He changed into the jeans and the black sweater he’d brought up from the car, leaving the pieces of his tux scattered on the bare mattress. It was okay. He wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Now, he didn’t have to.
He pulled open the sliding door, stepped onto the balcony, hands in his pockets, his short boots sinking into the soft snow.
It didn’t feel that cold. There was not a breath of breeze. Big, delicate flakes drifted and tumbled down slowly, silently, from invisible heights, creating glowing cones of light beneath the street lamps below. Off in the surrounding neighborhood, Christmas lights illuminated the falling snow, wrapping each house in what looked like light fog. The snow clung to the bare branches of the trees, creating frosted web-work patterns against the white ground.
It was a rare, magical moment of serenity. Even here, in the city, there was no traffic noise. Not at this hour. Not on this night. Everyone was home with family, now. Children were asleep, dreaming of the presents they would find under the tree in the morning. Parents were tip-toeing around in the dark, bearing armloads of dolls and video games and clothes-willing conscripts performing their traditional roles and rites in a grand, benevolent game of inter-generational deception.
It was an interesting thought. A season of goodwill and generosity, bringing joy to so many. Yet resting on lies. On deceiving small children.
Do we really mind this, though, when we’re old enough to learn that we’ve been fooled? That our parents deceived us for years-but only to make us happy?
So, are all lies harmful, then? Isn’t there truly such a thing as noble deception?
Or don’t all lies-black ones or white ones-erode the bonds of trust that we all depend upon?
He didn’t know the answers, or how to begin to find them. He had been living lies for most of his adult life. He was a man enmeshed, probably inextricably, in a world of falsehood: a world of aliases and cover stories, of disinformation and dishonesty, of trickery and pretext.
He had enrolled in that world of untruth as an eager volunteer. It had been for a vital cause: to protect his country and its people. Because our enemies use clandestine and covert methods against us, we would be insane to handicap ourselves and risk our very survival by foreswearing such measures in self-defense.
There’s a difference between deception and treachery. Sometimes, we must use deception to protect the innocent from evil.
He brushed off some snow from the metal railing, grasped its cold surface, leaned out to survey the world around him.
It had become so easy, so natural. He was so damned good at it. So good at it that he had performed many critical but deniable missions on America’s behalf that would forever remain unknown and unsung. So good at it that he now used those same manipulative skills to deliver justice to monsters-monsters that a corrupt legal system only enabled and encouraged.
So good at it that his life of lies threatened the most important relationship that he’d ever known.
He moved back from the railing, then watched a large snowflake flutter down to the bare spot where he’d gripped the railing. He leaned over to inspect it. Saw its deviously intricate crystal patterns slowly melt against the reality of the warmer surface. Then vanish.
As if it had never been real.
He had made his peace with his mission. But he had not made peace with martyrdom.
Could he ever reconcile the professional and personal aspects of the life he’d chosen?
Could he somehow erect a firewall between his covert life and his personal life?
Could he shield her from his world of deceit?
*
He looked his watch. Midnight.
Christmas.
He remembered another person, probably as lonely as he on this night.
He went inside, stomping his shoes on the mat to knock off the snow, then went to the desk in the den. Pulled a phone out of the drawer, inserted a battery. Sat. Tapped in the number.
“Hello?”
He felt himself smile. “Hey there, Wonk. Merry Christmas.”
“Dylan! My God, I am so relieved you called!”
Something in his voice. “Relieved?”
“Yes! I have sent you repeated emails, all evening. Did you get them?”
“No,” he said, looking at the bare surface of his desk. “Wonk, what’s wrong?”
“It is all over the news! He tied up his sister and took her car…and they are all looking for him, now…but they believe he…is on the run!”
“Wonk, settle down. Take a breath. Okay, now tell me. Who are we talking about?”
“Wulfe! Adrian Wulfe! Dylan, they gave him a furlough, and-”
“What?” He shot to his feet.
“A Christmas furlough. From his prison. Apparently on Monday. He was to stay with his sister. She told the police that he had wanted to borrow her car. She refused, and then he beat her, tied her up, and then left in the stolen car. That was last night. A friend found her like that this afternoon.”
Those bastards.
“Imagine! His own sister! Dylan, he is so dangerous. There is no telling how many people he will harm before they find him.”
“I know, I know… Look, we need to think this through. Maybe we have some nugget of information that will lead me to him.”
“You?”
“I mean the police. Listen, you start going over his files again, and maybe we’ll talk in a few hours.”
“All right, I shall start right away… Oh-and Dylan?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for thinking of me and calling.” His voice quavering.
“Merry Christmas, Wonk,” he said gently.
“Merry Christmas, Dylan.”
*
He set down the phone on the desk. Checked his watch. Just after midnight, now.
Dammit.
He thought of that shrink, Frankfurt. That prick. This had to be his doing. He couldn’t care less about the victims of sadists like Wulfe. They didn’t count. How could he possibly sit there with Wulfe beside him, and look someone like Susanne Copeland in the face, while-
The cold sensation started on his skin, then crawled inside his body.
Susanne’s desperate call…
Annie.
No.
No, God no-
He snatched up the phone, punched in her cell phone number.
Held his breath, waiting for the connection.
Maybe she was still on the road… Maybe he could still reach her…stop her in time…
Heard the chirp of the first ring tone in his ears.
Pick up, Annie…
The cat, sitting at his feet. Staring at him…
Another chirp.
Pick it up!
Another chirp.
Closed his eyes.
Annie, please answer…
Tysons Corner, Virginia
Thursday, December 25, 12:03 a.m.
The quiet sobs brought her around. That, and the feeling of something jerking her arms.
It took several blinks for her eyes to fully open and focus. Her head was hanging down and she was seeing her lap. A narrow band of blue cloth crossed over her dress at the waist and disappeared somewhere behind her, at both sides. Her arms were drawn behind her, her hands felt squeezed together. Someone was tugging on her wrists.
She remembered…
She raised her head. She was in the den. She saw her fur coat in a heap on a nearby chair. Her purse was open, and its contents had been dumped on the floor.
She turned to the source of the sobs.
Susie. Beside her, about six feet away, in a wooden chair. Her legs tied to its legs, with colored strips of cloth…men’s ties. Her arms pulled behind the back of the chair, hands bound together. Her white blouse torn, exposing her bra. Her dark red hair unclasped, wild, disheveled. A red welt on her cheek, tears welling from eyes filled with despair.
“Annie…I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Movement behind her.
He stepped into view, moved in front of them, stopped and faced them both.
Adrian Wulfe smiled.
“Now Susanne, there’s no need to apologize. Annie, you should know that your loyal friend here truly tried to resist. She didn’t want to make that phone call. She really didn’t. But I made it so that she just couldn’t help herself. Isn’t that right, Susanne?”