He stood once again in the hallway entrance, just to survey the scene and try to get a sense of what had gone down.
Somebody had called it in to the locals about 1:20 a.m., anonymously, and when the first black-and-whites arrived, it was just like the Copeland place: front door open, tire tracks everywhere, but nobody home.
Except the stiff. He could tell it was Wulfe.
He couldn’t read the newspaper underneath the guy’s head, but he had little doubt it was related to the vigilantes.
When he got here about ten minutes ago, the neighbors huddled outside the tape told him what they’d seen. Just a couple minutes past one, flashing lights and car engine noise woke them up. They looked out and saw three black SUVs and an orange-and-white ambulance with its strobes going. Their neighbor, Annie Woods, was standing at the front door of her house, wearing what looked like a gown, and she was waving frantically at them. About a dozen people spilled out of the cars and ran inside while the EMTs followed with a couple of stretchers.
Then, barely a minute later, about six of them came charging out with one of the stretchers and somebody on it. They carried it, not rolled it, very fast over to the back of the ambulance. One of the people was Annie, and she looked like she was running barefoot through the snow alongside the stretcher. Then the other stretcher came out, just as fast, with somebody else on it, and they brought that to the ambulance, too. Then they moved aside and one of them slapped the side of the ambulance and they heard him yelling Go! Go! Go!
Then they jumped in two of the SUVs and hauled ass out of there, following the ambulance. About one-fifteen, two guys came out of the house with a bunch of stuff in their hands-no telling what-and got into the last SUV. Then they sped away, too.
What the hell is going on here?
Annie Woods.
Wulfe.
Then who was on the stretcher?
Susanne Copeland?
Who else?
And those SUVs-what is that all about?
Watching his steps, he went over to one of the CSIs who was kneeling over the body.
“All that blood. Looks like whoever did this really butchered him,” he said.
The tech looked up, glanced back at the pool and smear across the floor. “That blood’s not from this guy. He’s mashed up and bleeding, all right, but not leaking that bad.”
Whose, then? Copeland? Jesus, I hope not. The poor woman.
Then he remembered the dog.
Blood from one of the vigilantes?
“Make sure to get plenty of samples, then.”
“Let’s not do that,” said a voice behind him.
In the entranceway, Marty Abrams was standing next to some tall, older guy in a gray suit.
He went over to them.
“What are you talking about, Marty? And who’s this?”
The guy had steel-gray hair to match his suit, and a hard face. He held up credentials.
Cronin looked close. Felt something turn over inside of him.
“Grant Garrett,” the man said. “Please come out to my car. We’ve got to talk.”
Walter Reed Medical Center Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday, December 25, 10:09 a.m.
The first thing he was conscious of was the familiar smells of antiseptics and bandages. Then the familiar feeling of pain, all over his body.
Then he opened his eyes on the equally familiar sight of a hospital room.
“Hello, Matt,” said a gravelly voice. Also familiar.
He turned his head and saw Garrett, legs crossed, fingers entwined across his middle, sitting in a chair next to the window.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” the spymaster added, gesturing toward the surroundings.
“So you found me.”
“Nope. She called me. Lucky thing, too, because of how close by we are. Another minute or two and you’d have been room temperature.”
Then he remembered. “Annie! Is she okay?”
He raised a hand. “Fine, fine. Take it easy. From what she told me, you saved her neck, just in time. And Susanne’s, too.”
He closed his eyes.
“They’re down the hall a ways. Under sedation. They’ve apparently been through hell, but they’ll be okay… What Annie told me before they put her under, though-it’s pretty damned incredible. Even for you.”
“You know it all, then.”
“Probably not. But enough.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So why in hell did you get mixed up in all this vigilante stuff?”
Hunter turned away, his gaze fixing on the ceiling.
“I never intended to. It just happened. When I bugged out after the plastic surgery and went to ground, I figured I’d just resurface as somebody else, and try to live a normal life.”
“You? Normal?”
“Okay. As normal as I can be. But then I heard about Arthur Copeland and his wife.”
He stopped. His eyes rested on the drip bag next to the bed. He had trouble getting the rest out.
“I owed that man, Grant. I owed him everything. He gave me this face. A chance at a new life. So when I heard that the animals that attacked them had been set free-”
He turned back to him. “I just couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t walk away.”
Something softened in Garrett’s face. “You never could.”
He shut his eyes again. The two of them were quiet for a while. He listened to the faint sound of voices somewhere out in the hall. He felt the tightness of the wrap around his thigh under the sheets. Felt the heavy bandage on his left forearm. The dull aches in other places that he didn’t know had been hurt.
“Seeing as how I just saved your sorry ass again,” Garrett said, “I’d like to know a few things. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Fire away.”
“I know you’ve got reasons, lots of reasons, to be pissed at the Agency.”
“Whatever gave you that idea.”
“So. You took out Muller, right?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” Garrett paused. Then: “Are you willing to let it go at that?”
He thought about it. About everything he’d been through. About what they allowed to happen to him. About the betrayals, at the highest levels.
Then he thought about what he had now. And about what might be ahead for him.
“I’ll let it go.”
Garrett got up, stood over him. Extended his hand.
“Then so will we.”
He looked up at his old boss, took the hand, and shook it.
Garrett didn’t release it. “Matt, I know this is a stupid question. You wouldn’t think of coming back and working for us, again, would you?”
“You’re right. It’s a stupid question.”
“Then how about working directly for me?”
He smiled. “That’s not a stupid question. And thank you, Grant. But no.”
Garrett looked sad. “You know, son, there are many days that I envy you.”
“Don’t. I’m glad you’re there. You’re holding it all together, Grant. I shudder to think of how bad things would get if you weren’t.”
Garrett coughed.
“Still smoking?”
Garrett shrugged.
“Please stop.”
Garrett shrugged again. “I’ll check on you later. You’ll be here for a bit. Not too long, maybe a week. But you’ve been busted up pretty badly, and they have to put you back together again. Don’t worry, it’s on the Company’s tab.”
He picked up his overcoat from the other chair. “Don’t run off again, Matt. You won’t have to do that anymore. Promise?”
He smiled again. “I promise.” Then added: “Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Call me Dylan.”
They looked at each other. A moment passed.
Grant Garrett smiled. Actually smiled.
“See you later, Dylan Hunter.”
Then turned and left.
He shut his eyes again.
*
Felt something.
Someone lifting the sheets from his body. He opened his eyes.
She was climbing into the bed with him.
He seized her, and she him.