He pasted on a grin and brought their glasses over. Handed her one, clinked it with his, then took a nearby armchair instead of sitting beside her. So that he could watch her.
“How was work today?” he asked.
“Oh. All right. Not as bad as usual.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She took a sip.
He had debated whether to wait her out or simply confront her. Her eyes remained focused on the cat, not him. That decided it for him. She was trying to gloss over whatever it was.
But he never let anyone gloss over anything.
As she raised her wine glass again, he asked: “Then what else could be bothering you, Annie Woods?”
Her glass paused in mid-air; her eyes shot to his, startled. “What do you mean?”
He held her glance and very deliberately lowered his own glass to the coffee table. “Something’s been bugging you. Since Sunday morning. And it wasn’t just the Mexican food from Saturday night. Don’t you think we should talk about it?”
She took a deep breath, her breasts rising against her suit jacket, then falling.
“All right. It was your article. That started it.”
“Figured as much. What about it?”
She put down her glass, sat back. Her eyes were-what? Worried?
No. Wary.
“Dylan,” she said carefully, “you know that I’ve believed in what you’re doing. For crime victims. They didn’t have a voice until you came along.” She stopped.
“But…”
“Yes. But. But I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”
“Annie, if anyone else on the planet said that to me, I’d answer: ‘Why should I give a damn what you think?’ But because it’s you, I’ll bite: How have I gone too far?”
“You’ve gone beyond attacking criminals and the people in the legal system who free them. Yes, they deserve to be exposed. And I’m proud of you for doing that. But now-now you’re targeting private individuals. Reformers. People who sincerely believe in rehabilitation and are only trying to do what they think is the right thing. Okay, maybe they’re naive do-gooders; but their only real sin seems to be an excess of idealism.”
“Idealism,” he repeated. “And what are their ‘ideals’?”
She shrugged. “Turning criminals away from crime.”
“By making excuses for them?”
“Maybe some of them are trying to understand why they commit crimes. Perhaps they’re looking for explanations.”
“Tell me: What, exactly, is the difference between an ‘explanation’ for crime and an ‘excuse’ for crime?”
“Look, Dylan, you know that I don’t agree with them. I’m not trying to defend what they advocate.”
“Aren’t you?” he asked. “You seem to be saying that I’m attacking them unfairly.”
She looked away. “But why focus attention on them? I just don’t see how they are responsible for what those in charge of the courts and jails do.”
“You don’t? Annie, my article laid it out. The MacLean Foundation has supported or engineered everything that’s wrong in the system. They’re professional excuse-makers for criminals. Politicians quote their studies and statistics when they gut tough sentencing laws. Lawyers and judges rely on their excuses and recommendations when they turn criminals loose.”
“But the counselors, the people running the programs-they’re not the ones actually freeing the criminals. They’re just talkers.”
“Talkers who empower the bad actors.”
“Empower? What do you mean?”
“I’m saying that Edmund Burke was wrong.”
“Now you’re speaking in riddles.”
He had to stand, move. He went to the window of the balcony. Stared into the night.
“Burke famously stated, ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“How true.”
“ Not true. He made it sound as if evil people are powerful. But they’re not. Evil people are nothing more than parasites who feed on others. They’re losers. Most can barely survive on their own, let alone triumph on their own.”
“But that’s silly! Bad people are powerful. They’re thriving. Sometimes, I think they run the world.”
He turned to her. “Ask yourself why, Annie. Ask yourself why there are such things as ‘career criminals’-losers like Bracey and Valenti, with rap sheets a mile long. Why weren’t they stopped cold after their first few crimes? And how did they get out again, even after what they did to Susie and Arthur Copeland? It’s not because they’re powerful; it’s because they’ve been empowered. They have millions of eager, do-gooder accomplices. All those ‘nice’ people who blabber about mercy and forgiveness, instead of simple justice. All those ‘nice’ folks who feel so sad and sorry for bad people-then feel so holy and self-righteous whenever they give monsters ‘second chances.’ Third chances. Tenth chances, fifty-ninth chances. Endless chances to hurt more innocent people. People like Susie and Arthur. And George Banacek’s boy. And Kate Higgins’s kid.”
Her gaze was directed at the floor; he went on.
“Yes, Annie, evil people do triumph, too often. But it’s not because ‘good people’ do nothing; it’s because of what they do. They actively encourage evil. While kidding themselves that they’re engaging in saintly acts of virtue. If I were into psychobabble, I’d call them ‘enablers.’ Enablers of predators. Do-gooders like that MacLean guy-they’re giving aid and comfort to society’s enemies.”
“That’s a really harsh view of the world.” Her voice sounded strained.
“The world is a harsh place. But who makes it that way? That’s why Edmund Burke had it wrong. He should have said: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is an enabler.’”
Abruptly, she stood. “Dylan, this conversation-it’s really upsetting me.”
“I see that. I can’t see why, though. You’ve never reacted this way to my earlier articles.”
“It’s just… I don’t know. And watching you at that news conference… It was… I saw things I didn’t expect to see.”
Her words were uprooting something inside him, leaving him feeling hollow.
“Annie,” he said quietly, “you saw exactly who I am.”
She approached him. He saw anguish in her eyes. “I know,” she said. She stood on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. Then pushed back. “I wish I could explain it to you, Dylan.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” She blinked, seeming to be on the edge of tears. “This was a bad idea.”
She turned away and went back to the sofa. Picked up her purse.
“You’re not staying.”
She shook her head. “I have some things to sort out.”
He followed her to the closet, helped her on with her coat. She opened the apartment door, then turned to him.
He touched her face, ran his thumb lightly across her cheek. Watching her closely, he said: “You say you have ‘some things’ to sort out. ‘Things,’ plural. So, what else is bothering you, Annie?”
He caught it, a little flicker in her eyes. She closed them, turned her lips into his palm. Kissed it.
Then pulled away and headed down the hallway, toward the elevator. She didn’t look back.
He closed the door.
Stood there a moment, his palm resting flat against the cool surface.
He returned to the sofa. Looked down at her wine glass. Saw the faint trace of her lipstick on the rim.
He settled back into his armchair. Reached for his own glass. Took a large swallow.
So incoherent. So unlike her.
And it all started with his article.
The cat leaped from the sofa onto the stuffed arm of his chair, then slinked down into his lap. He rested his hand on the soft fur of her back. Felt her begin to purr.
But the article wasn’t all of it. One other thing he now knew for certain, from her startled reaction in the doorway.
She and Cronin had talked.
Talked about his past.
He pressed the chilled glass against his temple.
“I think they may be on to us, Luna.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia