Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“You know it all, then.”

“Probably not. But enough.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So why in hell did you get mixed up in all this vigilante stuff?”

Hunter turned away, his gaze fixing on the ceiling.

“I never intended to. It just happened. When I bugged out after the plastic surgery and went to ground, I figured I’d just resurface as somebody else, and try to live a normal life.”

“You? Normal?”

“Okay. As normal as I can be. But then I heard about Arthur Copeland and his wife.”

He stopped. His eyes rested on the drip bag next to the bed. He had trouble getting the rest out.

“I owed that man, Grant. I owed him everything. He gave me this face. A chance at a new life. So when I heard that the animals that attacked them had been set free-”

He turned back to him. “I just couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t walk away.”

Something softened in Garrett’s face. “You never could.”

He shut his eyes again. The two of them were quiet for a while. He listened to the faint sound of voices somewhere out in the hall. He felt the tightness of the wrap around his thigh under the sheets. Felt the heavy bandage on his left forearm. The dull aches in other places that he didn’t know had been hurt.

“Seeing as how I just saved your sorry ass again,” Garrett said, “I’d like to know a few things. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Fire away.”

“I know you’ve got reasons, lots of reasons, to be pissed at the Agency.”

“Whatever gave you that idea.”

“So. You took out Muller, right?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” Garrett paused. Then: “Are you willing to let it go at that?”

He thought about it. About everything he’d been through. About what they allowed to happen to him. About the betrayals, at the highest levels.

Then he thought about what he had now. And about what might be ahead for him.

“I’ll let it go.”

Garrett got up, stood over him. Extended his hand.

“Then so will we.”

He looked up at his old boss, took the hand, and shook it.

Garrett didn’t release it. “Matt, I know this is a stupid question. You wouldn’t think of coming back and working for us, again, would you?”

“You’re right. It’s a stupid question.”

“Then how about working directly for me?”

He smiled. “That’s not a stupid question. And thank you, Grant. But no.”

Garrett looked sad. “You know, son, there are many days that I envy you.”

“Don’t. I’m glad you’re there. You’re holding it all together, Grant. I shudder to think of how bad things would get if you weren’t.”

Garrett coughed.

“Still smoking?”

Garrett shrugged.

“Please stop.”

Garrett shrugged again. “I’ll check on you later. You’ll be here for a bit. Not too long, maybe a week. But you’ve been busted up pretty badly, and they have to put you back together again. Don’t worry, it’s on the Company’s tab.”

He picked up his overcoat from the other chair. “Don’t run off again, Matt. You won’t have to do that anymore. Promise?”

He smiled again. “I promise.” Then added: “Grant?”

“Yes?”

“Call me Dylan.”

They looked at each other. A moment passed.

Grant Garrett smiled. Actually smiled.

“See you later, Dylan Hunter.”

Then turned and left.

He shut his eyes again.

*

Felt something.

Someone lifting the sheets from his body. He opened his eyes.

She was climbing into the bed with him.

He seized her, and she him.

They clung to each other and looked into each other’s eyes.

Then, like her, he began to tremble.

Then, like her-and for the first time since his father died-he cried.

*

The morning sun had moved, leaving only a soft afterglow in the window. It framed her as she sat in the chair next to his bed. She held his right hand in both of hers, neither of them wanting to let go. After a while, she said:

“My father visited me here this morning.”

He knew they had to face this together. “Yes?”

“This was even harder for him, you know. He almost lost me. To somebody from one of his own programs. The guilt over this is almost killing him.”

He could only listen.

“I tried to calm him down. We talked a long time. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, now. But I know there will be big changes in the foundation. For one thing, what he saw on the screen at the Christmas party…it really opened his eyes about Frankfurt. That, and now Wulfe. He told me that he was going to call Frankfurt today and fire him.”

“On Christmas Day?”

“He said he couldn’t do it fast enough. Then he’s going to cut off funding of Frankfurt’s programs and others like it. He doesn’t want to be responsible for any more things like…what happened.”

“I’m glad.”

“I suggested that maybe he could direct money toward victims of crime, instead. Groups such as Vigilance for Victims. He liked that.”

“That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Annie?”

“Yes?”

“I think there’s a big difference between people like Frankfurt, and people like your father. Frankfurt and his kind actually sympathize with the monsters. But your father and those like him-I don’t think they’re malicious. They just seem to be terribly confused about justice and compassion. They don’t realize that you can’t grant compassion toward bad people without committing injustices against their victims. You have to save your compassion for those who have earned it. Compassion without justice is just enabling.”

“I see that a lot more clearly since I met you, Dylan.”

“Maybe you can help him see it, too.”

*

The sound of soft rapping on the door.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to intrude.”

Cronin stood in the doorway.

He felt Annie’s hands squeeze his tighter.

“Not at all,” he replied. “Come in and have a seat.”

Cronin did. He didn’t bother to take off his coat.

“Just thought I’d check in and see how both of you were doing,” he said.

“Much better now, thanks. They say I should be out of here in five days or so, a week tops. And Annie is all right.”

He smiled. “So I see. I’m relieved… How’s Mrs. Copeland doing?”

Annie answered. “A few bumps and bruises. The main damage is psychological. It will take a long time for her to process this. To believe it’s really all over.”

“I’m sure. But she has a lot of good friends like you to help her.”

No point in dancing around it.

“So, what’s happening with the investigation, Detective?”

Cronin looked straight at him.

“Of course, I’ll need a statement from you. When you’re feeling up to it. But I think the facts are pretty clear-cut. The way we reconstruct things, Ms. Woods managed to sneak a phone call to you and let you know where they were. You showed up and fought with Wulfe, and both of you grabbed knives from the kitchen. He almost killed you, but after you were stabbed in the leg, you picked up this combat knife that he’d dropped, and you managed to stab him fatally. Isn’t that the way it was, Mr.”-he paused-“Hunter?”

He didn’t answer. Just held the cop’s eyes.

“That’s exactly the way it was,” Annie interjected, fighting a smile.

Cronin turned to her. “And, of course, you’ll sign a statement to that effect, won’t you, Ms. Woods?”

“Why, of course, Detective.”

“What about you, Mr…Hunter?”

“Gee, it all happened so fast. But that seems to be about right.”

“There. I figured it was pretty cut and dried. Nothing at the crime scene appears to contradict that interpretation.”