Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“How convenient for you.”

“And that’s one dead criminal I won’t have to chalk up to the vigilantes, either.”

“What a relief for you.”

“Sure is. I’m glad we don’t have Wulfe around to worry about anymore. He was a scary dude. I mean, with all his advanced belts in hand-to-hand combat-why, it’s a damned miracle that a mere newspaper reporter like you was somehow able to overpower and kill him.”

“It had to be a miracle.”

“You’re lucky you survived. And you left a lot of your blood there, Mr. Hunter. Lucky for you that Ms. Woods works for the CIA, so close by, and could have them send help so quickly.”

“As you say, I’m lucky.”

“You sure are.”

“Speaking of blood, Detective: Annie told me about the DNA matching you’re trying to do from one of the vigilante crime scenes. How’s that going?”

Cronin’s eyes lost their glimmer of amusement. “Funniest thing about that. Last night I happened to be talking to Ms. Woods’s boss at the CIA-a Mr. Garrett. And he said they have a priority need for that DNA sample. Something about some highly classified national security investigation involving an assassination. So, it looks like we’ll be turning that DNA sample over to them.”

Annie squeezed his hand harder.

“How unlucky for you.”

“Yes. How unlucky.” The cop leaned forward in the chair. “You know, Mr. Hunter, those vigilantes must really like you. If they ever try to contact you, I wonder if I might count on you to let me know?”

“Why, Detective Cronin! I’m a journalist. I have to protect my sources.” He turned to look at Annie. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to violate a trust, would you?”

She beamed at him.

“No, I suppose not.” He got up. “Well, it’s time I got back to the wife and kids. I only had a couple hours with them this morning to open the presents. I hope both of you get better real soon. Merry Christmas, Ms. Woods. And Mr… Hunter.”

“Merry Christmas, Detective Cronin,” Hunter said.

Annie stood and went to Cronin. Kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded.

He moved to the door, then stopped. Not turning to face them, he said:

“Hunter?”

“Yes?”

“Stay the hell away from Alexandria.”

He walked out.

They looked at each other and broke out laughing.

Connor’s Point

Maryland’s eastern shore

Tuesday, December 30, 10:32 a.m.

When Billie Rutherford opened the front door, she was surprised to see Vic Rostand standing there in heavy winter clothes, holding a gaily wrapped box.

“Hi there, Billie.”

“My God! How are you, stranger? Jim-it’s Vic! Come on in out of the cold, it’s freezing out there.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. I was just checking in on things here, making sure they shoveled the walk and saved the mail. I’m going to be gone again for about six weeks. But before I go, I just wanted to drop off a belated Christmas present, since I’ve been out of town.”

Jim came up behind her. “Again? So soon? Don’t you ever get a break?”

“Actually, that’s what this is about. I need some R amp; R. I took a spill while skiing last weekend and the doc says it’s going to take my arm and leg a while to heal properly.”

She saw that he was shifting uncomfortably and balancing mostly on his right leg.

“Well, it’s about time you had a vacation. You work too hard.”

He laughed; she wished she could see his eyes better, behind those tinted glasses. “Well, Billie, as they say, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s playground.’”

She had to ask. “Were you alone on that ski trip, Vic? Or were you with anyone special?”

He grinned. “Well, yes. There is someone special. I’ll introduce her sometime. She’s quite a lady. And she owns an interesting cat.” He handed them the package. “Anyway, Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year. I’ll see you again sometime in early February.”

“Same to you, Vic. Drive safe.”

She closed the door and through the window they watched him limp back to his Honda CR-V.

“What a nice, sweet man,” Billie said. “I hope she’s good enough for him.”

*

“Bronowski.” The impatient growl over the phone.

“And happy holidays to you, too, Bill.”

“Where the hell have you been these weeks? I thought you’d fallen off the planet! It’s been nuts around here since you left.”

“I know a little about that.”

“Well, thank God you’re back. Just today, all kinds of fallout from your last piece and that Adrian Wulfe escape. Here’s from A.P. this morning: ‘Prominent charity benefactor Kenneth MacLean issued a statement today that he is initiating reorganization of his foundation, with a focus on advocacy for crime victims.’”

“It’s about time.”

“Hunter, you have the inside track on this stuff. I need you to follow up, now.”

He gazed down at the iron expanse of the Chesapeake from the lofty height of the Bay Bridge as his car sped westward.

“Your coverage has been just great without me, Bill. In fact, I’m just calling to wish you happy holidays and let you know I’ll be gone till the beginning of February.”

“What! Now? ” Bronowski moaned. “You’re kidding me!”

“Don’t worry. I promise you lots of fresh meat when I get back.”

Tionesta, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, December 30, 8:13 p.m.

His bouncing headlights illuminated the rutted, snow-covered drive leading to the cabin. He pulled up and parked near the door, in the clearing embraced by the pines and oaks. Left the engine running until he could go unlock the door and turn on the lights.

Then he came back for her.

“You’re going to love it here.”

He brought her inside. Then he turned her loose to explore.

At first Luna stood outside her carrier bag, hunched nervously, sniffing the bare planks of the cabin floor. Then, after a few tentative steps, during which no beasts of prey leaped from hiding places, she straightened and began to trot from item to item, checking them out.

He let her wander and went back outside to bring in and store the rest of their gear.

He kicked off his boots and hung his parka on the deer antlers next to the door-the trophy of a hunting trip so long ago.

He went to the kitchen area and, after uncorking and pouring some wine, sat on the couch. Put his stocking feet up on the knotty pine coffee table. Looked around at the bare wood walls. At the empty mantelpiece over the big stone fireplace.

It hurt not to be able to put out photos. But at least he had his memories, and particularly fond ones of this place.

He knew that he had undergone an important passage in his life since he was here last. That a new chapter was beginning. He knew he had to mark it now, alone.

He had to answer the question that he had asked himself here, not quite three years earlier.

He drank the glass. Then another.

Poured a third.

*

Once again, he limped up the stairs, carrying his duffle bag and a glass of wine. Luna scampered up after him and immediately found a place on the bare mattress. He used a rag to wipe the gathered dust from the vanity mirror. Then he sat down on the mattress beside the cat. He sipped the wine, stroked the cat, and looked into the mirror.

“Okay. So, who are you?”

The face that was now his own stared back at him, not answering.

He took another sip. Placed the glass on the floor.

Reached into the top of his duffle and extracted a leather pouch.

Opened it and pulled out the drivers’ licenses.

Spread them on the mattress next to him.

Brad Roark Flynn Victor Edward Rostand Wayne Alan Grayson Shane Michael Stone Edmond Dantes Lex Talionis