Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

The front door opened and closed, Toby coming into the dimly lit front room a second later. “The suitcases are in the car, Pop.”

John nodded. “Where’d you get it?”

“From a dealer in Lancaster. It’s new, so we won’t have to worry about plates.”

“You paid cash?”

“Check from the bank,” Toby answered. “I just told them it was from a purchase order. None of that paperwork for a ten-grand transaction. Hell, they were just glad to sell a car.”

“And a place to stay?”

Toby stiffened his body and pretended to haughtily pull at a nonexistent lapel. “Arrangements for Mr. Benjamin Howell to lease a house have been made through the relocation services of Jefferson Properties of Harrisonburg, Virginia.”

John smiled at the short performance. “Your doing?”

“Are you kidding? I told you Stan does this stuff good.”

Toby saw the gun lying on his father’s lap, resting on a towel. “Pop, I… I mean…” Toby could never remember saying the words he now wanted to utter to his father. Maybe that was best. “I’m glad it’s starting.”

John Barrish looked up at his son, understanding what he was saying without actually doing so. He remembered the awkwardness well from his own youth. “Your mother and Stan are already in bed, son. You’d better get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“G’night, Pop.”

John smiled as his oldest boy left him alone with his thoughts for the last night in this place. In the morning they would be gone, on their way to bigger and better things. Things no one could even imagine.

Valley Oaks Memorial Park was just visible through the light drizzle, and just beyond its piano-shaped property line the Ventura Freeway was as it usually was at this early hour. Toby could see a steady stream of cars moving from right to left, heading toward Los Angeles from the bedroom communities of Thousand Oaks and beyond. Fewer crossed left to right. The city was almost everyone’s destination, a thought that made him smile.

“You ready, son?” John asked, closing the back door of the Aerostar.

“I’m ready.” Toby walked around the minivan, which they had parked on the dirt shoulder of Thousand Oaks Boulevard, and joined his father. They slide-stepped down the damp bank of the shoulder to a runoff ditch, then scrambled up the opposite side and over a barbed-wire cattle fence before moving up the slope. The grade was slight, and in ten minutes, their movements shrouded by the increasing misty drizzle, they had covered a quarter-mile, nearing a development of homes situated across Lindero Canyon Road from the Lake Lindero Country Club. Large homes that sat on large lots, Toby could tell through the falling haze. One house in particular drew his attention as he and his father stopped beneath an aged oak to scan their approach route.

“See the gully?” John asked, getting a nod in response. “That runs right up to that back wall. On the far side there’s a high spot you can use to get over the wall.”

“I see it.”

“You know what to do from there.”

“Yeah.” Toby checked the time. “It’s almost seven.”

“The nurse doesn’t come until nine on Wednesdays,” John said, reassuring his son that there would be no surprises.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The father-and-son team moved off, angling down the reverse slope of the hill, reducing the distance to the homes as they moved. There was sufficient cover, mostly in the form of oak trees and some sage, and they traversed the open spaces as quickly as the footing allowed. In eight minutes they were at the back wall.

“Three-three-four-one,” John reminded his son.

“Got it.” Toby continued on along the seven-foot block wall that encircled the back portion of the house at the end of Catarina Drive, while his father went in the opposite direction, toward the side of the property. The eldest Barrish boy trotted up the mound of earth at the northwest corner of the lot and peered over the wall. All was clear, with no apparent obstructions between the wall and the two-story house. A fifty-foot space to cover, Toby estimated, but then who would be watching?

He swung a leg onto the wall and rolled over, landing on his feet, and immediately trotted toward the side entrance his father had described to him. Located on the north wall of the four-car garage, the door had a single deadbolt lock. But that was to be no problem. Toby took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, closing it and feeling for the light switch that was supposed to be there, all the while beginning the thirty-second countdown. The fluorescent fixtures over the Jaguar and the Ford Explorer hummed, then flashed on. Beyond them Toby saw the flashing green light marking the location of the alarm box. He reached it as the count came to twelve, and punched in the four numbers on the keypad. The flashing stopped, they went solid green. He had ten more seconds to enter the next command, which was utterly simple. System off. He pressed the skinny black button, which made the panel go dark.

Done . Almost. He pulled the Beretta from his waistband and affixed the silencer, and waited by the door that led into the house.

The front doorbell surprised Monte Royce, causing him to jerk his cup of tea as he sat in the breakfast room. “Who could that be at this hour?” He set the dripping cup on its saucer and walked through the kitchen to the foyer, looking through the peephole before opening the — “What?”

The latch clicked and the door swung tentatively inward, the form of Monte Royce appearing in the widening gap. “Good morning, Monte.”

“John… What are you doing here?”

“Monte.” The voice, feeble but obviously female, came from upstairs. “Who is it?”

“Uh… No one, mother,” Royce lied. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“She has good ears,” John observed. What a shame. She was the only part of this that caused him pause. But what had to be done had to be done.

“What—”

“Inside, Monte,” John suggested forcefully. “Somewhere she won’t hear us. We need to talk.”

Royce looked past his unexpected and unwelcome visitor. The liberally landscaped front yard and its high walls blocked any view of the street, and hopefully was preventing any of his few neighbors from seeing this. “All right. Come in. Into the study.”

John entered and made an immediate left, walking below an impressive open arch that led into the combination study/library. His host closed the front door and followed him in.

“What is it, John?” Royce asked again, watching as John continued walking toward the fireplace at the far end of the study. His hands were doing something to his front, but what… No!

“I wouldn’t, Monte,” John said as he turned, causing the elderly executive to end his retreat from the room. He closed on Royce, keeping the silenced Beretta pointing at the man’s chest. “To the garage. Now.”

Royce followed the instructions after a hesitation caused more by surprise than defiance. At the door that connected the garage to the kitchen he was shoved away, toward the sink. A second later another familiar face was in the room. And another gun.

“What is this?” Royce asked quietly, not wanting to disturb his mother.

“Down,” John said, motioning to the exquisitely tiled floor. “On your stomach.”

“John…”

“Now.”

Royce still had no idea what was happening. Was this some sort of warning to him? Some attempt to frighten him? Did they think he was going to talk? Lowering himself from a pushup position to the floor he tried to figure it all out. But all his deductions were wrong.