T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

The same guard was there doing escort duty. “Figured you for somebody who’d said all her good-byes.”

“So did I.”

He moved ahead of her down the path. His belt creaked in time to his steps, and his keys and baton jangled like alarms of coming flames. “You see it all in this game. People can get stuck on just about anything, they try hard enough.” He pushed open the metal door leading to the front hall. “Start seeing pain as just another part of their day, instead of a wake-up call to make tracks. You hear what I’m saying?”

This time Shane was already waiting for her. Which made leaving the guard’s safety and walking over all the more difficult. She covered the distance to the table as if she were scaling a ninety-degree incline. He waited for her to sit down to say, “I’ve been hoping you’d come back. There’s so much more I wanted-”

“Eric Driscoll has fifty-three thousand dollars he’s been stowing away for when you get out of prison. The only way he’ll help me is if you forget the money and agree to let him go.” It wasn’t even close to the smoothness she needed. But the bile in her throat caught all the right words and stripped them down to a slurred rush. She fumbled in her purse, drew out the envelope, forced her fingers to pull free the single page and flatten it on the table between them. “I want you to sign this.”

He read the few sentences, stating unequivocally that Eric Driscoll had nothing whatsoever to do with Shane’s embezzlement, and anything stated to the contrary was merely a lie. She could run it by the office afterward and have a friend supply the notary stamp-a small crime compared to what she was doing to herself right now.

Shane kept his head down long enough for Jackie to begin fearing one of the old explosions, when the rage spewed like acid. She reached into her purse and pulled out the pen, wishing it were something far more substantial. A machete, maybe. Or an Uzi.

But when Shane spoke, it was in a cautious manner that was not his own and never had been. “He’s right, you know. I didn’t turn him in because I wanted somebody there to pave my way back to easy street.”

He raised his gaze then. And revealed no rage. Resignation, maybe. Bitter regret. A trace of longing. But all he said was, “Can I use that?”

Numb fingers dropped the pen on the table. Not wanting to make the slightest contact with this man. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’m not surprised.” He scrawled his name along the page’s bottom. Penned in his social security number. “Not much in my past for you to hang this on.”

She grabbed the paper away, folded it, and jammed it inside the envelope. She had to fight off the urge to leap up and away. “Why are you doing this?”

His eyes had always been his best feature, that and his ability to lie with grace. “It wasn’t for you. Not just, anyway.”

Jackie used both hands to rise. All her strength was captured by the words boiling up inside. The words she couldn’t choke off, no matter how much she tried. When they emerged, it was the sound of a strangled intruder who gasped, “I accept your apology.”

She turned and fled, moving so fast she had to wait for the guard to catch up and unlatch the barrier. Which gave her time to glance back. Shane was still seated at the table, staring down at his folded hands.

Wednesday

The morning was so gray even the Capitol’s garden was muted, the flowers only slightly more tinted than the surrounding granite. All the trees wore minty adornments. The air tasted of diesel and conflict and coming rain.

Outside the Dirksen Senate Office Building’s largest committee room, Wynn found Father Libretto in tight-knit conversation with Kay Trilling and Carter Styles. As soon as he spotted Wynn, the priest disengaged from the others and approached with hand outstretched. “Congressman Bryant, forgive me for interrupting your morning.”

“You’re not interrupting, and the name is Wynn.”

“Wynn.” The priest spoke his name like a gift he had himself received. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am about Sybel. How are you?”

“Struggling.”

The priest scarcely moved, yet gave the impression of bowing with his entire body. Up and down, a slow rocking that took him a distance of scarcely an inch in either direction. A movement of spirit and mind, not of flesh. “Sometimes God can only capture our attention when we have been stripped down to our very bones. People spend so much time asking, how did this happen, and why to me? I have no answer for them, except to ask another question. It is the role of priests sometimes, not to give answers but to show how to seek through tears. How to search out what is there, yet remains hidden. Even when it is painful, yes, even when the emptiness eats at you like an abyss.”

Wynn licked his lips. Knew the others were watching, measuring him. “What question should I be asking, then.”

“Oh, I think you already know. You are a very intelligent man, very perceptive. You know the words. Having me say them will not make finding the answer any easier.” Father Libretto patted Wynn’s shoulder, the benediction of a caring friend. He lowered his arm and dropped a card into Wynn’s coat pocket. “My role is that of servant and messenger to all drawn into service. You may call on me at any time.”

Kay stepped forward but continued to watch the priest’s departing back. “I’ve always been comforted by the extreme promises of faith. The healing of wounds seen and unseen. Eternal salvation. Love and peace even here, in a town run by blind ambition.” She looked at him then, her gaze guarded. “It all boils down to one thing. Are you still searching for the chance to tell your sister what a fool you’ve been? Or are you finally at the point where you want to speak the words to someone else?”

Wynn swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. It cost him, but he kept a lock on her gaze.

Even so, Kay took his silence as defeat and turned away. “See how simple it is?”

The Committee Chamber was very imposing, very Roman. The royal purple carpet was bordered with silver-gray laurels, as were the drapes. The ceilings were forty feet high and tiled with indirect lighting. The walls, curved into a pointed oval, were lined by mahogany columns and fronted by curved rows of desks. Kay took the committee chairman’s seat, flanked by flags and the oil portrait of a long-dead power broker. The place had the burned-powder scent of previous battles.

Carter indicated Wynn’s seat by standing behind it. Kay rapped for attention, then began a drone that she could keep up all day. Only seven of the fourteen seats were taken. The rest of the room was empty, save for a scattering of aides.

Wynn motioned Carter forward and asked, “What am I doing here?”

Carter’s voice was pitched for Wynn’s ears alone. “This is an omnibus appropriations bill. Ten thousand pages. The president considers it a take-it or leave-it bill, which means every congressman, every senator, and every lobbyist was out to make attachments. We hope we’ve been able to slip this in without raising too much of a stink.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Sit tight. This won’t last long. The Conference Committee has an equal number of senators and congressmen, and their job is to iron out the differences between the House and Senate versions of this bill. Once we’ve constructed the final version, the two chambers will vote on it again. Staffers have been gathering for a couple of weeks now, defining all the areas where there’s no real conflict. That’s taken care of sixty, maybe even seventy percent of the issues. Tomorrow the committee members will begin hammering out the divisive points.”