissed shut.

As he ascended to his apartment, he considered once again what he was leaving behind.

Then angrily dismissed it.

It was all an illusion. A fantasy. Get over it.

You were kidding yourself that you could ever have that kind of life. That kind of love. You never have. You never will. And you were an idiot to imagine that you could.

The elevator door opened and he headed down the hallway toward his apartment.

Now, to change out of this tux. Get Luna into the carrier-which won’t be fun. Dump her litter box and food into the garbage bag, seal it up. Grab that, her carrier, the bug-out bag, and you’re out of here.

He stuck the key card in his lock and pushed open the door.

“Hello, Dylan Lee Hunter,” she snapped. “Or should I say: Matthew Everett Malone?”

*

She stood in the foyer, arms crossed, feet apart. Still in her gown from the party.

Eyes blazing. Cheeks livid.

He stood still for a moment in the entrance, key in hand.

Then took a step inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

Well, well.

“Hello, Annie Woods. Or should I say Ann MacLean of the CIA’s Office of Security?”

She blinked, startled.

“Oops. I’m sorry, but I just can’t quite keep up with you. You’re working for Garrett, now-aren’t you, Miss MacLean? ”

Shock replaced the fury in her eyes.

“Oh yes. I know all about you,” he went on. “Although I must confess, you were way ahead of me. I only learned the truth over the past few days. But what a small world it is! Why, we shared the same employer. Then, I’m tricked into sleeping with the daughter of my worst enemy. Speaking of the devil, how’s Daddy feeling tonight?”

She flared up again. “You bastard! You fake!” she shouted, trying to regain her advantage. “You’re a fraud and a liar-”

“Oh please!” He spat the words out. “It’s not as if I’m the only liar here. Or even the biggest. In fact, I’m a rank amateur compared with you, Annie what’s-your-name. So: How long has the Agency been on to me? Months? Just how long have you been working to set me up?”