Capitol Threat (2 page)

I wasn’t stupid enough to pretend I could get away with all this without suffering a few repercussions. I’d had the temerity to short-circuit that indifferent universe and win a big one for the home team. But the other shoe would drop. I knew it would. I had quite literally escaped death. I had gone too far, taken too much. There would be a reckoning.

Damn karma, anyway. Even as I stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride, I felt a hollowness, an inability to feel pleasure, a certainty that it would all come to an end before I had a chance to enjoy it. Funny how sometimes you just know these things. I was as certain about this as I was that when I licked my lips I was tasting my own blood. And not for the last time.

J
udge Rupert Haskins folded his wife’s hand into his own and squeezed. “Heck of a way to be spending our twenty-seventh anniversary, isn’t it, Angel?”

His wife, Margaret, smiled, causing crow’s feet to form around her eyes. “I don’t mind.”

“Damned bother, all this Inns of Court rigmarole. But it would be awkward if I didn’t attend, since I founded the chapter.”

“I understand.”

“It’s important work, mentoring the next generation of lawyers. Trying to instill in them the ethics and values lawyers had—hell, everyone had—when we were young.”

This time it was her turn to give his hand a squeeze. “Rupert…we’re still young.”

“I’m sixty-two, Angel.”

“And you’ve never looked better.”

“I’ve lost the hair on my head and gained it in my ears.”

She laughed. “You’ve never looked better.”

The Inns of Court was a fraternal organization within the Denver Bar Association. A select number of the local, state, and federal judiciary with the city’s most prominent lawyers met once a month for dinner and discussion of legal issues, mostly relating to maintaining the high standards of the bar. Every year a new class of young lawyers was chosen for one-on-one guidance from the permanent members of the Inn. It was a highly sought position, not only for the educational experience, but for the chance to become acquainted with judges the lawyers might well be appearing before one day. There were three different Inns in Denver, but the one Judge Haskins had founded was the first and was generally considered the most prestigious, since he was the senior judge on the Tenth Circuit. And this year, to his dismay, the premiere session for the new class of acolytes at the downtown Hilton ballroom had fallen on his and Margaret’s wedding anniversary.

Haskins was about to reply and rebut when he was cut off by the sound of a baby crying at the next table. “Can you believe that lawyer brought his wife and their newborn? To a professional banquet? What kind of lawyer would bring a wife who just gave birth and the child? You never would’ve seen that in our day.”

Margaret patted his hand gently. “Darling…the wife
is
the lawyer. And I don’t think she has a husband.”

“But—that’s not right.”

His wife shrugged. “Times have changed.”

“She should’ve hired a babysitter.”

“Babysitters are expensive. And we don’t say ‘babysitters’ anymore. We say ‘caregivers.’ ”

“Right. Very important that we don’t demean the teen work-force.” He leaned closer. “I’m going to have to give some damn speech in a minute. I’m sorry. But tomorrow night, Angel—I’m taking you out to dinner. To compensate for this scheduling snag.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s our twenty-seventh anniversary!”

“Yes, it is. We’ve been together twenty-seven years. So you can skip the dinner, and the champagne, and whatever bauble it is making a bulge in your jacket.” She leaned in closer. “All I want is you.”

He came close enough that they brushed noses. “Do you know why I call you ‘Angel’?”

“I’ve assumed it’s because you’re beginning to have difficulty recalling my name.”

“It’s because someone like you could only have come from heaven. Beautiful, pure, and untouched by the wicked world. I’d be nothing without you.”

She laughed again and her face flushed slightly. “You
are
in a sentimental mood tonight, aren’t you? Rupert, you would’ve been a success no matter who you—”

“No. Not without you. And what’s more—I wouldn’t want it, without you.” He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose.

She pushed him away. “Oh, honestly. I think you get more foolish every day,” she protested, but without much vigor. “Now start putting your thoughts together for your speech. And please don’t tell that musty old story about when you were in the freshman moot court competition and the judge criticized your argyle socks. They’ve heard it more times than they’ve heard the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Judge Haskins had almost reached the point in the story where he notices the judge is staring at his ankles when he was rocked by an explosion from behind the podium. The first wave knocked him and the podium to the floor. He fell on top of it and immediately felt blood coursing from his nose. The second wave was even stronger—and hotter. He tumbled off the edge of the dais, falling sideways onto his left leg. It felt as if it might be fractured. But neither that nor the dozen other injuries he had suffered registered for more than a moment. His primary concern was the heat that continued to emanate from the kitchen behind him.

The ballroom was on fire.

Haskins slowly pushed himself to his feet, but he was sent reeling by someone rushing in the opposite direction. The sudden burst of flames had thrown everyone in the room into a panic. Husbands and wives were rushing across the ballroom toward the main entrance. The screams and shouts were deafening; some were calling the names of loved ones, others just screaming in abject panic. The heat was already unbearable. Haskins felt as if he’d been dropped into a deep-fat fryer. The lights exploded, plunging the room into darkness. Everyone was coughing, struggling to breathe. People were rubbing their eyes, or extending their arms to feel their way through the dense smoky gloom. There seemed to be a problem getting the doors open. The smoke was billowing up in the enclosed ballroom, making it almost impossible to get air.

“Margaret!” Haskins cried, as he pushed himself to his feet once more, ignoring the blood streaming down his face, the aching in his left leg. “Margaret!”

He felt her more than heard her, given the enormous confusion and tumult in the room. That was the advantage of being married to someone for twenty-seven years—he could literally sense her presence. Haskins fought his way across the crowded room, brushing shoulders and kneecaps with the hundreds of people rushing in every direction. His leg hurt so much that his knee buckled with his first step. A woman in a flaming ball gown flew past, knocking him back onto the floor.

This will never work, he told himself. I need to stay on my feet. My Angel is depending on me.

He pushed himself up again. The pain in his leg was excruciating, but he kept his knee rigid and continued walking. There would be time enough for pain later.

He found Margaret lying on the floor, half-hidden under one of the banquet tables. She was unconscious, maybe from the explosion, maybe from all the people who had kicked and trampled her after she tumbled to the floor.

There was only one thing to do; whether he felt able to do it or not. He bent over, his back screaming—it had never been the same since the disk replacement two years before—and cradled her in his arms. She felt three times heavier than she really was, but he put that out of his mind and headed toward the door. A crowd was gathering. A few of the men were making panicked, disorganized efforts to get the doors open, but nothing worked. Haskins guessed that the explosion had created a vacuum. Even though people on the other side must be trying to open the doors, they weren’t budging.

“Just a moment, Angel,” Haskins murmured, as he placed his wife gently into a nearby chair. He stood on a table and bellowed, hoping he might be heard over the tumult.

“Listen to me!” he shouted, not attracting much attention. It was hard to stand on such a rickety table, especially with a rickety leg. He drew in his breath, inhaled smoke, and went into a coughing spasm. Water streamed from his eyes, but he forced himself to try again.

“Listen! Can you feel that fire? Do you know how quickly fire spreads? We’ve got to get organized—or we’re all dead.”

“What can we do?” one of the young men shouted back.

Damn good question. What could they do? Waiting for help was not an option—the fire would consume them in minutes, maybe sooner.

“Let’s grab the podium,” he said. “You and you and you.”

Haskins and the three men he had chosen at random ran back to where the podium lay on the floor. It was mostly intact, although its proximity to the fire had made it extremely hot. Haskins touched one end, then jerked his hand back.

“We have to do this,” he muttered. “Use your clothes to protect your hands!”

Together the men tore off their jackets and shirts and used them to insulate their hands. It was not a complete fix—Haskins still could feel his flesh searing—but it at least made it bearable in the short term. On his cue, they lifted the podium and carried it toward the nearest door.

“We have to work together,” he shouted, coughing and choking with every word. “On three!”

Haskins delivered the countdown, and together they used the podium as a battering ram against the door. It buckled but did not break.

“Again!”

They rammed the door one more time. The plastic molding splintered, creating a narrow opening. People streamed forward, desperately trying to escape the unbearably intense heat. Haskins hoisted his wife back into his arms and carried her through the threshold, barely a few steps ahead of the flickering flames.

“Is everyone out?” he shouted, once he had his wife to safety and made sure she was breathing. “Is everyone safe? Buddy up. Make sure you can account for everyone you came with. Look for the people at your table who were—”

The next sound he heard, barely discernible over the buzz of the crowd and the power of his own voice, shook him even more than the explosion, even more than the sight of flames slowly consuming the room.

A baby was crying.

“No,”
he whispered, under his breath.

He raced back toward the doors, but one of his fellow federal judges stopped him. “Don’t be a fool, Rupert. You can’t survive in there. The firefighters should be here any moment. Let them—”

Haskins didn’t wait for the end of the sentence. He returned to the center of the inferno.

He had one advantage the firefighters would not have—he knew where the baby was, or at least where it had been. The problem was, visibility was now almost zero. He felt his way forward, using the walls and the tables to thread his way back to his former seat, even though everything he touched was red hot.

Haskins heard the baby cry again. That helped. Even with flames crackling all around him, he could zero in on that heart-wrenching sound.

The baby was still in her carrier, but her face was completely covered in black. The plastic molding of the carrier had begun to melt.

Haskins lifted the baby into his arms, wiped the smoke and soot from her face, and held her close. “Breathe, child. Breathe.”

Now he had a bigger problem—how to get back. A trail of flames cut across the center of the room, separating him from the main entrance. He knew he didn’t have the strength to get another door open. Already he was feeling faint. Must be the thinness of the air, he thought. Most of the oxygen had been burned out of the room. His knees wobbled. This couldn’t be the end. Surely he hadn’t gone through all this just to have the poor child die in his arms.

Like a ray of light piercing the darkness, Haskins saw a white arc stream through the flames. It hit him in the face—and it was wet.

Water. Someone was putting out the fire. Praise God—someone was putting out the fire!

A moment later he saw uniformed firefighters crossing the room. One of them took the baby and immediately put an oxygen mask over its tiny nose and mouth. Someone threw a blanket over Haskins and escorted him to the outside corridor. Just in time. His brain was as smoky as the room; it was getting very hard to think clearly.

“If you ever get tired of judging,” he heard one of the men say, “we’d be honored to have you join the Firefighters Brigade. You’re a hero, Judge. A real-life hero.”

He didn’t want to appear rude, but he felt sick and tired and had no stomach for compliments. “Angel,” he whispered.

“Your wife is over here,” another voice said. “She’s fine.”

Haskins allowed himself to be led to her side. Her eyes were open, though streaked with soot and tears. Even though his clothes were hot and filthy, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

“Looks like we’ll be around for our twenty-eighth, Angel,” he said. He heard nothing back from his wife. But he could feel tears of joy cascading down his cheek, renewing him, making him feel young all over again.