Forgotten Witness (2 page)

“Ms. Bates! Hannah Sheraton was tried for murder in California. Could you address her legal problems? Do they have any bearing on her current situation?”

Josie picked up her coat, eyeing the man as she put it on. Her first instinct was to tell him to take a flying leap. Hannah had been acquitted of murder and there was no reason to discuss that history. Her second thought was to keep it simple and direct the conversation in the hopes her message would reach a larger audience.

“Hannah is a hero. Billy Zuni is alive because of her …”

Josie lost her train of thought, distracted momentarily by a disturbance in the back of the room. She smiled slightly, thinking that the people smashed together near the exit looked like a school of fish panicked by a predator swimming among them. But Josie was the only one who seemed to notice. The blond girl who was her guide for the day touched her elbow and whispered her name.

“Sorry,” Josie apologized to the reporter. “You were asking?”

“Hannah’s mother is in prison. Have you kept her apprised of this situation?” he asked.

“Yes, I sent word to the prison where Linda Rayburn–”

Josie’s eyes went back to the commotion by the door. A man was pushing through the crowd, bobbing and weaving. His head came up. His head went down. He bumped into people, careened off a chair, and froze like a prairie dog catching the scent of a coyote. Josie’s alarm was immediate and debilitating. A sick, sinking feeling washed over her just before she grew cold and an instant later flushed hot. Her instinct was to run and hide, but she couldn’t seem to move. She tried to make eye contact with other people, but no one looked back. Why didn’t they see what she saw? Why-

“Ms. Bates?”

She blinked and zeroed in on the reporter again. He had a gap between his front teeth and his teeth were clenched in irritation.

“Yes. Sorry. I’ve sent… .” Again she faltered. Again she couldn’t remember her point. She laughed a little. “I forgot the question. It’s been a long day.”

Josie wiped her brow with the back of her hand. Her mouth was dry. The blond girl stepped in.

“Maybe we can give Ms. Bates some breathing room. Senator Patriota’s office will have contact information on all the witnesses for your follow-up.”

Expertly she started to ease Josie past the reporters. Just then the man who had been so intent upon getting into the room while everyone else was trying to get out raised his head, locked eyes with Josie, and went into high gear. Using his clasped hands like a wedge, he cut a path through the throng.

Josie turned into her escort just as the reporter shoved his microphone closer. She flinched. Her heart thundered. Her head pounded. She couldn’t breath. She couldn’t speak, but the girl was still talking as if nothing were wrong; she was still guiding Josie into danger and the reporter was still spitting questions. Josie looked back at the man. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He hadn’t slowed his pace.

This was not her imagination.

She wasn’t wrong.

The man in the blue suit was coming for her, she was the only one who knew it, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

***

Ian Francis had not been a man to be reckoned with for many years. He had never been of much consequence even before the dark time. He had not been wealthy or famous; he had not been a rake or a rebel. But all that was about to change because he had changed. Ian didn’t know why or how this had happened, he only knew that one day he woke up in the light. When the light blessed him he knew he must run through it, making the most of the hours during which he could think rationally and act decisively. Thinking was good; acting on those thoughts was heroic.

That was success, was it not?

Even as he asked himself that question, his mind winked out. When it was back on line it was filled with terror. People were pushing him, turning their backs on him, looking at him as if he were vile.

Who were they?

What were they saying?

He couldn’t make out words but he saw their angry faces bouncing on the meniscus of the dark that floated at the edge of his brain. He was frightened they would stop him before he did this one good thing, so Ian fought the only way he knew how. He recited the rules.

Rule one: eat, drink, sleep, and pray you wake up still in the light.

Rule two: write things down so if the dark comes you will know what happened when you were last in the light.

Rule three: When the light comes, run.

Now he was running toward the tall woman with the short hair. He saw her blue eyes widen with fright. That was bad. If she was scared she might not listen. Still, he couldn’t wait any longer. He was lucky to have found her at all. She was the proverbial needle in a haystack, a ship in the night, a –

He began again.

He was lucky to have found her at all …

He forgot.

Eat. Drink…

Tears came to his eyes.

He was slipping away.

A ship…

He sniffled in sorrow. He panted with determination. Ian Francis clasped his hands ever tighter around the treasure he brought for her. He threw himself at the two men in front of him. One had a microphone. It clattered to the floor when Ian pushed him aside. The man cursed as he toppled into an older woman. She fell sideways.

Ian did not stop.

He ran for the tall woman. He was so sorry, but it had to be done. Just as she made a sound that seemed to deny the inevitable, Ian threw himself at her, his clasped hands hit her breastbone, and he fell upon her.

His face was so close to hers that he could see her long lashes, the golden tan of her skin, and the flecks of dark in her blue eyes. Josie looked into Ian Francis’ flat brown eyes, felt the heat of his breath, and noted the fine structure of his face. His wide mouth moved so quickly he didn’t seem to breathe. The veins at his temple pulsed as if they were struggling to push his thoughts forward.

Josie had braced herself for an assault but when the man went limp, she couldn’t stand her ground. She grasped his hands in both of hers as they fell: Josie landing on her hip, the man dead weight on top of her. The blond girl screamed. Journalists scattered. Spectators fled. A photographer snapped a picture and, in the second before the security guards hauled Ian Francis off Josie Bates, he put something in her hands, his lips touched the edge of her ear and he whispered:

“I know where she is.

“Where are you taking him?” –
Girl

“Do you know who he is?” –
Capitol Police

“He just seems sick. He shouldn’t go to jail.” –
Girl

“We’ll take care of him. You sure you don’t know him?” –
Capitol Police
.

“No. No. But where are you taking him?” –
Girl

***

“Pick up! She’s here, Archer. Call me back.” –
Voice mail, Josie to Archer

CHAPTER 2

Eugene Weller was a pain in the butt because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. That proclivity also made him invaluable to Ambrose Patriota.

They had met when Eugene interned in Patriota’s office during the senator’s second term. That term was a mere shadow in the senator’s memory, but it was as bright as the Big Bang in Eugene’s. The moment Eugene walked into Ambrose Patriota’s chambers, the second he touched the politician’s hand, Eugene Weller became a true believer, an apostle, a follower of a man he considered no less than a political god.

Fresh out of a college that had no claim to fame and was planted in a town in a fly-over state that was equally without color or celebrity, Eugene had graduated nearly friendless. That was fine with him. The people he hung with were of no real interest to him in the same way Eugene did not inspire them. Having served their purpose to one another, they scattered like seeds. Most of them would root, grow anemically, and die the predestined death of the mundane middle class. Eugene would be the exception, not because of any specific ambition but because he had a keen self-awareness, a crystalline understanding of his role in life. He would never be a king or a kingmaker, but he would be a hell of a king’s minister. That was not to say Eugene Weller was a sycophant; he simply longed to be an apostle to a worthy prophet. He had talents to offer a person of worth but his ungainly appearance and his inability to grasp the subtleties of social interaction kept many people from recognizing his intelligence, his potential for unwavering devotion, and his keen strategic sensibilities. Eugene was convinced, in the way that some people can be, that a great and true destiny awaited him and that he would recognize it when he saw it. Six months before he graduated, Eugene spied a notice on the placement office bulletin board announcing internships in Washington D.C. He was enthused enough to mention this to his long-widowed mother.

Unbeknownst to Eugene Weller, his mother was not only tired of her wraith like son taking up space in her home, she was also screwing her married congressman whenever possible. During a particularly satisfying encounter with the congressman who had been a fairly successful pig farmer before his entry into politics, Eugene’s mother determined the time was right to ask for a favor. Her request that he help Eugene get the internship was one that pleased the congressman to no end. First, he could actually accomplish the task and second, the local press would eat up the story of a local boy going to the Capitol. Add all that to his paramour’s deepest gratitude and it was a win/win. The pig-farmer-turned-politician didn’t know it at the time, but Eugene’s appointment would be the last favor he ever did. He would lose the next election to a pretty housewife who stood on an inane platform that would, nonetheless, capture the voters’ fancy.

But the stars aligned for a moment and Eugene Weller arrived in Washington as one of six interns assigned to Senator Patriota’s office. Four of those interns left Washington never to return, one committed suicide in the bedroom of the Secretary of Education, and Eugene found his prophet. Like Saul blinded by the light of God, stricken off the back of an ass, Eugene Weller fell figuratively at the feet of Ambrose Patriota and embraced the city that would be his Damascus. Eugene was not particularly religious, but he was so fond of the analogy that he would often expound on it at cocktail parties, fundraisers, and the occasional White House dinner where he was a placeholder due to his GSA seniority and affiliation with Senator Patriota.

Eugene never noticed attention waning and smiles freezing as he spoke of this because he was a true believer and there weren’t many of those in Washington. Most people were there for the freebies, to bask in the light of power, secure a government job from which it would be almost impossible to get fired, or wrangle a contract they could milk. Yet, people listened because in his official capacity Eugene Weller was a person of power. He carried out Senator Patriota’s wishes, anticipated his every need, and proved himself worthy of the man’s patronage every day in every way. At that moment, Eugene was doing what he did best: following up, checking a loose end, heading a problem off at the pass, chasing a dot that might need connecting.

He walked with a brisk step down the long hallway in the basement of the building, passing closed doors behind which men and women labored to feed the bureaucratic monster that was Washington. These people made no decisions, they analyzed nothing, they simply processed and programmed, never questioning their work or their worth. The closed doors were marked with numbers and discreet designations. Room 1201: Senate Accounting. Room 1224: Senate Janitorial. Room 1310: Senate publications and communications.

Eugene made a sharp right and found himself in another even longer, long hall. Fewer doors pocked the walls and the ones that did had numbers but no indication of what lay behind them. Eugene did not slow his appropriately measured pace when he approached the door of the room at the end, his eyes did not flick to the cameras at the top edge of the door frame, he did not smile for the person monitoring the screen on the other side as he punched in the code that would open the door. There was a two second lag before the lock clicked giving him just enough time to grasp the handle and push the door open.

Once inside the door closed, locking him in a rectangular space that was exactly six feet long and four feet wide. There was a door directly in front of him and more cameras above him. He took three steps, paused as his fingers performed another digital tap-dance on another keypad, and listened for the lock to give way. When it did, he walked into the offices of The Sergeant at Arms and Doorkeeper, Chief Law enforcement officer of the Senate and overseer of U.S. Capitol Police whose power encompassed the right and charge to arrest and detain anyone interfering with Senate Rules. Certainly the man who had thrown himself at Josie Bates, a guest of and witness for Senator Patriota, had interfered grossly with senate business.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weller.”

The receptionist smiled at him. He smiled back perfunctorily as was his habit. He had no idea what this woman’s name was, nor did he care. What he did know was that she had been a receptionist for over five years. She would never go further than the GSA level in which she found herself and would never leave her mark on anything. Eugene could spot the middling folk a mile away. However, if the security doors were ever breached she would be the first one taken out. He wondered if she ever considered that.

“Which room?” he asked.

“Six,” the woman answered.

“Thank you,” Eugene responded and off he went.

He passed rows of grey desks where information specialists tapped away at their computers, inputting data, pulling up images and graphs and statistics, interfacing with other agencies, and basically doing a fairly decent job of keeping everyone in the building safe. Eugene went by two offices separated from the fray by glass walls. In one, a woman wearing pearls and a dark sweater set spoke quickly into her headset. Her face was a bloom of red and purple. She was a prime example of the perpetually angry, frustrated women who lived in this city where sexual and power scales tipped heavily in favor of men. He wondered why women stayed here, banging their heads against a ceiling that would probably never crack for them much less break.