Hunter: A Thriller by Robert James Bidinotto Page A

time.
    She got out and walked up the tidy brick sidewalk that arced toward the front door. Even before she rang the bell, Gracie, the old Irish Setter, began to bark inside.
    Kenneth MacLean peered through the arched window of the door, and a smile spread over his face. The door opened a few seconds later.
    “Annie dear! What a lovely surprise.” He opened his arms and she returned his hearty hug.
    “Hi, Dad.”
    “Come, sit down.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the den. Gracie followed and Annie bent to pat her for a minute until, satisfied, the dog wandered off.
    Paneled in dark oak, the room was a gentleman’s sanctuary from another era. The wall to the left was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. The wall opposite featured a massive stone fireplace. Family photos adorned the mantelpiece, and a few paintings surrounded the window on the far wall. It had been her favorite place in the house as a little girl. Curled up with a story book in one of the big club chairs, she felt a sense of security, stability, and permanence.
    She had not felt that here for a long time. She tried to recapture it now, as she took one of the twin stuffed chairs facing the fire.
    “Let me pour some wine, sweetie. You still like Shiraz ?” She nodded. “Good. I have something here you might enjoy.” He fetched a half-filled Wedgewood decanter and two crystal glasses from a sideboard and brought them to the coffee table between her chair and his.
    Looking at him as he poured the ruby liquid, she marveled at how well he had aged. In his youth, Kenneth Martin MacLean had movie-star good looks, a boyish grin, and thick, unruly hair that, on a woman, would be called strawberry blond. Back then, he cynically exploited those looks, aided and abetted by a fortune inherited from the family banking empire. The looks and money had allowed him every advantage of social status, including the ability to break most of society’s rules and get away with it.
    But that was then, and then was long ago. Today he dressed unpretentiously in corduroy slacks and a cable-knit sweater, both dark brown. The clothes reflected the different man he was now: spiritual rather than materialistic, self-effacing rather than self-indulgent, idealistic rather than hedonistic. He was still a handsome man, though the once-boyish face was lined and drawn; he still sported a full head of hair, though the rusty waves were streaked with gray.
    He offered her a glass, tapped his against hers in a wordless toast, and settled into his chair. They exchanged idle questions and answers about each other’s work. Then the conversation petered out. For a few minutes they sipped in silence, enjoying the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
    He closed his eyes. “What brings you here, Annie?”
    He can read me, of course. He knows something’s wrong.
    “I had a tough day.”
    He opened his eyes, looked at her. “Tell me.”
    She did. She told him about the prison visit. About Susie’s confrontation with Wulfe . About the news of Bracey’s death. About their discovery of Bracey’s and Valenti’s participation in the Youth Horizons program. For some reason, she found that she didn’t want to mention the presence of Dylan Hunter.
    “Dad, I’m just trying to understand all these programs that you run. Like this Youth Horizons. All for the benefit of those— animals .”
    “Animals?”
    “Well, what would you call the likes of Wulfe and Bracey and Valenti ? Give me a name for creatures that could do things like that to decent people like Susie and Arthur.”
    He stared into his wine glass, swirling the contents; firelight flashed from the crystal facets. “I suppose I’d call them what our Lord and Savior called them: His children.” He looked over at her, smiling gently. “They’re human beings, Annie. Not animals. Tragically flawed human beings.”
    “Dad, look. I know how much your faith means