Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Darren returned the expression, adding a nervous chuckle. “What?”

“Darren, Felicia…” Anne paused, trying to find the best words. Hell, she was still having a hard time fathoming the news Rabbi Levin had brought to her less than an hour earlier. “We’ve been invited somewhere.”

“We?” Darren looked to Levin.

“Not me,” Levin said. “I haven’t the honor.”

“The honor?” Darren parroted. “What’s going on?”

“Darren,” Anne began, “you, and Felicia, and I have been invited to come to Washington.” She stopped, letting that sink in for a moment. What came next would take longer to absorb. “By the president, to be his guests at the State of the Union address next month.”

Darren felt Felicia clutch his elbow, and knew without looking that her jaw was closer to the floor than it had been a second before. His was.

“I have dealings with the president’s party,” Levin explained, filling the shock-inspired silence. “He is very much saddened by what you have been through. By the reasons it happened. This would be good for all to see. That… hate does not prevail.”

“Darren?” Anne saw that he hadn’t moved. Neither had Felicia. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” The President!?

“Honey.” Felicia looked to her husband. “Do we… Should…”

“Well?” Anne prodded.

Darren let a deep breath drain from his lungs. “Well, I guess you don’t say no to an invitation like that.”

“Wonderful!” Levin exclaimed, joyously clapping his large hands once.

“It looks like we’re going to Washington,” Anne said, hugging Felicia.

“I guess it’ll be an adventure,” Darren observed.

“An adventure,” Levin agreed. “That it will.”

Mark Reister looked to the flashing arrow next to line one and wondered when the slowdown of the congressional recess would apply to chief aides as well as their bosses. Well, someone had to oil the machinery that kept the Hill running when the big boys were away. Away . That didn’t do justice to the slopes of Vail. But then his big boy didn’t either. Old Limp Dick did as good on skis as one could with only one real hoof. Perpetually on the beginner’s slope. It was a waste of snow, Reister thought.

Buzz-

The flashing arrow wasn’t going away. Neither was the caller on the other end. Six days ‘til Christmas , he reminded himself, and picked up line one. “Congressman Vorhees’s office.”

“Yes. This is Jeff Krishak from CRI in Boston. Is the congressman in?”

“Uh, no. CRI? I’m not familiar with that.”

“Children’s Rescue International. We arrange relief for refugee children, mostly in sub-Saharan countries.”

“I see,” Reister said. “I’m the congressman’s chief aide. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Possibly. We’re undertaking a pretty ambitious project. Something new for us. Our usual thing is to send aid, but early next year we’re going to bring several children to the States to receive medical treatment. All have lost limbs because of mines and unexploded shells. And, like I said, it’s a new thing for us, and we’re a relatively small operation. We have the donations to handle any treatment, but we need some expertise. Someone to tell us who the doctors are we should be contacting.

“That’s where we hope the congressman can help. Or, rather, his doctor. One of our board members said the congressman’s doctor has to have expertise in this area, considering, and since he represents our district…”

Reister sniffed and smiled at the phone. Someone wasn’t asking for a favor from his boss. Mark this date down , he thought. “So you just want to talk to Dr. Conrad?”

“To get his recommendations on who would be the appropriate professionals to contact.”

Hell , Reister thought. Altruism … What was D.C. coming to? “I’m sure Dr. Conrad would be happy to give you some guidance.” He cycled through the cards on his flip-file — important ones were white, virtually meaningless were blue (Dr. John Conrad was somewhere in between) — and found the correct address and phone number. He passed the information on, accepted the caller’s obviously genuine thanks, and laid the phone back in its cradle.

Seventy-five miles away, Stanley Barrish hung up at the same time.

It wasn’t a long drive from their apartment, but, as Darian maneuvered through the shoppers’ traffic on Fayette Street, Moises Griggs was suddenly aware just how far he’d come in a very short time. And from where.

“There’s a lot of decorations,” Moises observed, his gaze jumping from lamppost to lamppost as they passed, at the plastic Santas, red-and-white candy canes, green doughnuts of simulated pine fifteen feet above the street.

Christmas was almost here. “We used to have a big tree.”

“Huh?”

Moises looked left to Darian. “My mom liked Christmas trees. More than presents, even. She used to say it was because of where she grew up. North Carolina. She said there were lots of trees there. She liked the smell.” Pine. Moises drew in a breath through his nose, looking forward again and trying to remember the scent of Christmas in the Griggs household. It seemed so long ago. And it seemed like yesterday.

Darian turned off Fayette at the appropriate street, parking in a small lot behind a brightly lit supermarket. He turned off the car and checked his watch. “Whiteboy should be here.” His neck twisted to look out the back window of the Volvo. “Probably is already. Checking us out, still, I’d bet.”

And the ham. Moises remembered the smell of that on Christmas day. They ate about two in the afternoon, but called it dinner. He never could figure that out. But who cared about the time? That ham was always the best, and it tasted all the sweeter because they had it only once a year. His mom said it was her mother’s special recipe for a smoked and barbecued ham, and it had been her mother’s before that. Something like five generations old, he recalled his mother telling him. All the way back to the slave days. The same Christmas dinner his chained ancestors had shared.

Damn . Why was he thinking about this now? Why? There would be no more Christmases, at least not like the ones he’d had with his family. What family? That was right. It was easier to think of it that way. They were gone. Killed by the same bullets that ended his little sister’s life. She’d have no more Christmases. Practicing for a Christmas concert when she got it.

December twenty-fifth. It conjured memories of warmth, and memories of darkness. Would it always?

Moises wondered. For him, he thought so, but what about his mother, and his father? Despite his attempts to mentally end their existence, he knew they lived on. Lived with the pain he did. Would they have a Christmas this year? Not without you . Would his mother make that ham? You won’t know .

Shut up!

Presents? Hell, who cared about presents? They’d just want you back at home. Too late for that. Moises knew he’d cast his future already. The path was set. They’re probably worried about you.

I can’t do anything about that .

He was his mother’s big strong boy. Too old to be called that now. Too old for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitched as he thought that, but the emotion was quickly squashed. She’s worried about you. You know that. She doesn’t even know if you’re dead or alive.

I can’t do anything… Moises looked straight through the windshield, to the blazing interior of the supermarket. There wasn’t only food in there; there were other things. Maybe I can…