William Bernhardt - Capitol offence

"That was a joke."

Shaw wasn't laughing. "This stuff is secure, right? No chance it's gonna go off and blow us sky-high?"

"Of course not." He smiled. "It wouldn't blow you anywhere. It would burn you up from the inside out."

"Like what happened to Parsons?"

"I had nothing to do with that. That was my boss. But still… I wouldn't take any sharp turns."

"You want to drive this rig yourself, jerkface?"

"No, I do not. Safe journey, gentlemen. Text me when you've achieved you goal. We'll meet later to distribute the proceeds."

Sentz started back inside the hospital.

Where was Mike? Loving turned around-

The fist careened out of the darkness and knocked him in the face so hard his head slammed back against the retaining wall. He barely had a chance to react before the second blow came, even harder than the first. A thunderous hammering sound split his skull even more than the blows.

He spread his wobbling arms, trying to push himself to his feet. A well-placed kick to the pit of his stomach stopped that short. He fell back onto the ground with a painful thud.

"Hey, Shaw!" an unfamiliar voice cried. "Look what I found!"

Loving heard footsteps running toward him. He tried to get his bearings, but the pain and the darkness made it impossible.

Someone grabbed him by the hair and jerked him upward. "Know this guy?"

Even though his vision was blurred, Loving could make out Shaw's ugly mug right in front of his face. "I sure do."

"He made us. You know what we have to do with him."

Shaw took a deep breath. "We can't do it here."

"We can't be late, either," the accomplice said.

Shaw slammed the flat of his hand against Loving's face, hard. "We didn't need this complication, Loving."

Several replies came to Loving's mind, but he knew none of them would help his situation.

"We'll take care of him somewhere else, after we drop off the goods."

"That'll be days."

"You in a hurry?"

"No, but-it seems kind of dangerous. He could get loose or something."

Shaw shook his head. "Give him some of that stuff. You know. Like you gave Thomas at the hotel."

Loving's ears pricked up. Did he hear that right? It was hard to hear anything over the ringing in his head.

Loving heard something liquid pouring from a bottle, followed by a strong acrid scent permeating the night air. He didn't like this at all.

Shaw was back in his face. "You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Loving? Had to butt into stuff that didn't concern you. Turn against the cops and cuddle up to the cop killer."

Loving knew any explanation would be futile. What he needed to do was make a break for it before it was too late. If he could just get free, he could run fast, all the way down the hill. Sure, they had guns, but it was dark. There was a chance he might make it. Better than his chances if he didn't.

Before he could try anything, someone pressed a cloth over Loving's nose and mouth. He knew he would soon be unconscious.

"Now put him in the back of the truck," Shaw growled.

"You mean with the-the-"

"Yeah. What does it matter?" Even as consciousness faded, Loving felt himself being dragged over the pavement. "He's gonna die anyway."

Ben sat upright, gasping for air.

What was that about? He was lying in bed, dripping with sweat, heaving like he was in the throes of a major heart attack.

He glanced at the clock on the cable box. Not quite four in the morning. This would be another mostly sleepless night.

This time, the dream had been different. There was no falling, drowning, or burning. This time, instead of being the victim, he was the victimizer.

He was somewhere in medieval England, deep within the Tower of London. An execution was in progress. Hordes of commoners surrounded the scaffold, hurling insults and rotten vegetables. Armed guards slowly marched the prisoner out of his cell and up the steps to the top. The condemned man took his position, then the executioner shoved him down onto his knees, forcing his head over the chopping block. Just before he swung the axe, the executioner pulled the white hood off the condemned man's head.

Not Ben. Dennis.

Ben was the executioner.

Didn't take Sigmund Freud to figure that one out.

Trials always wreaked havoc on a lawyer's normal sleeping patterns, but this one had been worse than most. Part of it was the uncertainty, the feeling that every day brought a new surprise. Part of it was the gnawing suspense, especially now as they waited for the jury to reach a verdict. But part of it was also undoubtedly that Ben couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing. It had consumed him the moment he first walked into the courtroom, and nothing had occurred since to change his mind.

Christina had told him this was an impossible case. He just hoped and prayed that this time she wasn't right.

There was little chance he would fall back to sleep, and it might not be a good thing if he did, given that he had to be wide awake and getting ready at six. This part of the trial-waiting for the jury-was in many respects the worst. You still had to appear, even though the jury might not emerge from deliberations. There was nothing you could do to change what had gone before, nothing you could do to affect their decision. A lawyer could only toss about, worrying that he should have done something different, could have done it better, while biding time and waiting for the axe to fall. The insecure man's nightmare.

He was all too aware that this time the axe could fall-on Dennis's neck.

Since he wasn't going back to sleep, he decided to get up. He stretched, cricked his back, and carefully eased off the bed. For once, he was not going to wake Christina. She had been working just as hard as he. She needed rest.

He passed silently out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Ben had moved into this boardinghouse not long after he got out of law school and moved to Tulsa. Many years later, he inherited the place from the landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein. After they married, Christina had moved in with him, and now they lived here together when they weren't in Washington. It was a little cramped, since Ben still had tenants downstairs, but she didn't complain. They both agreed it would be foolish to buy or rent something else, especially when they were still maintaining an apartment in D.C. Ben had many happy memories of this place, where so much had happened. Moments of sweet glory. Moments of great loneliness.

He had spent six months here trying to raise his nephew on his own. He still missed Joey. Hadn't seen him for years. Julia kept saying she was going to come for a visit, but it never seemed to happen.

Since coffee was off-limits, Ben fixed himself a piping hot cup of Earl Grey tea. It had plenty of caffeine, but what he really liked was the sensation of hot water cascading down his throat, restoring his strength. Helping him imagine he could function for another day despite extreme sleep deprivation.

He passed the row of plants on a table next to a large window where they could get sun. The flora were all Christina's work. Ben had tried to liven up the room on many occasions with greenery, but they'd never lasted long. Christina referred to the spot as Ben's memorial garden-a memorial to all the plants that had died as soon as he brought them home.

He leaned forward and breathed deeply. She had a thriving lavender, a little bonsai. All full of life.

He loved her so much.

Playing the piano was not an option at this time of the morning, so he tiptoed back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and slowly ascended the ladder, carrying his tea with him. A rooftop portal opened up on a ledge between two gables on the roof. Ben and Christina had discovered it years ago. They both loved to come out here to relax, breathe in the night air, enjoy the cityscape. And on one occasion, this little nook had saved Christina's life.