Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

The last words seemed to startle her.

“I have to say, though, they did choose well in sending you after me.” He yanked off his overcoat and threw it at a wingback chair. “I never thought much of shrinks, but whichever one at Langley selected you deserves a raise. He obviously knew my type better than I did. Tell me: Did you enjoy your performance as the phony little seductress?”

“That’s not true!” she gasped.

“ True? Who the hell are you to lecture me about truth? About trust?” A sadistic desire to hurt her was pulling him recklessly past some kind of inner barrier. “Hell, I’m no saint. For sure. Yes, I lied to you. Sure, I did. I lied to protect my life. But at least I never lied about the one thing that I thought really mattered between us: how I felt about you. But you took that and used it against me.”

She was shaking her head slowly, eyes wide.

“I know, I know: You were just doing it to protect Daddy, right?”

“No! It wasn’t that!”

“No? Well, what else, then? Money?”

“How can you say-”

“Who was it easier to betray me to: Cronin or Garrett? Were they in a bidding war for your services? Did they offer you bonuses for seducing me?”

“Dylan!” She began to cry.

But he was too furious now to stop. “No, seriously. You’re very good, you know. Did you undergo special physical training at the Farm for this little Mata Hari role?”

“Dylan!” she screamed, sobbing. “Stop!… Please stop!… Please!”

He stopped.

She stumbled to the sofa, collapsed onto it, her face buried in her hands.

He stared at her a long time.

What is happening here?

He went to the sink, drew some water in a paper cup, took it to her and offered it wordlessly. She took it, sipped, and looked up at him, shivering. The despair in her eyes could not be feigned.

He sat in the chair across from her. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He saw every word of his cruelty etched in her face.

What have I done?

When he could trust his voice, he said:

“We’ve both been living lies too long, Annie. We need to know what was real.”

She looked at the floor a moment, then back into his eyes.

“No. We need to know what is real.”

Tysons Corner, Virginia

Wednesday, December 24, 11:07 p.m.

She gazed at their framed wedding portrait hanging above the fireplace, and she fought down the urge to cry again.

She had told her friends that she didn’t want to go out and celebrate with them tonight, that she’d prefer to remain home by herself. They’d tried hard to convince her, even threatening to show up and visit her, anyway. But she was firm about it.

She had to get used to her first Christmas without him.

She hadn’t put up the tree or any decorations, nor had she displayed any of the many Christmas cards she’d received. There were several hundred this year, many more than they had ever received in years past. People were trying to be nice, they meant well. But their gestures of caring were still reminders. And reminders were painful.

She had plenty of reminders here.

She sat in her favorite chair in the living room, sipping a Coke. She had sworn off wine and any alcohol after that night, several years ago. And she had not been tempted even after Arthur’s death. She had seen what happened to people when they tried to numb pain and escape memories in booze. Not her.

It had been so hard at first. Both times. Losing Arthur had been harder. But you took it one day at a time. She had learned the truth of the saying: “That which doesn’t kill you, strengthens you.” She felt herself a bit stronger each day, now.

Her eyes roamed, taking in their furnishings, their framed prints, their hanging plants, their photos on the end tables. Their. She could accept that word. At first, she’d been tempted to redecorate. But that felt like running away, too. Learning to accept his ongoing presence in the things they’d shared strengthened her.

The doorbell rang.

She looked at the wall clock in disbelief. After eleven! She had told them she preferred to be alone tonight. But as she went to the door, she had to smile to herself, suppressing her irritation. She should feel lucky to have friends like this.

She flipped on the switch for the outside light next to the door, but it remained dark outside. She’d have to replace the bulb.

“Yes?” she called through the door.

She heard faint whistling, then made out the tune.

We wish you a Merry Christmas.

She chuckled as she unlocked the door, pulled it open.

“Merry Christmas, Susanne,” he said, a sick grin on his lips.

The shock paralyzed her. Before she could move a muscle or open her mouth to scream, he rushed in, smashing into her, lifting her right off the floor with one arm around her back, clamping his other huge hand over her mouth and nose. Holding her crushed against him, he kicked backward, slamming the door shut behind him.

He swept forward like a giant wave, carrying her with him through the entryway, out of the living room, down the hall. She flailed helplessly, uselessly, trying to scream through the pressure of his fingers, unable to breathe, walls and doors flashing by, lights, then no lights no air I’m falling I can’t breathe God I’m dying my lungs the pain…

*

Something smacked her across the face, jerking her head to the side. Stinging pain. Her eyes twitched open. Light, shadows, blurred. Something over her mouth. Something tight on her wrists, pulling her arms behind her, setting her shoulders on fire. The room fuzzy, out of focus, spinning.

A face.

His face.

She tried to scream, but the thing across her mouth made it a muffled moan.

“Now that’s silly, Susanne. No one can hear you down here.”

Her head snapped around. She was in her basement den.

“See? There’s no point in yelling, calling for help. No point in fighting me, no point in cursing me, blessing me, begging me. No point at all, Susanne.”

She began to cry, her eyes blurring with tears.

“Poor, poor Susanne. The big bad man is back, isn’t he?”

She sobbed, breathing only through her nose. Then started to choke.

He knelt and leaned close, inches from her face, frowning. “No, don’t die on me, Susanne.” He raised his hand; she felt the pressure of his finger tips against her cheek; then his hand tugged across her face. She felt a tearing sensation across her lips.

Suddenly her mouth was free and she gasped, filling her lungs with a rush of air. She started to cough uncontrollably.

“Better? Be nice, now, or the duct tape goes right back on.” He grabbed her hair. “Understand?”

She nodded weakly. Began to cry softly.

“Good girl! Now remember: No carrying on. Nobody is going to hear you, anyway, but if you irritate me, you’re going to be punished. And you wouldn’t like that.”

He stood, a giant, his head almost touching the basement ceiling. He had taken off whatever jacket he had worn, and now towered above her in a red flannel shirt and jeans. He began to wander around the den, idly examining the bookcases, the photos on the wall. He paused in front of the display of their vacation photos. Pulled one off the wall.

She closed her eyes.

“What is this? London? How nice. You were quite the romantic couple, weren’t you?”

“Please…”

She heard his sudden footsteps closing on her. Snapped her eyes open. He bent over her. Seized her shoulder near the neck and squeezed with his forefinger and thumb.

She screamed.

“You broke the rule, Susanne. You begged. I told you not to do that. You don’t ask for anything, you don’t beg for anything, you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understand?”