BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (24 page)

He stopped rocking. Held her still.

“I got him killed, Annie. It’s my fault. I revealed his name to these people.”

Now she understood. She slid off his lap.

“You can’t blame yourself for that! He
said
it was okay to mention his name. You couldn’t possibly have imagined that it would lead to this! Besides, his identity would have come out eventually, anyway.”

He shook his head. “No. The whole point of killing him was to silence him
before
he finished and submitted his report. Afterward, it wouldn’t have mattered to them anymore. He would have been safe. But they didn’t know who he was—not until I told them.” He flexed his big hands slowly, studying his fingers. “I was looking for an exposé, a big journalistic coup. But I only got him killed because of it.”

She realized that they were both thinking of his earlier words.

“It will be okay, Annie Woods. Please trust me.” He leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Are you all right now? I need to get to my apartment. I promised Dan I’d call him back and talk some more. And you need to get off to work, too … Are we still on for Friday night, out at the house?”

She tried to force a smile. “I guess.”

“Great,” he said. “And we’ll talk by phone, every night, till then.” He stood. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

She looked away. “I’m managing.”

“Love, if it’s too hard for you to stay here at night by yourself, I—”

“No. It’s okay. Really. It’s better if I … face things.”

In the eloquent silence that followed she felt the weight of his glance. After a moment he bent, tilted up her chin, and kissed her softly.

Then she watched him go.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, now.”

Dan Adair’s voice, previously so upbeat and confident, was subdued and dispirited.

From the window of his apartment office, Dylan watched the dark shapes of birds fluttering in the claws of a bare tree in a distant yard. For the past few minutes he had let Adair vent emotions that he didn’t want to entrust to his own words.

“Look, it’s not just about me. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I get that, Dan.”

“It’s about all of us. Since we can’t prove these bastards faked that goddamned ‘study,’ the EPA will not only shut
me
down; they’ll shut down every fracking operation in the country. We’re all screwed now.”

Hunter heard him sigh. When the man spoke again, his voice was cracking.

“Jesus, Dylan! They
murdered
him! I never would’ve hired Adam if I ever imagined—”

“I know, Dan. I know.” Then he heard himself add: “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Really? How can I
not?
If I didn’t get him involved in this, he’d still be alive. And his wife and kids … Shari—that’s his wife … his
widow
—she’s under sedation in the hospital. Their son, Marty, he’s in there, too, all banged up. And the daughter, Naomi—I hear she’s a basket case over this … Dylan—did I tell you that at first he said he was too busy to get involved in this? But I kept after him. I insisted—”

“It’s still not your fault,” Hunter interrupted. “It’s no one’s fault but theirs.” He watched the distant birds take wing, disrupted by something unseen. “It’s all on them, now.”

“You think so? You really think they’ll pay any price for doing this? I don’t! My God, Dylan! This is supposed to be
America.
What in hell has this country come to, that people can get away with shit like this?”

“Dan, listen to me. I don’t want you to throw in the towel. This is not over.”

“Oh, really.”

“Really. I’m not going to let go of this.”

“Look, I appreciate that. I really do. But you’re one reporter. What can one man do against these people?”

Hunter closed his eyes.

“I can do more than you think.”

“I’m grateful for you saying that. But I won’t hold you to it. This is way too big. These people are all connected to each other, and they’re way too powerful. Nobody can stop them now.”

The image of Adam Silva’s youthful, cheerful face invaded his consciousness. He opened his eyes.

“Don’t be too sure. Don’t give up on justice. I won’t.”

He thought of Garrett.

Of Annie …

Outside, the tree stood alone, bare and bleak in the distance.

“I promise you that, Dan. On my word of honor.”

He leaned back from his computer screen and rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty and dry from the lack of sleep. And from the after-effects of the wine.

He glanced at his watch. Ten-twenty. He got up to make more coffee.

Luna was standing sentry again at the entryway to the kitchen, looking impatient.

“Bowl empty, huh? Want some treats?”

“Mrrrowww.”

“Okay. Move aside.”

She trotted after him as he pried off the lid of the large storage tin and ladled out some dry food into her bowl. Then gave her a few reassuring strokes as she hunched down and began to crunch.

“You should hold out for something better than fast food,” he said.

He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, then brewed another cup in his coffeemaker. When he returned to the office, he noticed the message light of his new burner phone was flashing on his desk. He checked; it was a text message from Danika.

Danika Cheyenne Brown was the secretary-receptionist for the “virtual office” company on Connecticut Avenue downtown, where he rented space by the month. She intercepted his incoming messages, then either waited for him to call in for them, or—if they seemed urgent—texted him. Her texts were routed through a tangled network of spoof websites and call-forwarding from other burner phones.

He read her message and whistled softly.

Luna ambled in, sat next to the desk, raised her front paw and began licking it, then washing her face.

He punched in the number Danika had left him and waited. The burner’s outgoing calls were similarly routed through a convoluted maze of websites and forwarding phones. It took nearly a minute for his calls to go through, but the odds of them being traced was almost nil—especially since he removed batteries after each call and swapped out new phones daily.

A secretary answered. Hunter identified himself, then waited another half-minute.

“Mr. Hunter!” Damon Sloan’s voice was far more jovial than Hunter had any reason to expect, given their confrontation outside the EPA the day before. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

How about the life of Adam Silva, you son of a bitch?

“I confess that I’m a bit surprised to hear from you, Mr. Sloan. You didn’t seem eager to answer my questions yesterday.”

“Oh, well, you just caught me off-guard, that’s all.” He forced a laugh. “It wasn’t quite what I expected, given the occasion.”

“No doubt about that.” Hunter glanced at the copy of the
Post
on his desk, folded open to their article about the confrontation. “So, I gather you’ll chat with me now? It’ll have to be very soon; I’m putting the finishing touches on my first article.”

“Please, before you publish your—did you say your ‘first’ article? Well, I do hope you’ll hear me out before you do that. I’m sure that I can clear up a lot of misunderstandings. Believe me, that’s all I think this is about, really.”

Perhaps I understand too much.
“Well, I appreciate your cooperative attitude, Mr. Sloan. If it works for you, I can drop by this afternoon, and we—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m all jammed during the workday. Why not come by our offices over in Arlington right after work—say six-thirty tonight?”

Hunter felt a little smile tug at his lips. He had a suspicion what this meant. He decided to test it.

“Maybe we could grab a bite at a local restaurant, instead.”

“Oh no! I mean, I have access to all of the background material that you might want right here in my office. But I’ll be happy to treat you to dinner afterward.”

Hunter felt a full smile form.

“Why, that’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Sloan. As a member of the working press, I’ll have to decline your generous offer to pick up the tab, of course. But let me come by your office, and then we’ll play things by ear.”

“That’s great! Will you be walking over from the Metro stop?”

“No, I figure that I’ll drive.”

“Fine. You can park right in our underground garage. It should be virtually deserted by then. The attendant will be off-duty, too, so let me give you the gate code … Oh, by the way, what car will you be driving?”

He was trying not to laugh. “Is that important?”

“It’s for our building’s guest registry. They want us to keep records.”

“I’m sure.” Hunter told him, and Sloan gave him the code.

“Just proceed down the ramp to the lower basement level, labeled double-L. You can take the elevator there right up to our floor.”

“You make everything so convenient, Mr. Sloan. I can’t wait.”

He heard the man chuckle. “Neither can I. I look forward to this evening, Mr. Hunter.”

Sure you do, you prick.

Hunter ended the call and broke out laughing while he removed the phone’s battery. He noticed Luna looking at him, paw paused in mid-air. She made a little noise in her throat; it sounded like a question.

“That’s right, girl. I’m walking into a trap.”

He had been circling the block in the BMW since five-fifteen. He watched the steady flow of cars from the building’s garage entrance until about five-thirty. Then a slowing drain of vehicles until five-forty-five, when it became a mere trickle. Just before six he saw the guy operating the security gate packing up to head home. Another circuit of the block and the guy had gone.

On another pass five minutes later, he spotted them. They had gathered outside a couple of parked cars in an unmanned open-air lot across the street. There were four of them, dressed down and wearing hoodies, looking over at the garage entrance. He zipped the BMW around the building again, and on his return pass only two of them remained in the lot, watching a third enter the garage, head down to avoid the security cameras. They were going in one at a time, to avoid attracting attention.

On his next pass, the lot across the street was empty. He pulled his car to the curb next to it and put on his four-way flashers. Then got out and walked over to their parked cars. The bumpers and windows of both vehicles bore decals for the local branch of a building trades union. It rang a bell in his memory, but he couldn’t recall the connection.

He returned to the BMW and went around the block a couple more times, giving them ample time to set up their ambush. And more time for him to think this through.

He asked himself again why he was doing this. For a while, he had rationalized that he needed to “stir the pot”—force their hand, make something happen. But he knew that was a lie. This made no sense—not practically. Only emotionally.

It had festered for days. He wanted—no,
needed
to pound the crap out of somebody connected to this, somebody who deserved it. That’s why he didn’t trust himself to carry weapons to this confrontation; he was afraid he’d be tempted to kill someone. But that meant going in unarmed.

Stupid. Insanely unprofessional.

No, he didn’t
have
to accept the after-hours appointment with Sloan—didn’t
have
to confront these goons. Even now, he could just walk away.

Just walk away.

Garrett’s words. And Annie’s.

“You’ve got a great future there, fella …
don’t blow it”
…

“Someday I might have to do something, out of honor, that will hurt you … Love, the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you.”

“Then it’s
not
the last thing …”

Then he remembered the sight of Annie up on the cabin porch, putting the key into the lock … remembered the sight of Adam Silva at the end of the dinner table, eyes twinkling behind those squarish glasses, filled with life and intelligence …

He rounded the corner and approached the entrance to the garage. He had always believed that there were moments in one’s life when a single decision could set the course of one’s entire future.

He knew in his gut that this was such a moment.

Hunter’s mouth was dry, his hands damp on the steering wheel. He thought of Annie as he drew abreast of the entrance.

Keep going …

His foot moved from the gas pedal to stomp on the brake, and his hands jerked the wheel. He found himself stopped before the lowered gate arm, next to the protruding security keypad.

He sat still for a moment. Decision made, he felt himself once again entering that high, remote, cold place, the place where Dylan Hunter became something else …

He lowered the window, tapped in the security code, and eased forward into the gray cavern. He swept the big black BMW around a turn, then prowled toward the ramp that led down, into his future.

Smoky Scanlon heard the sound of a car engine echoing from somewhere above in the garage. His watch said 6:24. He chucked his cigarette butt onto the concrete at his feet.

“Okay, that could be him,” he told the others. “Let’s move into the stairwell and see.”

He waited as they preceded him, shuffling into the cramped space inside the stairwell door. Once he moved in and closed the door behind them, the stink of their workday sweat and of somebody’s dried piss under the stairs assaulted his nostrils.

He thought of his phone chat last night with Uncle Lou—his wife’s uncle, actually—the guy who got him his first job in construction, and later greased the wheels to get him his union card. Lou Russo ran the District Construction Workers Council, the umbrella group for the area building-trade unions. Lou had phoned him after dinner to ask the favor. The request made Smoky nervous.

“Look, Uncle Lou. I know I owe ya, big, and I’ll do anything for you, okay? But this—beating up a reporter—it sounds risky, you know? I’d like to know what it’s all about.”

“Fair enough, Walt.” Uncle Lou always called him by his given name; his voice reminded Smoky of that MGM lion at the beginning of the movies—the low growly sound it makes in its throat right before it roars. “I know I can trust you to keep this between us, right? It’s a favor for an old buddy of mine. Damon Sloan. Guy runs CarboNot Industries. This reporter, this Hunter character, is about to cause him big problems. Damon promises to throw lots of work our way, future construction projects, if we do this for him.”