Page 51 of Capitol Matters

Asking my brother to pick me up and take me back to the storage facility was a non-starter. He was too upset to be behind the wheel, and it would take too long, besides.

I could hotwire a car but rigging anything newer than a ‘90s model would be a challenge, and I doubted any of the Capitol clowns drove thirty-year-old beaters.

I must have been silent for too long because Donovan spoke up.

“Fitch… hurry.”

Swearing, I ended the call, resisting the urge to throw my phone into the steel wall of the elevator. I could try to wake Nash or even Ripley, but involving others would only complicate a situation I didn’t fully grasp.

I should have learned from Donovan’s chauffeured arrival at Jacoby Thatcher’s house the night of my arrest: no taking cabs to jobsites. So, I wouldn’t take a cab to Lock n’ Roll. I’d take it to the fried chicken restaurant across the street—one of a few fast-food joints in town that had managed to keep their doors open. Then, I would walk over to the storage facility and into whatever disaster awaited me.

Sprinting past Lock n’Roll’s front office, I drew the notice of a haggard woman loitering outside. Her two-tone hair was growing out a dye job, and her stained Elvis tee shirt spoke of a commitment to the rock music theme. She puffed on a cigarette I was antsy enough to want a drag from, but Donovan had mentioned the owner being suspicious of our comings and goings. I didn’t need to make myself more memorable by asking to bum a smoke.

Fifteen minutes had passed since I fled the Capitol building. I gave no explanation to Holland or anyone else, so my cell was still ringing, but not from my brother. For him, I had fired off a single text with my best effort at encouragement.

On my way. Don’t worry.

I was out of breath by the time I made it to the back side of the property. The place was a labyrinth. Despite having driven through here a handful of times,it looked different on foot. Bigger, too.

Beige metal buildings spread in rows and columns over what had to be a full city block. Besides the woman at the office, I’d seen no one else. Typical for the middle of a workday at a place designed to hold things people were apt to forget. With the sun glaring down, Nash’s corduroy coat was stifling hot. I thought about shucking it and replacing it with something made in the current decade about the time I found what I was looking for.

Jogging around the corner of one of the long, low buildings revealed the Bronco parked and idling. Donovan occupied the driver’s seat, staring ahead with vacant eyes. As I closed in, I saw the sheen of fresh tears on his cheeks and red splotching his face and neck, all signs of the ugly cry I’d heard over the phone.

Panting, I came alongside the boxy SUV and gripped the open window ledge. “Donnie, what’s going on?” I asked. “What happened?”

I leaned in to look him over. No blood or obvious injuries. Relief eased the crushing pressure that had weighed on me during the ride across town.

“He’s been crying for days,” Donovan replied, snuffling his snotty nose. “I should’ve done something.”

I glanced down the row of doors. All were closed, but further inspection found one unlocked. I’d abducted four people so far, but I hadn’t bothered to keep track of which unit belonged to who. That was Donovan’s job, and I’d left him to it. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

“You said someone died?” I asked.

Did you kill them?I wondered but kept the thought to myself.

Donovan’s hands wrenched on the steering wheel. His knuckles went white where they stretched his skin. He didn’t look at me, instead staring down the alley between the buildings, seeing something I couldn’t or hadn’t yet.

“He killed himself, Fitch.”

“Who did?” I prompted, my impatience bleeding through again.

“Snow guy!” Donovan shouted, exasperated as if I should have known.

Maybe I should have since we’d talked about it last night. Well, Donovan talked about it. I’d all but ignored him, more focused on Capitol business and personal pleasure.

“I knew something was wrong because he…” Donovan shook his head. “He didn’t want to be in there.”

I snorted. “Who would?”

Donovan rambled on, words spilling out between hiccups. “I tried to explain, but it didn’t make any difference. I just… found him… And I don’t know why he would do that…”

I sagged against the car with one hand propped on my hip. “Probably all the fucking pizza,” I muttered.

Donovan turned and gawked at me. The shock that first made his face slack was replaced by narrow-eyed fury. Grabbing the interior handle, he shoved the car door open into me, knocking me back.

His Converse tennis shoes hit the pavement as I staggered to remain upright. He stomped toward me, bowed up for a fight. I saw the punch coming and easilydodged it, knocking his arm aside. He stumbled with the follow-through, having counted on hitting more than empty air.

I stepped back as he recovered then whirled around with his fists clenched.

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