Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

But Chester Hart, ninth-grade education and all, was not about to surrender to the reality the Brotherhood had chosen for him. He knew this attack would not kill him. There would be a tomorrow. Not a pleasant one, but a tomorrow still. And there was always the other world, a world he knew he had a ticket to enter.

“Did you like my gift?” Art asked as Anne’s head rose and fell with his breathing.

‘Which one?” she asked.

“You know which one,” Art said. He could feel the bracelet skim the hair on his chest as Anne ran a finger back and forth through what she called his “fur.”

“It’s beautiful.” And it was. The other presents had been nice, and opening them on Christmas Eve with the man she loved had only made it nicer. No: sweeter. “You spoil me, G-Man. This was expensive.”

“And those skis weren’t?” he responded, ending her uninspired protest. It had been a perfect Christmas Eve, and he was determined to make the most of the following morning before he had to jump back into his work mode and hop an American Airlines flight to Washington National Airport. “We should have saved at least one gift for the morning.”

“We’re both bad,” Anne said.

Art ran a hand up her bare back and massaged her shoulder, listening to her breathe. Listening to the silence. The doctor had something on her mind. Art knew what it was. “I haven’t said anything, but thank you for not asking about Chicago.” Art felt her breathing change, becoming more relaxed.

“I know it’s been on your mind,” Anne admitted. “Have you made any decisions?”

“No. I didn’t really think I’d consider it seriously, but… I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Your old stomping grounds,” Anne observed.

“It gets cold,” Art remembered. Weather isn’t everything, Arthur. “And it’s a long way from here.”

Anne shifted position a bit, bringing her face closer to Art’s cheek. “Chas Ohlmeyer runs the human relations department at the University of Chicago.”

“Your old classmate,” Art said. He was surprised at her lack of subtlety. She was saying so much in a very few words, and he loved her more for it.

“Mm-hmm,” Anne confirmed. “What time is your flight?”

“Three.”

“You need a ride to LAX?”

“Someone from the office is dropping Frankie and me.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure. Soon, I hope. As soon as we find…them.” What did one call the NALF? Revolutionaries. Scum. Militants. Murderers. What, indeed? And to Art there was still the question of John Barrish. Labeling him was easier: aberration. “Who knows, you may get to D.C. before I get out. When are you three going, by the way?”

“The fifteenth of next month,” Anne answered. “But that’s hush-hush. I even had a visit from the Secret Service last Thursday.”

“Nerves,” Art said. And well founded, he thought. But she didn’t need to know that. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Anne slid her arms around his neck and held on, tighter than she realized. “You, too.”

Art knew the reason behind the gesture. It had nothing to do with his being three thousand miles from her for a relatively short period of time; it had everything to do with what would happen once they were together again. And he suspected the emotion behind her trepidation was not fear, but anticipation. It was for him.

Congressman Richard Vorhees kept the pace brisk as the cool night air washed over him. Speed walking, some called it, that awkward-looking process of exercise or competition that made its practitioners look as though their legs were about to swivel loose of their hips. Vorhees didn’t care about appearances in this endeavor, though. This was his dose of aerobic exertion for the day. At one time in his life his work had kept him in shape — jumping from perfectly airworthy aircraft into the forest to hump a ruck for days on end usually did that to one. Now this was it.

But he couldn’t complain…too much. The job had stature, and he was coming through probably the darkest period of his political life relatively unscathed. All by being honest. As his feet — one real, one not — pushed his trim frame back toward home from his nightly five-miler along Leesburg Pike and its periphery streets, the congressman marveled briefly that he’d survived it all at the hand of the truth. Amazing. It wasn’t a trend he planned to continue, though. Not that one was “less than forthright” intentionally; it was simply a matter of necessity in government. The truth often was less important than being right. There was a difference, Vorhees knew.

So he walked at night to keep his heart strong, went home and massaged the soreness from the stump of flesh below his left knee, showered, slept, and got up the next day. Then off to battle, albeit a quieter kind of conflict than that which he’d seen as an officer in the 82nd. A quiet fight, a good fight. At the end of each day that was what counted. Not your wounds, but that you would fight again. That was the—

“Congressman!”

Vorhees slowed his pace at the call, putting on the brakes fully and turning to see two people, a man and a woman, trotting along the sidewalk to catch up with him. Leaves from the residential lawns blew across their path, and the motion of the man’s body twisted his jacket to the side to reveal a badge on his belt. Shit! Not you again. I thought I dodged your asses a month and a half ago.

“Congressman,” Art said, stopping after their short jog. Frankie was at his side. “I’m Special Agent Art Jefferson, FBI. This is Special Agent Frankie Aguirre. We were hoping you’d give us a minute of your time.”

Vorhees feigned breathlessness and bent forward, hands on knees. “I’m right at the end of my walk, Agent Jefferson.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” Art insisted diplomatically.

“We just have a few questions, sir,” Frankie added.

Vorhees straightened, shifting his bad leg a bit for better balance, and nodded. “All right.”

“We got your statement last month when we were in town, but there are a couple things we need to know beyond that.” Art let that hang for just a second. He wanted more than anything to gauge Vorhees’s reaction to their just being there. It wasn’t that he thought Vorhees was dirty, it was simply that he didn’t want the man to hold anything back that, though it might be embarrassing to him, would help them get their job done. “Nikolai Kostin — did you ever meet him? Face to face?”

Vorhees shook his head and breathed the Virginia night air deeply. “Never.”

“How much did Monte Royce tell you about him?” Art asked.

“The particulars,” Vorhees answered. “His position in the Russian and Soviet militaries. His expertise.”

“No red flags in any of that?” Frankie inquired. A hint of skepticism flavored the question.

“At the time I thought it would be better to have his kind of expertise in our country than in, say, Iran. Or Libya. Or Vietnam.”

“And Royce was vouching for him,” Frankie observed. “That was enough?”

“I thought so.” A little defiant, but also apologetic. It was the first lesson of excelling in D.C.: Craft your response perfectly.

“Did Monte Royce ever ask for any other favors?”

Vorhees eyed the black agent. “I don’t do favors.”

Of course not, Saint Richard . Let’s change the wording to something more palatable, Art thought. “Assistance, then?”

“I don’t recall at the moment,” Vorhees said, bringing both hands to his hips to signal impatience.

“How long did you know Monte Royce?” Royce was Vorhees’s link to this, Art knew. It was the place to apply pressure.