EPILOGUE

A week later.

New York International Airport.

New York, New York. Dylan had never realized how much he had missed it in his years away. Still, he had to leave. Dylan Hunt II had fulfilled his objective and now had to return to the locker of non-existence, while Robert Spada would be back from his abrupt holidays and resume functions one more time in the Argentinean branch of Hunt, Laver & Johnson.

He had had a brief meeting with Eugene Young. The Judge wanted to know about his father’s last years. Dylan lied convincingly, but he knew that deep down, Young did not buy a single word.

His farewells from the law firm had been brief. Roger Laver had awkwardly hugged him, a gesture to which Dylan reciprocated gladly. He had not been able to find Stephanie anywhere. And Carla... here she was coming. She looked radiant in denim jeans and a white tee shirt. Her blonde hair was loose and a bandage over her right eyebrow was the only thing left of the week before.

“So... leaving?” she said, her voice brittle and soft.

“Yes...” he said, his voice cracking as well. “I haven’t been able... to find Stephanie.”

“She took time off. Personal reasons.”

“You think she will—?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” They stared at each other and tears flowed down her eyes. They embraced. “You know... I can’t stop loving you.”

Dylan broke gently and kissed her forehead. “Neither can I.”

He wiped a teardrop from her eye and moved away. Soon, he was on the airplane, and half an hour later, he was leaving New York. His comeback had been a mistake. Had Stephanie defended him, Waingartner would not have even considered hinting the presence of immortals. He would have been found guilty and sentenced to life. A swift suicide would have set him free.

But his presence had endangered immortals and it could still do so. The murders of Darren Jones and of Joseph Branagh, both occurred at the same location, had priority among the crime scene investigators. Dylan knew a few of them from the old days. They were really good. Eventually, they might dig up something and show up with questions.

He could not stay, and he knew he could not return... and never he did.

--

Two days later.

In her apartment, Stephanie Lancroix worked anxiously at her desk. She fastened the photocopy of the newspaper cut to a sheet of paper and placed it on a carton folder. She stared at the piled newspapers.

News of the last months. All different, seemingly random murders by beheadings. The library online search was efficient. Sufficient evidence to convince an skeptical judge to investigate. And if further proof he or she needed, all it took was a plane ticket to South America.

Dylan Hunt. She had a photograph of Dylan Hunt Jr., stolen from the recent personnel file of the law firm. She put it next to a copy of a newspaper dated May 1982, when Dylan Hunt had won a monopoly case against NADT. It was in all papers, and there were pictures of the attorney who had won the impossible case. And there was another picture, dated 1948, when a British attorney named Paul Bale had won a case against an American shipping company. The face of Bale, obviously, was the same as the Hunts’.

Father and son. The same man. The same murderous man who had beheaded his client. And not only his client, many other men, as Dylan himself had claimed. Even a senator he had killed! She had sworn to uphold the law, and hence she was doing so. She was going to reveal them all, and that nonsensical butchery would be over.

The bell rang. Stephanie wondered who could be calling at midnight. Probably the lady next door, whose cat tended to stray and sneak in her apartment. Of maybe the hippie of the other side of the floor, who eyed her lasciviously every time they met, and tried to hook up with her, once at 4 AM?

She approached the door and repented not having a hole to glance through. She unlocked the door, still safe with the door chain, and opened. She only saw a slim shape before she heard a whistle, felt a seething pain in her throat and staggered backwards till she landed on the floor.

The intruder had removed the chain and was rummaging through her papers. Stephanie felt pain numbing her. Her throat was on fire. She had been shot! She tried to scream but no sound came out. She smelled something. It was... vodka? She strained her eyes. The intruder was soaking the evidence she had gathered with the vodka she kept for occasional drinks.

She saw the intruder kneeling by her and recognized the face. She felt the cold touch of the silencer of a pistol and wept silently. The last thing she heard was Carla Hayes saying Sorry. -