Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Sunday, July 28th, The Coffee Shop just outside the Federal Building in Washington, D.C., at 10:00 a.m.
"You're sure it's me he is after?"
Deputy Director Anthony Freedman sits in the chair opposite Kate Beckett at the outdoor table. The withering summer beating has finally relented, giving them a couple of cooler days. It's Sunday, and although not a work-day, there are no days off right now for the agents under Freedman's command. Not with Scott Dunn still loose, and certainly not with the revelation that Kate has dropped into the Deputy Director's lap yesterday.
"Yes, I'm sure," Kate replies, her tone matter-of-fact, as she bites into a piece of banana bread to go with her sugar-free vanilla latte.
"How can you be certain?" he asks. The Federal man has been in tough spots in his career. But targeted by a madman? Him being the hunted instead of the hunter? It's a new world for Anthony Freedman, and one he is struggling with this morning.
"You saw the bugs in both our offices," she reminds him. "I know it's a lot to take in, sir, but trust me, you're in danger. You're the target."
Freedman runs nervous hands through his brushed back hair, sighing heavily. Kate eyes him with newfound respect and empathy. She knows what it is like to be targeted by a madman – specifically, by this particular madman.
"Dunn gave us very specific instructions, sir," Kate continues, taking a long sip from her drink. "He was very clear. It is supposed to be only me at these potential crime scenes. It's supposed to be him against me. The fact that you've been at the last two of his hits, literally right there with me – in plain sight – and he hasn't jumped on my case about it, about bringing you along – that tells me that he wanted you there all along, sir."
He considers her words, and frowns. Looking away, he rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers, and his breath catches. Kate leans forward, gently touching his arm, then retracting it quickly as he gazes back at her, confusion written in his eyes.
"What is it, sir?" she asks, now confused herself.
"If you are right," he says, his voice barely cracking, "if you are right, then those dozen people on the train who died? They're on me – they are on my head."
"I don't follow, sir," she says, still leaning forward.
"He gave us very specific instructions – you just said that – those were your exact words," he begins, sitting back a bit now. "And he told us on the video, if anyone helps you, people die. If anyone is there besides you, people die."
"I know, sir, but he's been killing people anyway," she notes, her mind now considering his train of thought.
"It's clear he was going to kill Marissa Stephens," Freedman continues, "and the next target was supposed to be me. But he didn't kill Marissa that day. Instead, he killed a dozen people. A dozen other innocent people. Because I was there. Because all of our agents were there in the cemetery."
"And he probably made their disguise as soon as we got there," Kate muses aloud, now locked in with Freedman's thinking.
"My arrogance," Freedman laments loudly, slamming his fist on the table, his legs now spread and his head hanging between them. A few people at tables around them now begin to notice the scene playing out at their table.
"Sir, let me tell you what I learned from my first encounter with Scott Dunn," Kate tells him softly, lowering her voice and avoiding the eyes now staring at them.
"People died, I didn't get to them in time. One victim, sir, he left right at my doorstep. Taunting me. It took a long time – and more than a few sessions of therapy – for me to realize what I need you to realize now. It wasn't my fault. He's the bad guy, sir. Not me. Not you. Those dozen people – they aren't your fault. What happened to them was a tragedy – but not one caused by you."
They are quiet for a moment, and the prying eyes from others around them return to their own drinks, and sandwiches and pastries. The Deputy Director takes a deep breath, and then sits upright, placing his hands back on their table. He offers Kate a wistful smile. He wants to believe her. He really does.
"Well," he says, finally, "I need to deal with it – as did you. But for now, I can't be concerned about this," he continues, recovering. "Right now we need to figure out what his next move is."
Kate nods in agreement, now leaning back in her chair as well.
"We do need to do that, sir, you're right. But – with the understanding that regardless of his riddles, his clues – you are the real target."
If the Deputy Director agrees with her, he doesn't say. He simply stares ahead, offering a glance at a couple at the table adjacent to them, along the small wrought iron fence.
"Any ideas on who or what the 'Y' target or location might be?" he asks her softly. "There aren't a whole lot of 'Y' spots I can think of."
"You are the target," she reiterates. "As for the location," she muses aloud, now taking another sip of her drink, "the only thing that comes to mind is the Yacht Club."
"The Capital Yacht Club?" Freedman wonders aloud. The old historical site has moved a couple of times, and has a rich history – but basically, it is a private club, elite membership. It conducts boating activities, fundraising events, and corporate parties as they have recently opened some areas for public functions.
"What makes you think that is the target location?" he asks.
"Because Senator Bracken is hosting a very small, very exclusive, very elite fundraiser there in two days," she tells him. "I did a little research last night, once I thought about the Yacht Club, and checked their itinerary for this week. Our Senator is holding a little soiree, with only the elite of the elite invited."
"Wait a second," Freedman interrupts. "If he is behind all of this – if this is all Bracken's doing – then why would he place himself at the next target location? Why risk –"
"Because he is a master politician, sir," Kate replies quickly, placing her drink on the table. "Because he turns negative events that could derail most people into personal, political crusades for his brand of truth."
"How so?" Freedman asks.
"When I saved him – his driver turned out to be working for his enemies and tried to blow him up in his car – but when I saved him, he turned it into one of those television 'moments'. He turned it into a reformation against those who opposed his campaign and his vision, starting himself as the brave knight who wants to save the oppressed – some bullshit like that." Her eyes darken a bit as she recalls that evening, and its aftermath. Saving the man who murdered her mother.
Life does enjoy its little ironies.
"If there is some type of attack, with him present, where it could even be perceived that he is the target – well, trust me, that's the kind of play I see him making. Very consistent with his history."
"I don't know, Beckett," the Deputy Director argues. "I don't know many – no, I don't know any politicians with the stones to put themselves into harm's way like this."
"You don't know Bracken, sir," she disagrees, and both are silent for a moment, staring at the truly understated logic of her words. Freedman doesn't know the Senator at all, and he is in bed with a wolf.
"Anyway, it won't be anything so dramatic," Kate continues. "He will make sure that he is well out of range of whatever happens, but that won't be the story on the news, believe me."
"And the real target," Freedman notes, quietly, already knowing the answer.
"As I said – you," she tells him. "In fact, sir, I would expect that sometime today or tomorrow morning, you are going to get a phone call. Either from Bracken or his assistant – I don't know who you normally speak with."
"I usually speak directly with the Senator," Freedman responds, a little tightness now growing in his chest. For the first time in the past day or so, he can see this happening – he can see how it could go down.
"Then he will call you himself, as he normally does," Kate continues, now laying the plotline out in front of them. "He will request your attendance, perhaps a friendly gesture, or perhaps as protection for him during the event."
"He has Secret Service personnel," he argues. "As a major presidential candidate, he's managed to obtain –"
"He will want you, Deputy Director," Kate interrupts, knowing that her boss is a dead-man-walking if he doesn't accept what she is telling him.
"He will want you," she repeats. "Look at it this way. When he asks for you, at least then you will know for sure that what I have told you is the truth. Then you won't have any reservations."
She reaches into her purse and takes out a couple of dollar bills. Standing up, now ready to leave, she takes her leave from the Deputy Director.
"Call me when he calls you, sir," she says, walking toward the wrought iron gate that opens to the sideway alongside the street.
"Where are you going?" he asks her.
"To the Yacht Club," she replies. "If Dunn is going to strike there, it will be well-planned. It always is. I want a chance to look around, see if I find anything out of the ordinary – or best case, see if I find him."
"Don't you think he will recognize you snooping around?" he asks, now standing and ready to leave himself as well.
"No sir," she smiles. "He won't see me coming."
Sunday, July 28th, At Washington Dulles International Airport, at 10:42 a.m.
The large airbus slowly lumbers down the runway after a smooth landing, decreasing its speed as it approaches a crossing runway.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Washington, D.C., " the flight attendant welcomes the passengers, who are now fidgeting with belongings in their seats. A few minutes later, the large aircraft slowly pulls to the gate, and now passengers sit on the edge of their seats, ready for the seatbelt light to extinguish, indicating the cattle call deplaning process is ready to commence.
The beautiful woman in last row of first class reaches across her to the man slumped against the window and slightly presses her hand against his neck. In her hand is a small needle, and seconds later, the man begins to move, searching for his bearings.
"Have . . . Have we landed?" he sputters, managing to the get the words out in a comical, slurring fashion.
"Yes," she replies. She gives him no other answer. The man – very talkative, very loud, quite obnoxious, had gotten on her final nerve an hour before, still over the Atlantic Ocean. She had popped him with a different concoction then, putting the garrulous businessman to sleep, after seriously considering a hard hit to the jugular or a silent kill with a hard, lower palm. There is no way she will encourage any future conversation with the poor man. She glances across the aisle, and satisfied that no one has noticed, she takes her small make-up mirror out and checks herself.
"You still look good, honey," the man smiles, his slur gone and his oppressive behavior back in form in record time.
She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she smiles. He is not worth the kill, no matter how tempting it is, and so – smile intact – she stands, and opens the overhead compartment above the seat. Her next-seat companion – ever the optimist – takes this as one final opportunity to connect with his seatmate.
"I can help with that," he tells her, brushing against her as he stands, presumably to assist her. His eyes bulge as her left hand reaches his neck, and squeezes quickly and holds the pressure.
"Please," she says softly with a force he will not soon forget. "Say another word to me," she continues. "Please."
Something about her tone, and the hard grip on his neck, finally gets through the now embarrassed and quite fearful businessman. A second later, she releases her grip, as the man drops into the aisle seat she has just vacated. She begins the short walk through the first-class cabin to exit the plane, her phone in hand. A second later, the phone is ringing as she walks through the jet tunnel to the gated area.
The Senator answers on the third ring.
"Hello, my queen," he greets her, and she can hear the subtle nervousness in his voice. It's odd, because so little rattles him, she notes.
"My king," she replies, knowing how the greeting makes the Senator feel. She also knows that those words coming from any other person in the world mean absolutely nothing to the Senator. Only from her do they have meaning.
"All is not well?" she asks.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replies. "I trust you have landed safely."
"I have," she responds. Very few words are spoken between the two of them on the phone. And she knows it is rare that he calls her into service, so yeah, things are probably not 'well', as she surmises.
"Good. Where are you staying?"
"The usual place."
"Lunch?" he asks.
"Dinner is better," she replies. "I know your schedule. Do not break it for me."
He considers his words, then changes his mind. One of the things – he knows – that she enjoys and respects about him is how he doesn't overly flatter her, how he doesn't fawn over her. How he treats her with honor and respect.
"Dinner then," he agrees. "Until then – and thank you again."
Before she can comment, he is gone, hanging up without another word. She smiles, nodding her head. Taking in her bearings, she glances around the terminal. It has been a year since she has been in Washington D.C., and she notes the subtle changes as she walks.
A short shuttle ride and a walk through the main terminal brings her to the taxi lanes, where she slides into the back seat of the cab after standing in line for just a few minutes. She glances down at her phone, scrolling through the photos.
She frowns as she looks at the picture of Scott Dunn. Sociopath, no honor, no code.
Her frown remains in place as she slides her finger sideways, pulling up the image of Jerry Tyson. A murderer of women primarily. He is the single, sole mark in her ledger against Senator William Bracken. That he would associate, that he would align himself with such a predator. She quickly slides her finger again, and smiles.
Richard Castle. She looks forward to the day she meets the man, her smile growing broader as she knows that day is coming much sooner than expected.