“… all the explosive sniffers are crushed… the trail keeps going… and from the looks of it, he ripped the grating clear off the safety gate…”
“That’s a forty-foot drop,” the officer with the radio says.
“Oh, he definitely did himself some damage,” Reggie says through the radio. “But I’ll tell you right now… I don’t see a body.”
I lift my chin off the ground. My arm’s the least of my worries.
“Jeff, make sure maintenance locks down those vents, and get Reggie some backup,” the shorter officer says to the one with the radio. “And Reggie…!” he adds, leaning over the edge of the hole and shouting as loud as he can, “… get outta there right now and start following that blood! He’s hurt, with at least a few broken paws. He couldn’t have gotten far.”
82
“They still haven’t found him. They never will.
I’m not surprised. Janos was hired for a reason. Like any great magician, he not only knew how to keep a secret — he also knew the value of a good disappearing act.
It’s been seven hours since we left the depths of the Capitol basement and air tunnels. To double-check that the air system wasn’t compromised, they evacuated the entire building, which hadn’t been done since the anthrax scares a few years back. They moved us, too.
Most people know that if the Capitol is under a full-on terrorist assault, the bigwigs and hotshots get relocated to a top-secret off-site location. If the attack’s on a smaller scale, they go to Fort McNair, in Southwest D.C. But if the attack is minor and containable — like a gas canister thrown in the hallways — they come here, right across the street, to the Library of Congress.
Standing outside the closed doors of the European Reading Room on the second floor, I sink down to sit on the marble floor. My shoulder eventually rests on the leg of one of the enormous glass display cases that line the hallway and are filled with historical artifacts.
“Sir — please don’t sit there,” a nearby FBI agent with silver hair and a pointed nose says.
“What’s it make a difference, huh?” my lawyer, Dan Cohen, threatens as he rubs a hand over his own shaved head. “Don’t be an ass — let the poor guy take a seat.” An old friend from my Georgetown Law days, Dan’s a half- Jewish, half-Italian matzoh-ball-meatball of a guy stuffed into a cheap, poorly tailored suit. After graduation, while most of us went to firms or to the Hill, Dan went back to his old neighborhood in Baltimore, hung out an honest- to-God shingle, and took the cases most lawyers laugh at. Proudly tracing his family tree back to his great, great- uncle, gangster Meyer Lansky, Dan always liked a good fight. But by his own admission, he no longer has any connections in Washington. That’s exactly why I called him. I’ve had enough of this town.
“Harris, we should go,” Dan says. “You’re falling apart, bro.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“C’mon… don’t be a jackass. You’ve been through five and a half hours of interrogation — even the agents said you should take a break. Look at you — you can’t even stand.”
“You know what they’re doing in there,” I say, pointing to the closed doors.
“It doesn’t matter…”
“It
“Harris, we’ve been waiting here two hours already — it’s almost midnight; you need to get your nose set, and a cast for your arm.”
“My arm’s fine,” I say, readjusting the sling the paramedics gave me.
“But if you-”
“Dan, I know you mean well — and I love you for it — but just be humble for once and acknowledge that this is one part of the problem you can’t fix.”
“Humble?” he asks, making a face. “I hate humble. And I hate humble even more on you.”
Glancing down between my knees, I see my reflection in the marble floor. “Yeah, well… sometimes it’s not as bad as you think.”
He says something else, but I’m not listening. Sunk down, I take another look at the closed doors. After everything I’ve been through, this is the one thing I care about right now.
Forty minutes later, I can feel the thump of my heartbeat pumping down the length of my arm. But when the doors to the reading room open, every ounce of pain is gone… and an entirely new one takes its place.
Viv walks out of the room with two bandages over her eyebrow. Her bottom lip is cut and swollen, and she’s holding a baby blue ice pack to her other eye.
I climb to my feet and try to make contact, but a double-breasted suit quickly steps between us.
“Why don’t you leave her alone for a bit,” her lawyer says, putting his palm against my chest. He’s a tall African-American man with a bushy caterpillar mustache. When we were first taken in, I told Viv she could use Dan, but her parents quickly brought in their own attorney. I don’t blame them. Since then, the FBI and the lawyer have made sure Viv and I haven’t seen, heard, or spoken to each other. I don’t blame them for that either. It’s a smart move. Distance your client. I’ve never met this lawyer before, but from the suit alone, I can tell he’ll get the job done. And while I’m not sure how Viv’s family can afford him, considering all the press this’ll get, I don’t think he’s worried. “Did you hear what I said, son? She’s had a long night.”
“I want to talk to her,” I say.
“Why? So you can mess her life up even more than you have already?”
“She’s my friend,” I insist.
“Mr. Thornell, it’s okay,” Viv says, nudging him aside. “I can… I’ll be fine.”
Checking to be sure, Thornell decides to take her cue. He steps about two feet away. Viv gives him another look, and he heads back to the display cases, where Dan and the other FBI agent are. For now, we’ve got the corner of the gilded hallway all to ourselves.
I look over at Viv, but she avoids my gaze, dropping her eyes to the floor. It’s been eight hours since we’ve last spoken. I’ve spent the past three trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to say. I don’t remember a single word.
“How’s your eye?” “How’s your arm?” we both ask simultaneously.
“I’ll live,” we both reply.
It’s enough to get a small smile out of Viv, but she quickly pulls it down. I’m still the one who got her in this mess. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s clearly taking a toll.
“Y’know, you didn’t have to do what you did in there,” she finally says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not a moron, Harris — they told me what you said…”
“Viv, I never-”
“You want me to quote ’em? That you forced me into this… that when Matthew died, you threatened me into helping you… that you said you’d ‘break my face’ if I didn’t get on the private jet and tell everyone I was your intern. How could you say that?”
“You’re taking it out of context-”
“Harris, they showed me the statement you wrote!”
I turn to the classical murals on the wall, unable to face her. There are four murals, each one with a woman soldier in ancient armor, representing a different stage in a nation’s development:
“What?”
“You know how these things go — who cares if we saved the day? I made bets on legislation… misappropriated a corporate jet… and arguably contributed to the death of my best friend… Even if you were there
