They clung to each other and looked into each other’s eyes.
Then, like her, he began to tremble.
Then, like her-and for the first time since his father died-he cried.
*
The morning sun had moved, leaving only a soft afterglow in the window. It framed her as she sat in the chair next to his bed. She held his right hand in both of hers, neither of them wanting to let go. After a while, she said:
“My father visited me here this morning.”
He knew they had to face this together. “Yes?”
“This was even harder for him, you know. He almost lost me. To somebody from one of his own programs. The guilt over this is almost killing him.”
He could only listen.
“I tried to calm him down. We talked a long time. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, now. But I know there will be big changes in the foundation. For one thing, what he saw on the screen at the Christmas party…it really opened his eyes about Frankfurt. That, and now Wulfe. He told me that he was going to call Frankfurt today and fire him.”
“On Christmas Day?”
“He said he couldn’t do it fast enough. Then he’s going to cut off funding of Frankfurt’s programs and others like it. He doesn’t want to be responsible for any more things like…what happened.”
“I’m glad.”
“I suggested that maybe he could direct money toward victims of crime, instead. Groups such as Vigilance for Victims. He liked that.”
“That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Annie?”
“Yes?”
“I think there’s a big difference between people like Frankfurt, and people like your father. Frankfurt and his kind actually sympathize with the monsters. But your father and those like him-I don’t think they’re malicious. They just seem to be terribly confused about justice and compassion. They don’t realize that you can’t grant compassion toward bad people without committing injustices against their victims. You have to save your compassion for those who have earned it. Compassion without justice is just enabling.”
“I see that a lot more clearly since I met you, Dylan.”
“Maybe you can help him see it, too.”
*
The sound of soft rapping on the door.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to intrude.”
Cronin stood in the doorway.
He felt Annie’s hands squeeze his tighter.
“Not at all,” he replied. “Come in and have a seat.”
Cronin did. He didn’t bother to take off his coat.
“Just thought I’d check in and see how both of you were doing,” he said.
“Much better now, thanks. They say I should be out of here in five days or so, a week tops. And Annie is all right.”
He smiled. “So I see. I’m relieved… How’s Mrs. Copeland doing?”
Annie answered. “A few bumps and bruises. The main damage is psychological. It will take a long time for her to process this. To believe it’s really all over.”
“I’m sure. But she has a lot of good friends like you to help her.”
No point in dancing around it.
“So, what’s happening with the investigation, Detective?”
Cronin looked straight at him.
“Of course, I’ll need a statement from you. When you’re feeling up to it. But I think the facts are pretty clear-cut. The way we reconstruct things, Ms. Woods managed to sneak a phone call to you and let you know where they were. You showed up and fought with Wulfe, and both of you grabbed knives from the kitchen. He almost killed you, but after you were stabbed in the leg, you picked up this combat knife that he’d dropped, and you managed to stab him fatally. Isn’t that the way it was, Mr.”-he paused-“Hunter?”
He didn’t answer. Just held the cop’s eyes.
“That’s exactly the way it was,” Annie interjected, fighting a smile.
Cronin turned to her. “And, of course, you’ll sign a statement to that effect, won’t you, Ms. Woods?”
“Why, of course, Detective.”
“What about you, Mr…Hunter?”
“Gee, it all happened so fast. But that seems to be about right.”
“There. I figured it was pretty cut and dried. Nothing at the crime scene appears to contradict that interpretation.”
“How convenient for you.”
“And that’s one dead criminal I won’t have to chalk up to the vigilantes, either.”
“What a relief for you.”
“Sure is. I’m glad we don’t have Wulfe around to worry about anymore. He was a scary dude. I mean, with all his advanced belts in hand-to-hand combat-why, it’s a damned miracle that a mere newspaper reporter like you was somehow able to overpower and kill him.”
“It had to be a miracle.”
“You’re lucky you survived. And you left a lot of your blood there, Mr. Hunter. Lucky for you that Ms. Woods works for the CIA, so close by, and could have them send help so quickly.”
“As you say, I’m lucky.”
“You sure are.”
“Speaking of blood, Detective: Annie told me about the DNA matching you’re trying to do from one of the vigilante crime scenes. How’s that going?”
Cronin’s eyes lost their glimmer of amusement. “Funniest thing about that. Last night I happened to be talking to Ms. Woods’s boss at the CIA-a Mr. Garrett. And he said they have a priority need for that DNA sample. Something about some highly classified national security investigation involving an assassination. So, it looks like we’ll be turning that DNA sample over to them.”
Annie squeezed his hand harder.
“How unlucky for you.”
“Yes. How unlucky.” The cop leaned forward in the chair. “You know, Mr. Hunter, those vigilantes must really like you. If they ever try to contact you, I wonder if I might count on you to let me know?”
“Why, Detective Cronin! I’m a journalist. I have to protect my sources.” He turned to look at Annie. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to violate a trust, would you?”
She beamed at him.
“No, I suppose not.” He got up. “Well, it’s time I got back to the wife and kids. I only had a couple hours with them this morning to open the presents. I hope both of you get better real soon. Merry Christmas, Ms. Woods. And Mr… Hunter.”
“Merry Christmas, Detective Cronin,” Hunter said.
Annie stood and went to Cronin. Kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded.
He moved to the door, then stopped. Not turning to face them, he said:
“Hunter?”
“Yes?”
“Stay the hell away from Alexandria.”
He walked out.
They looked at each other and broke out laughing.
Connor’s Point
Maryland’s eastern shore
Tuesday, December 30, 10:32 a.m.
When Billie Rutherford opened the front door, she was surprised to see Vic Rostand standing there in heavy winter clothes, holding a gaily wrapped box.
“Hi there, Billie.”
“My God! How are you, stranger? Jim-it’s Vic! Come on in out of the cold, it’s freezing out there.”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. I was just checking in on things here, making sure they shoveled the walk and saved the mail. I’m going to be gone again for about six weeks. But before I go, I just wanted to drop off a belated Christmas present, since I’ve been out of town.”
Jim came up behind her. “Again? So soon? Don’t you ever get a break?”
“Actually, that’s what this is about. I need some R amp; R. I took a spill while skiing last weekend and the doc says it’s going to take my arm and leg a while to heal properly.”
She saw that he was shifting uncomfortably and balancing mostly on his right leg.
“Well, it’s about time you had a vacation. You work too hard.”
He laughed; she wished she could see his eyes better, behind those tinted glasses. “Well, Billie, as they say, ‘an idle mind is the devil’s playground.’”
She had to ask. “Were you alone on that ski trip, Vic? Or were you with anyone special?”
He grinned. “Well, yes. There is someone special. I’ll introduce her sometime. She’s quite a lady. And she owns an interesting cat.” He handed them the package. “Anyway, Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year. I’ll see you again sometime in early February.”