Each act of tenderness made her feel more guilty. She blinked back tears as he turned to leave.
“Dylan.”
“Yes?”
She had to say it. Now. Whatever happened later, he had to hear it.
“I love you… I want you to know that. I really do love you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Then he approached the bed. Leaned down, took her face in his big, strong hands. His eyes, usually so intense, were soft now.
“And I love you, Annie Woods. I really do love you.”
It was the first time they had said it.
He kissed her, gently.
Then he straightened, smiled down at her, and left, closing the door softly.
She turned into the pillow to muffle her sobs.
*
After about an hour, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror.
You fraud.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. It would be obvious she’d been crying.
First, a shower.
Then she had to make an excuse and get out of here. Get away for awhile. Think.
She had deceived him. And he would hate her for it.
She ran the water as cold as she could stand. Stepped in and stood there, taking it.
You fraud.
TWENTY-THREE
Alexandria, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 9:45 a.m.
“You look like you just ate a crap sandwich,” Erskine said.
From behind his desk, Erskine stared up at him over his half-moon glasses.
“Just did,” Cronin said. He tilted his head toward the chief’s glassed-in office.
“Let’s have it.”
Cronin flopped into Erskine’s visitor chair. Around them, the other desks were half-occupied by uniforms and investigators working leads and catching up on weekend paperwork. As usual, they had to talk over a steady din of chatter, chirping phones, and questions shouted and answered across the room.
“Read the latest Hunter article in the Inquirer yesterday?”
“Naw, I’m illiterate, Ed. Of course I did. He really laid it out, didn’t he?”
“Too well. He’s been pissing people off for weeks. People with clout. Judges, prosecutors, attorneys, prison officials. Now this MacLean guy, who’s politically connected and has boatloads of money. Going after him seems to have been the last straw. Chief got a call last night, he wouldn’t say who. He told me the Powers That Be want us to lean on Hunter and get him to shut up.”
Erskine’s mouth fell open. “Lean on a reporter? That’s nuts!”
“Of course it is. It shows how desperate they’re getting. They tried to talk to his bosses at the newspaper, but it didn’t work. So now they’re telling us to play hardball with him. They’re pretending it’s because he’s encouraging the vigilantes. ‘Every time he writes, somebody dies,’ is the official line. But it’s really because he’s embarrassing a lot of suits.”
“But why ask Alexandria PD to go after him? We’re small potatoes.”
“I asked. Chief says he owes a big favor to some guy, and now the guy’s calling it in. He was told they don’t want the whole task force to be implicated if it goes bad. So, guess who’s our department’s designated hitter?”
Erskine stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Chief told me, ‘Nose into his background a bit. Find something we can use to persuade him to back off.’”
“Jesus. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.
His eyes drifted around the room, watching his friends work. Most of their faces looked like he felt. Worn. Tired. He thought of his rookie days, when he showed up here every day full of piss and vinegar and pride and idealism. He hadn’t felt any of that for-hell, he couldn’t remember how long. And he knew why. Too many days like this one.
He faced his partner. “Dammit, Paul. I like the guy. I even told him the whole department was behind what he’s doing.”
“He’s saying all the things that need to be said.”
“And now I’m being ordered to go back on what I said to him.”
“I’m sorry, Ed… So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He moved a paperweight on Erskine’s desk in small circles. “I’ll start poking into his background this morning. Go through the motions, anyway. Just enough to keep the brass and the mayor from breathing down my neck. Hell, it’s not like I don’t have enough to do already.”
“Ed. You know I’ll cover for you, if you need me to.”
He met his partner’s eyes. “Thanks, Paul. But I’ll be okay.” He sighed and rose to his feet. “It’s just that, days like this, I wonder whose side we’re really on.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 10:35 a.m.
As always, the dozen men sat in a circle in the second-floor meeting room. As always, each of them spoke in turn, and to all appearances, spontaneously and sincerely.
As always, they’d rehearsed their lines together ahead of time.
Adrian Wulfe looked around at his fellow inmates. At all the jutting jaws, the bulging biceps, the scars, the tats, the dreads. At the feigned expressions of interest and contrition, masking boredom. He glanced at the clock for the third time in a minute, wishing the hands to move faster toward eleven.
Frankfurt’s group counseling sessions were scheduled twice a week. Almost all of them hated being here. Except for Preacher Jim, of course. The gaunt-faced old-timer with the stringy gray hair sat across from him, rocking back and forth in his chair, looking up at the ceiling periodically, like he was waiting for Jesus or something. Whenever anybody spoke, Preacher would mumble to himself, then say “Amen!” when they were done.
The others, though, were here for the same reasons he was. They volunteered for Group only to get good-behavior credits and knock some time off their prison terms. Occasionally, if you impressed The Hairball with your “progress,” he’d put in a good word and you’d get some perks, too. More free time in the music room or library, better jobs. And you made him feel important, like he was accomplishing something. A win-win situation. Sure, they all hated sucking up to him, but you did what you had to do.
His eyes followed The Hairball, who strolled in the center of the ring, like a lion tamer. He didn’t know who had come up with Frankfurt’s nickname, but it stuck. The shrink’s frizzy, unkempt hair and beard did kind of remind you of something a cat coughed up.
Wulfe was one of the few in the joint who had some college, so they all came to him when they needed something to be written, or for help in what to say in situations like this. He traded on his education and literacy for favors, cash, and contraband. For Group, he coached them to think of it like an acting class. You’re putting on a show, a performance. You have to seem credible. And if you can impress The Hairball, you could probably snow parole and probation people later, too.
They listened to him, not only because he was smart, but because he’d actually taken two semesters of drama in college. Mainly to get near the theater girls, because he’d been told that artsy bitches would do pretty much anything, in bed or out. So he took acting classes and learned some Stanislavsky bullshit, before the college tossed him out on his ass near the end of his sophomore year. But he could still cry on cue, if he wanted to. Not here, of course, or they’d think you were a pussy, which could be fatal. But outside, it came in handy, sometimes. Like if you wanted to get in some broad’s pants, and maybe there were people nearby, so you couldn’t just force her, and you had to do the Mr. Sensitivity act. Sure, it was better when you just forced them, but sometimes you had to make do.
Bo Weller, the Aryan Brotherhood enforcer, was into his routine, now. It was all Wulfe could do to keep from laughing. Here’s this three-hundred-pound dude with a broken nose and all those gang tats bullshitting Hairball about how his parents’ divorce when he was thirteen left a “hole in his emotions.” Wulfe had given Weller that line yesterday, in exchange for a couple of cigarettes. Weller was a moron, and Wulfe wasn’t sure if Hairball would see right through a line that lame; but he could tell that the shrink was eating it up. People believe what they want to believe. So, you feed them what they want to hear, and you own them.