Page 22 of Capitol Matters

It hadn’t been ten minutes, or even five, when the ground began to shake.

Disaster cleanup was notwhat I had in mind when I told Holland to put me to work. Telekinesis made me a utility player in the field of magic, meaning I could fill the role of heavy machinery in a pinch and was as good a candidate as any to be loaned out to the reconstruction crew for the rest of the week. By Friday, my brain and body were beyond taxed, and Avery’s name hadn’t left my lips without an accompanying curse word in about as long.

Since I’d been largely absent from the Capitol building, I’d avoided any check-ins with Maximus. But the shrinking four-week timeline remained a constant concern.

I shuffled through the line passing a long folding table piled with brown bag lunches. Members of a local charity had turned out to provide today’s meal. Two middle-aged women manned the makeshift lunch line, smiling while making small talk with the workers.

With sweat cutting channels through the grime on my arms and pasting my hair to my forehead, I was not immediately recognizable. I’d managed to pass the first day and a half without everyone on site knowing my name. Today, though, I was grateful my assignment had reached its end, because the only looks I got now were scornful, and conversation had been reduced to gruff commands of “go there” and “move that.”

The charity workers were amiable, though no chattier than my burly, construction-grade counterparts. I had enough tattoos to draw judgment from people over a certain age, and it could have been as simple as that. But when I reached, unthinking, for one of the paper sacks, the Bloody Hex skull mark stared up from the back of my hand.

The woman across the table gasped. That, followed by her sudden lurch backward, drew the attention of everyone else.

The man behind me gave my shoulder a push. “You oughta think about covering that up,” he grunted.

I sighed, grabbed the lunch, and turned away.

Most of the crew clustered in available areas of shade. I had no interest in finding out if I would be welcome among them, so I ventured off alone. The stoop of an undamaged building provided a narrow square of shadow where I could tuck in for a moment’s peace. I shouldered out of the mandatory neon safety vest and dropped it beside me as I sat.

Upending the paper sack emptied its contents onto the gritty concrete. Peanut butter sandwich, red apple, pretzels, and bottled water. It was a meal fit for anelementary school student, fold-top baggies and all.

Grumbling, I pulled the sandwich from its bag. Pigeons pecked the sidewalk a few feet away, disinterested until I started peeling the crust off the gluey white bread and tossing the pieces at them.

Despite days of clean up, Main Street sported a five-foot chasm that stretched from the alley where the Hex members had staged their attack. It had severed buried power and sewer lines, splintered the road and sidewalks, and left our worksite abysmally equipped with only port-a-johns and bright orange coolers full of sports drink.

The cleanup crew didn’t seem to mind the bare necessities and offered no complaints about the free meal, either. My first bite of the PB&J was as gummy as expected, pasting my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

With liberal sips of water to aid with swallowing, I was halfway through the sandwich when a silver BMW rolled up to the construction barricade across the street. A boxy, black SUV pulled in behind it. Car doors opened, unloading a trim gentleman in a sport coat from the BMW and a frizzy-haired camerawoman from the SUV.

Nimbly dodging the roadwork signs, the man joined the ladies at the lunch table. His unnaturally smooth complexion and pattern-on-pattern shirt and tie contrasted with the bare-faced charity workers in their oversized logo tees. That didn’t stop him from roping them into a group pose in front of the harried camerawoman. Toothy smiles spread all around as the women appeared to recognize him. I did, too.

Todd Danvers held a seat on the city council and aspot on Maximus’s list. Make that my list, where he was known as Yankee Doodle.

Circling the table, he boisterously greeted the members of the construction crew standing in line. He shook hands with a few, making sure to hold on long enough for the camera’s flash.

Chucking the rest of my lunch caused the pigeons to scatter. Watching them take flight gave me a thought. Two birds, meet one stone. I was here, and so was Yankee Doodle. Fortuitous, some might say. Something was going my way for a change.

But it was the middle of the afternoon. I wasn’t off duty yet, and the camerawoman was snapping stills of Yankee’s every twitch. If he went missing, she would raise alarm. If I was missing at the same time, it would be too convenient for coincidence. Besides, I didn’t want to give the construction crew confirmation that I was, indeed, the scumbag they believed me to be. My reputation was earned, but it wasn’t like I slaughtered people for fun.

So, what then?

Judging by the speed with which Yankee Doodle clipped around in his wingtip shoes, he was here to get in and get out. He wasn’t likely to linger till the end of my shift or until darkness provided cover.

I stood and glanced across the road at the two cars parked end to end. Lunch breaks were short, but I wasn’t forbidden from leaving the site. A temporary absence could be excused as a jaunt to a bathroom with a toilet that flushed or a run to the liquor store for something that would make the rest of the day bearable.

How far was that storage facility from here? I opened the notepad program on my phone to check the address Donovan had given me. Seven miles in light traffic, plus offloading my living cargo into my brother’s questionably capable hands, meant a twenty-minute roundtrip. I had time. If the camerawoman cleared out, and if Yankee Doodle was in as big a hurry as I thought he was.

With my phone in hand, I typed a quick message to Donovan.

Meet me at storage. ASAP. Bringing company.

Sticking close to the storefronts, I made my way down the block. Occasional checks over my shoulder found the publicity stunt in full swing. When I was far enough removed not to attract attention, I crossed the street, sidling up to the buildings once again on a slow, steady return.

Whether eating or schmoozing with the councilman, everyone was occupied. I picked up the pace, rounding the corner of the intersection to dart across to the BMW’s back door. Crouching beside it, out of sight, I laid my palm over the handle. Mental threads slipped out, seeking the interior lock mechanism. Little twist, little turn, and the tumblers shifted. I looked ahead at the construction site once more. No one looked back, so I tugged the door open and slid inside.

The first thing that struck me about Yankee Doodle’s car interior was how clean it was. Freshly detailed, or rarely driven, even the black carpeted floorboard smelled nice as I wedged my body between the front and back seats. Lying down, I couldn’t see, butI couldn’t be seen, either.

After a few minutes, the car began to feel stale. I was already sweaty, so this new sheen of perspiration only added to the layers of filth. I squirmed in search of a comfortable position until my phone buzzed against my hip.

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