Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Moises held up the surgical-type gloves. “Got it.”

“Go.”

Darian watched his young fighter run at a brisk clip to the wall that separated the parking lot from the back of Dr. John Conrad’s suite of medical offices. He checked his watch as the Griggs kid rolled over the fence. Nine minutes later Moises reappeared over the wall with the information they needed.

“He told the truth,” Moises said, handing the paper to Darian.

The NALF leader pocketed the photocopy and opened the trunk. “You did good.” He reached in and pulled Conrad up by the hair, then slammed a fist into the side of his head to stun him. As he fell back Darian swung the edge of his hand hard across the doctor’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He grabbed the neck with a strong hand and pressed as the man struggled in vain for air. In two minutes he had passed out. Two minutes later Darian Brown released his grip.

They drove the body twenty miles west of the city and dumped it in a thicket by the road, then drove straight back to Baltimore. There was still much work ahead and it had been a long day. Sleep was the next order of business.

“Jim,” the president began, hesitating as the secretary of state waited patiently. “Jim, how would you like to be president?”

Secretary of State Jim Coventry smiled at the offer. “When do I start?”

“There’s one little catch, Jim,” Chief of Staff Ellis Gonzales said as his boss took a seat in one of the Oval Office’s wingbacks. “Everybody at the State of the Union has to end up dead.”

Coventry lost interest in the humorous beginning of the conversation. “Wait. Are you… I thought Raleigh McCaw was doing the deed again.”

“We have to make a change,” Gonzales said. “With all the weak knees over these New Africa nuts there’s some concern about Secretary McCaw’s suitability should something happen.”

“You were elected once, Jim,” the president observed. “You’ll put a lot of people at ease come the State of the Union.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” Coventry said. As if there would be any doubt. “But it’s going to raise some questions itself. The press will probably have me resigning by Monday after the address.”

“Let them talk,” the president said. “Besides, you’ll have the best seat in the house.”

“Lay in a bowl of popcorn and make a night of it at home,” Gonzales suggested with a wink.

“Popcorn and a speech,” Coventry commented. “Marie is going to love it.”

“All you have to do is stay alive and run the country, Jim,” the president said. “No big deal.”

The secretary of state nodded and smiled. “This is a good deal easier than campaigning for the job.”

The president snickered. “Tell me about it.”

He had come a long, long way, Anne thought, and in a relatively short time. Darren Griggs was strong, and he wanted to be a survivor. But this afternoon, on a day and at a time when 90 percent of the city was lifting glasses of eggnog and similar spirits the Friday before Christmas, the survival instinct in her patient seemed dulled. Sitting in the temporary office some twelve blocks from her normal practice, Anne couldn’t deny that she harbored some melancholy herself.

“A couple minutes left,” Anne said, closing her notebook. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Darren smiled weakly. “I’m not trying to hide anything, Doctor. I’m just not sure it’s important.”

“Whatever it is it’s affecting you. I sense a touch of melancholy? Hmm?”

Darren pulled a postcard from his pocket and handed it to Anne. “It’s from Moises. Addressed to his mother, you can see.” A touch of anger, but that faded quickly. He was coming to understand not only his own emotions and motivations but also those of his absent son.

Anne flipped it over. The front was a picture of the Washington Monument in winter. The back held a simple message: Mom, I’m all right. Don’t worry. Merry Christmas… Moises

“At least we know he’s alive,” Darren said. “The postmark says it was mailed in Baltimore. All the way across the country.” Damn . That was the anger talking again — the anger cursing , Darren corrected himself.

“How did Felicia react?” Anne asked, handing the card back.

“She cried, then wondered why he’s all the way across country. I guess she was also relieved that he’s okay. Or that he says he’s okay.”

“He’s making his own decisions now, Darren,” Anne told her patient.

Bad decisions , Darren thought. “I know.”

There was a place for therapy, and there was a place for humanity, Anne knew. And for hope. “He wrote; maybe he’ll call.”

“Maybe,” Darren allowed. “His mother would like that.”

“Anyone else?”

Darren didn’t nod, didn’t deny it. He didn’t know if he was ready to talk to his son yet. There was one thing he was ready to do, though. He could easily throw his arms around his son and never let him go.

A stylized eagle done in dirty blue ink stretched across Chester Hart’s abdomen. Above the snarling bird two words stood out in red: White Power . There were other tattoos on the convict’s body. A cobra twisted around his arm, its bared fangs threatening from his bicep. Two impish demons held a buxom woman over a rock as a larger devil-like creature impaled her from behind. Tricolor flames rose from both shoulder blades, each point of fire ending in a silvery dagger. These were all visible, worn like badges of honor and allegiance by a shirtless Hart as he pressed the two hundred pounds off his chest in the exercise yard of California’s Folsom State Prison.

“You’re a fucking fool, Chet,” a barrel-chested white inmate commented. There were only whites around the weight set at this time of the morning. It was their time. The blacks had it after lunch. The Mexicans and any others just before dinner. It was the way of the yard. The law of the jungle.

“Whaaaaaaaat?” Hart asked as the bar shot up.

“You’re gonna freeze your tits off,” the inmate said, laughing. Two other inmates quietly walked away from the weight set. “It’s hardly forty out here.”

“Soooooo!”

Two more slinked back, leaving just Hart pressing and the inmate jawing. Someone had to keep his attention…for a moment.

“Sehhhhhhh-vun!”

Now a new inmate approached, sliding through the wall of white inmates that had formed a loose circle around the scene. A large paper cup was in his right hand. A glowing cigarette was in his left.

“Eighhhhhht!”

The cup holder stopped two paces short of Hart, on the blind side of tower two. Tower three was temporarily empty because of rats. There were ways to know such things, and inmates often did.

“Hart.”

Chester let the bar rest on his well-developed chest and looked to the right. He saw for the first time that no one stood near him. Shit!

The inmate heaved the contents of the cup on Hart, aiming for the face. His aim was off. Most of the strong-smelling liquid splashed on his target’s chest and ran down to the padded weight bench.

“Rats in the tower,” the inmate said. “Rats in the yard.” He smiled and flicked the burning cigarette at Hart. It tumbled through the air and skidded across his chest, igniting the paint thinner.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Hart screamed as a red hot flash washed over his upper body. It was loud, like a train rolling over him, but not loud enough to drown out the laughter. “HELLLLLLLLLP!”

All he got from his AB brethren was more laughter. As guards rushed to him, Chester Hart knew what was happening. He had been marked for death. A contract was out on him, and not just any. He could have been easily shanked with little fuss and he’d be deader than dead. No, this was a contract with a condition: kill with style. It was a message hit, and Hart knew the message all were supposed to receive — informants die a horrible death. It was his new reality now. He’d tried to live on the fence, and this was where it had gotten him…flesh burning, pinned on his back by a weight bar he could not lift. Yes, he had walked in both worlds, one of which had just told him to get lost.