Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“I hope he chooses gas,” Frankie commented as the trio of vehicles disappeared into traffic.

“There’s still a trial to come, partner.” And Art knew that would be lengthy and messy. The incarceration in San Quentin. Then ten or fifteen years of appeals. Then, if John Barrish hadn’t been done away with already, it would be the chamber or a gurney. Gas or lethal injection. Gas , Art thought. Frankie was right. It was the appropriate way for him to go.

“At least he’s here and not tied up in a tug-of-war,” Frankie commented. The authorities in several jurisdictions back east had gladly approved the extradition of John Barrish to California so that he might face capital murder charges — several thousand of them — in a jurisdiction itching to add another to the long line of death row inmates. Then there was the question of Moises Griggs. “The kid is going to go down with him,” she said with no glee.

Life without parole. Was it better than death by gas or lethal injection? Art didn’t know, but Moises had obviously decided that cooperating in the prosecution of John Barrish was worth the trade. There was also vengeance in the young man’s heart, a burning desire to avenge the murder of his little sister. Then, he could consider his own future.

“It’s a waste, partner, but it’s of his own doing,” Art observed dispassionately. That wasn’t how he felt, but it was how he had to look at it.

Frankie nodded agreement, but the reasoning was deeper than that. “Think of it. The kid was drawn to the very people who killed his little sister because he became like them.” She was able to laugh. “Let some psycho-type loose with that one.” There would be plenty of those wanting at Moises Griggs, she suspected.

“Speaking of psycho-types, has Anne settled everything yet?”

“All set,” Art said, allowing a smile. “We leave Tuesday.”

Frankie smiled back at him, though the lump rising from her chest was threatening a different display of emotion. “Who am I going to eat chili dogs with now?”

“Bacon chili cheese dogs, partner,” Art corrected. “Your little girl. Cassie would love ‘em.”

“When she’s eighteen, maybe.” Frankie chuckled, then fell silent as the moment became awkward.

“Well,” Art said for the sake of saying something .

“Well, partner, two days,” Frankie said, cheering herself up with thoughts of the wedding to come this Saturday. “Do you remember how to be married?”

“I’m hoping to learn the right way,” Art answered. “Speaking of which, what have you got planned for the afternoon?”

Frankie noticed the innocent look in his eye, and knew it meant quite the opposite. “Nothing…”

Art started walking for their car, his partner for the next few days following him. “Do you know any good jewelers?”

She froze mid-step. “Art Jefferson! You don’t have a ring yet!”

“What?”

Frankie shook her head at him. “You don’t know how to be married, but you sure know how to be a man.”

“There’s a difference?” Art joked, then climbed in the car with the full expectation that a lecture would be his to endure. A lecture he would cherish always.

The Secret Service frowned upon it, but the president was the president, and if he wanted to take in the night sights of the Mall from the vantage point of the Truman Balcony, well, he could do so. Standing next to the man,

Bud DiContino could understand why his boss was so obstinate on that point.

“It’s beautiful tonight, sir,” the NSA commented. Looking due south he could see the brilliantly lit obelisk that was the Washington Monument. One sight among many that gave the capital city its charm at night.

The president, though, was looking to the southeast, at a diffused glow rising from the containment tents that had been set up around the Capitol reflecting pool. The decontamination process had begun immediately, and would continue for some time. They had been lucky, the chief executive knew. Very lucky. “Have you thought of what would have happened if Barrish’s plan had worked?”

Bud saw what the president was gazing toward. “The important thing was it didn’t, sir.”

“It was too close.”

“Yes, it was,” Bud agreed. There had been too much distrust of the Bureau by the CIA, too much insulation of theories by the Bureau itself, and too little understanding of the threat posed by people like John Barrish. Already there was one casualty: Gordon Jones. His tenure at the Bureau was in doubt when the World Center attack took place. Having a similar attack almost come to be in the laps of the Congress was too much. Whether justified or not, he was gone, and a replacement was yet to be named.

So the lessons were obvious. Learning from them was a process just beginning.

“I feel like we were fighting a vapor cloud on this one, Bud. Something that you can see, that you know is there, but that you can’t get a grip on. It’s unnerving.”

“But not unbeatable,” Bud reminded the president as a chilly wind kicked up from the west.

The president leaned on the white plaster railing and stared toward the glow for a long moment as he thought. “How long is it going to take, Bud?”

The NSA recalled the report from the Army specialists responsible for the cleanup. “About six weeks, sir.”

The president looked to his NSA and smiled, seeing immediately that the man realized he had given the right answer to the wrong question. “I think it’s going to take a bit longer than that, Bud.”

“Me too, Mr. President.”

Ryne Douglas Pearson is the author of several novels, including Cloudburst, October’s Ghost, Capitol Punishment, Simple Simon, Top Ten, The Donzerly Light, All For One, Confessions , and Cop Killer . He is also author of the short story collection, Dark and Darker . His novel Simple Simon was made into the film Mercury Rising . As a screenwriter he has worked on numerous films. The film Knowing , based on his original script, was released in 2009 and opened #1 at the box office, going on to gross more than $180 million worldwide.

He lives in California with his wife, children, a Doberman Kelpie and a Beagle Vizsla.