“If you’re angry, imagine how Malone felt when he found out.”
Once again, she looked at the photo on the coffee table. “How could they do that to him?”
“Can you see now why he would’ve been angry enough to blow Muller’s brains out?”
*
She sat in her office, hunched over a few sheets of paper and a man’s photo.
The papers were notes she’d been scribbling since the meeting with Garrett and Kessler ended an hour earlier. The photo was the one of Matt Malone.
She kept going back to the photo. Maybe if she could come to understand him better, she might be able to find him. Though now that they knew what they were up against, it seemed almost hopeless. Clearly, he was a genius in the clandestine arts. Probably a genius, period.
She tried to imagine the intensity of the idealism that could compel someone to such extremes. For she had no doubt, based on what they had said, that Matt Malone was a passionate idealist. A man so idealistic that he could lay down his life for his principles. Or, if necessary, kill for them.
It caused her to wonder about the depth of her own principles, and what she would or wouldn’t do in their name. What is the boundary line between a man of principle and a fanatic? Between a person moved to violence by a passion for justice, and a person motivated to violence by blood-lust and nihilism? Surely there was a difference, not in degree but in kind, between someone like Matt Malone and a typical terrorist. A moral difference. He seemed a reluctant warrior, someone for whom violence had become a last resort, not a preferred alternative.
She tried to put herself in his shoes, tried to fathom the sheer depths of his loneliness and isolation. She thought of his life history, of its promise, of what he could have become. Of what he should have become. He was a man of enormous talent, courage, and integrity. The sort of man who, in a just world, would be making headlines with his deeds.
What a tragic waste.
She heard the faint tone of her cell phone and dug it out of her purse. Frowned when she saw who it was.
“Yes, Detective Cronin,” she answered.
He chuckled. “I wonder how many heavy breathers have been put out of business by Caller ID?”
“Better living through technology. What’s up?”
“We haven’t talked for a while. Just wondered if anything new had developed?”
“Not really. He contacted me again. We’re going to get together this weekend.”
“Well, that’s something, at least. We lost track of him a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know how; we had his place staked out pretty well. Anyway, I called his editor at the Inquirer, and he said that Mr. Hunter told him he was off researching another crime piece.”
“No doubt. I wonder what new surprises he has in store for us?”
“You sound a bit negative. I thought you liked what he is writing.”
“Oh. Well, yes. I guess I’m just a bit tired.”
“Don’t lose your idealism, Ms. Woods. I like that about you. And, truth be told, I like your boyfriend’s idealism, too.”
“So do I,” she said. She glanced at Malone’s photo. Another idealist. She smiled to herself. I can’t seem to escape them.
“Well, as long as I have you on the line,” he continued, “I might as well bring you up to speed on the investigation. Don’t spread this around, but we have a blood sample of one of the shooters.”
It perked her interest. “Really. That’s great news. How did that happen?”
“We didn’t let it out to the press. But remember that Navarro killing a couple weeks ago? The guy owned a Doberman. It bit the shooter before he killed it and Navarro. We got the shooter’s blood sample off the dog. It had to be his blood, because it didn’t match Navarro’s. It’s our first real break, because when we eventually get a shooter suspect, we can check for a DNA match or maybe scars from dog bites.”
“That’s at least some progress.”
“The longer they do this, the more chances they take, the more mistakes they make, and the more clues they leave behind. And the people around them start to notice things, too. All the sneaking around.”
“It’s a shame you don’t have more than the blood to go on, so far.”
“Not much. Just that and the symbolic names.”
“Symbolic names?”
“Oh. Sorry. That hasn’t gotten out, either. The vigilante team has been using symbolic aliases.”
“I still don’t get what you mean.”
“You know, names like ‘Lex Talionis’ and ‘Edmond Dantes.’ Lex Talionis, that’s Latin for ‘eye for an eye.’ Old Testament justice, you see. They used that in Hyattsville, when a-”
Something froze inside her. “Did you say Edmond Dantes?”
“Yeah. One of our guys looked it up. That’s the hero in a classic revenge novel, Count of Monte Cristo. That guy was also a vigilante. So the way we-”
“Billy Joe Stoddard,” she mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
The walls seemed to be spinning.
Suddenly, things began to crash together.
Malone assassinates Muller, out of revenge.
And leaves behind the name of a fictional avenger as his signature.
The vigilantes assassinate criminals, also for revenge.
And leave behind the name of fictional avengers.
Matt Malone is a vigilante?
“Ms. Woods?”
She stared in shock at the photo on her desk.
It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
But then everything else began to tumble into place.
Matt Malone, CIA master of assassination and disguise…and of surveillance detection.
Matt Malone, idealist…who had plastic surgery…who left his old identity behind…living now under a false identity…seeking justice…
“You still there? Ms. Woods?”
Arthur Copeland rebuilds Matt Malone’s face…
Her pulse was hammering.
Dylan Hunter-with a rebuilt face and a new identity-shows up at Arthur Copeland’s funeral…
She stared at the photo of the dark-haired man. Began to shake.
No-God no!
She felt a crushing weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Matt Malone…Dylan Hunter…
You’ve been hunting your own lover!
“Annie! Is anything wrong?”
“I…have to go…”
She clicked off the phone. It fell from her shaking hand to her desk.
THIRTY-FOUR
Falls Church, Virginia
Saturday, December 20, 4:25 p.m.
The sight of her lingerie in the overnight bag caused her to shudder.
She had to stop packing and sit on her bed, trying once again to settle her nerves.
Since yesterday, the fear had come upon her in sudden waves. It prevented her from sleeping last night, until she finally took a pill that relaxed her enough for a fitful few hours of semi-consciousness.
Throughout the day, though, the thought of facing him again terrified her. All the facts, all the logical inferences she could draw from them, told her that Matt Malone, CIA assassin, had become Dylan Hunter, leader of a team of vigilantes.
But those same facts-and mistaken logical inferences drawn from them-had led her and Garrett astray for the past six months. The same facts and erroneous inferences had propelled them into futile manhunts for imaginary Russian moles and military snipers.
Well, were her inferences any more valid this time? Everything she felt, everything she knew, told her that she was right about this. But did she really know everything?
Before she would say anything to Garrett or Cronin, she needed proof. Iron-clad proof. She could not destroy Dylan’s life because of some terrible mistake or misinterpretation.
She ran her hand over the smooth fabric of the bed’s comforter.
Nor could she destroy their relationship because of some tragic error.
So she had to face him tonight. Had to pretend to him that she had resolved her doubts and fears. Had to play-act long enough to get the proof she needed. Or evidence that would exonerate him, once and for all.