Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

The exception to the seasonal cheer was Susie’s house. It was completely undecorated, and from outside it barely seemed inhabited. Pulling into her drive, she saw that the first-floor curtains were drawn. The foyer inside was lit, but the front door light wasn’t on.

Strange. She knows I’m coming.

She’s starting to act like a recluse. Must be a delayed reaction to Arthur’s suicide. I’ll have to help her through this…

She parked, then got out and headed for the front door, not even bothering to lock the car. No risk of auto theft in this neighborhood, especially on Christmas Eve. The drive and sidewalk were heated and free of snow and ice-a blessing for a lady in heels. At the door, she saw the reason for the darkness outside: There was no bulb in the socket above the entrance.

Damn. She’s really letting things slide.

She was about to ring the bell when she noticed a scrawled note taped to the door. She leaned forward to read the block letters in the glow from the neighborhood lights.

IT’S OPEN

I’M IN THE BASEMENT

Must be serious for her not to greet me at the door.

Entering, she paused just inside. “Susie… It’s me, Annie.”

No response. She heard only faint classical music. It sounded as if it were coming from the den.

Probably can’t hear me down there with the stereo going.

Closing the door behind her, she unbuttoned her fur coat. Then walked toward the door at the head of the stairs that led down to her den. It was ajar only a dark sliver. As she approached, the symphonic strains from downstairs sounded louder.

She put her hand on the knob and opened it onto the dark silhouette of a huge man at the top of the stairs. She had almost no time to react as he grabbed for her. She instinctively jerked up her arms to protect herself, taking a step back. The giant charged her, grabbing the lapels of her coat, stepping into the light and revealing his face.

Wulfe.

The shock was almost paralyzing.

Almost. Her training kicked in and she spun as he bore in, drawing him toward her even faster, pulling him off-balance so that she could put him down and begin the strikes.

But with surprising agility he countered, hooking his long left leg around both of hers even as he fell, dragging her with him to the floor. She broke her fall with her arms to prevent her face from smashing into the marble surface.

They were prone, now, side by side, with his heavy left leg pinning both of hers inside the long gown. He grabbed the back of her coat so that she couldn’t get up or roll away. In response, she whipped her right elbow down, aiming for the bridge of his nose. But he jerked his head back just enough so that the blow grazed his cheek and struck his collarbone instead.

He grunted in pain. Enraged, he released his left hand from her coat and seized the back of her hair. He jerked it toward him, causing her to cry out, and he simultaneously wrapped his left leg around her thighs, rolling her into him and onto her side.

Her hair in his grip, her legs trapped, she flailed wildly with both hands, reaching blindly behind her for his face and eyes. But suddenly she felt his right arm shoot forward just over her shoulder, then circle back around her exposed neck.

With her throat in the crook of his elbow, he bore down with his huge forearm and bicep in a pincer against the sides of her neck.

She had scant seconds to think: Sleeper hold…he’s an expert. Then her energy faded and everything went fuzzy, then dark…

Bethesda, Maryland

Wednesday, December 24, 11:53 p.m.

He changed into the jeans and the black sweater he’d brought up from the car, leaving the pieces of his tux scattered on the bare mattress. It was okay. He wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Now, he didn’t have to.

He pulled open the sliding door, stepped onto the balcony, hands in his pockets, his short boots sinking into the soft snow.

It didn’t feel that cold. There was not a breath of breeze. Big, delicate flakes drifted and tumbled down slowly, silently, from invisible heights, creating glowing cones of light beneath the street lamps below. Off in the surrounding neighborhood, Christmas lights illuminated the falling snow, wrapping each house in what looked like light fog. The snow clung to the bare branches of the trees, creating frosted web-work patterns against the white ground.

It was a rare, magical moment of serenity. Even here, in the city, there was no traffic noise. Not at this hour. Not on this night. Everyone was home with family, now. Children were asleep, dreaming of the presents they would find under the tree in the morning. Parents were tip-toeing around in the dark, bearing armloads of dolls and video games and clothes-willing conscripts performing their traditional roles and rites in a grand, benevolent game of inter-generational deception.

It was an interesting thought. A season of goodwill and generosity, bringing joy to so many. Yet resting on lies. On deceiving small children.

Do we really mind this, though, when we’re old enough to learn that we’ve been fooled? That our parents deceived us for years-but only to make us happy?

So, are all lies harmful, then? Isn’t there truly such a thing as noble deception?

Or don’t all lies-black ones or white ones-erode the bonds of trust that we all depend upon?

He didn’t know the answers, or how to begin to find them. He had been living lies for most of his adult life. He was a man enmeshed, probably inextricably, in a world of falsehood: a world of aliases and cover stories, of disinformation and dishonesty, of trickery and pretext.

He had enrolled in that world of untruth as an eager volunteer. It had been for a vital cause: to protect his country and its people. Because our enemies use clandestine and covert methods against us, we would be insane to handicap ourselves and risk our very survival by foreswearing such measures in self-defense.

There’s a difference between deception and treachery. Sometimes, we must use deception to protect the innocent from evil.

He brushed off some snow from the metal railing, grasped its cold surface, leaned out to survey the world around him.

It had become so easy, so natural. He was so damned good at it. So good at it that he had performed many critical but deniable missions on America’s behalf that would forever remain unknown and unsung. So good at it that he now used those same manipulative skills to deliver justice to monsters-monsters that a corrupt legal system only enabled and encouraged.

So good at it that his life of lies threatened the most important relationship that he’d ever known.

He moved back from the railing, then watched a large snowflake flutter down to the bare spot where he’d gripped the railing. He leaned over to inspect it. Saw its deviously intricate crystal patterns slowly melt against the reality of the warmer surface. Then vanish.

As if it had never been real.

He had made his peace with his mission. But he had not made peace with martyrdom.

Could he ever reconcile the professional and personal aspects of the life he’d chosen?

Could he somehow erect a firewall between his covert life and his personal life?

Could he shield her from his world of deceit?

*

He looked his watch. Midnight.

Christmas.

He remembered another person, probably as lonely as he on this night.

He went inside, stomping his shoes on the mat to knock off the snow, then went to the desk in the den. Pulled a phone out of the drawer, inserted a battery. Sat. Tapped in the number.

“Hello?”

He felt himself smile. “Hey there, Wonk. Merry Christmas.”

“Dylan! My God, I am so relieved you called!”

Something in his voice. “Relieved?”

“Yes! I have sent you repeated emails, all evening. Did you get them?”