Page 23 of Capitol Matters

With a bit of maneuvering, I fished the cell out, barely glimpsing Donovan’s succinct

OK

before the driver door swung open.

Yankee Doodle dropped into his seat and reached immediately for the glovebox. Sitting up slightly, I spotted a bottle of hand sanitizer as he squirted it into his palms then rubbed vigorously. It might have been plague apprehension but, with the way he’d draped over those volunteers while the camera was rolling, I guessed it was more that he wanted to wash off the stench of commoner as quickly as possible.

The jingling of keys preceded the engine turning over, and I laid back flat. I would wait a block or two before making my presence known. The only remaining question was how well did Yankee Doodle respond to threats?

With a soft rock backward, the BMW kicked into drive. Watching through the window above, I monitored our progress.

I had no ropes, no gags, no preparations whatsoever. This was a crime of opportunity, of passion. I was passionate about getting away from the jobsite and about having progress to show Maximus when I returned to the Capitol on Monday.

The car was oppressively quiet. I wished YankeeDoodle would turn on the radio or sing to himself because the sound of my own breathing became deafening as streetlamps flashed by. How many of those were in a block? Two? Maybe three? I had counted five by the time we stopped—for a stoplight or sign, I couldn’t tell—and impatience won out.

Slowly righting myself, I framed my body behind the driver’s seat while I looked at our surroundings. We idled at a red light with no one in the lane beside us.

Yankee Doodle’s hands were already on the steering wheel, and I decided it best that they stayed there. Mental energy settled across his fingers, a subtle pressure he wouldn’t notice until he tried to turn or jump out of the car at the sight of the creeper in his backseat.

With him anchored, I was free to move about the cabin. I slid back to sit on the leather upholstered bench seat.

The sound of my movements and the flash of blond hair in the rearview must have alerted him. Yankee Doodle sputtered a curse and spun around, unable to do more while telekinetically glued to the wheel.

“Hey, buddy.” I gave him a cheesy smile.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he exclaimed.

Rather than reply, I peered past him at the stoplight that was sure to turn soon.

“You’re Fitch Farrow.” His brown eyes bugged. “The Marionette. Are you…” His arms flexed with a failed attempt to pry his fingers loose. “Is that what’s happening right now? Are you controlling my body?”

I nodded. “Which makesyouthe marionette, if you think about it.”

Yankee Doodle’s head turned from one side to the other, observing what I already had. We were alone on the road. Even if he wanted to wave or flag down a passing driver, he couldn’t as long as I held him.

“Listen, fella,” I said, “I’m gonna make this brief. Somebody wants you dead.”

“Oh, my god.” He shrunk in his sport coat like a wilting plant.

“But,” I continued with emphasis, “that somebody isn’t me. I’m not in that game anymore. Never was, according to the court.” I trailed off into a mumble but recovered with a deep breath.

“So, I’ve worked out a plan. You’re gonna go away for a while.” Three weeks sounded like an eternity, so I decided to gloss over that detail. “Call it an extended vacation. And when it’s over, you’ll be alive, and all will be well.”

“Go away where?” A tremor shook his words.

I chewed on my lip ring, trying to think of the best way to explain. “Storage?”

“Oh, my god,” he repeated, then said it again. And again.

On his fourth repetition, I cut in. “You’ll get food, something to sleep on…” A bucket to shit in, but that was better left unsaid. “And again, you’ll be alive. Which is a win in my book.”

A chilly gust whipped around the car. Had he turned up the AC? Nope, both hands were cemented at ten and two. DidIturn up the AC?

“Is it getting cold in here?” I wondered aloud.

Glancing at the windows found them rapidlyfogging. Ice crystals, like wide, flat snowflakes, blossomed at the corners of the glass.

Only then did I remember a pertinent fact I learned when researching this particular victim. Yankee Doodle was a dandy, all right, but he was also a witch. He did cryomancy, an offshoot of aquamancy, which was a relief because a skilled aquamancer could turn this car into a fishtank.

---