Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

“It’s good to see you, Sea Bass. Thanks for coming.”

  Pausing his orchestrated action of feeding the birds for just a moment, Sebastian Murray accepted the shake, pumping it twice before going back to his previous endeavor.

  “Good to see you as well, Jack.”

  The two men had first met forty years and what seemed a million miles ago, both literally and figuratively. Two years older than Ridge, Murray was a sergeant in a neighboring platoon, the two having crossed paths briefly a time or two, neither thinking much of it at the time.

  Not until they were back stateside more than a decade later – Ridge in the House of Representatives, Murray with the CIA – did the two actually become more than acquaintances, a relationship that began with wary reluctance and evolved over time into what it was now.

  The type of thing where one or the other could be counted on in a time of need, if not for results, then at least for an ear and a bit of unbiased analysis.

  “How in the world did you even get my number?” Murray asked. “I haven’t had the new one but a few weeks.”

  “Susie,” Ridge said simply, having tried the old contact he had on file before giving it over to his Chief of Staff. “That woman is a bloodhound.”

  “That she is,” Murray agreed, Ridge able to almost hear the smile in his voice, not needing to glance over. “Which is exactly what an old coot like you needs watching over him.”

  This time it was Ridge’s turn to chuckle, the ends of his mustache riding up slightly.

  “How’s retired life treating you?”

  His hand pausing just slightly, Murray thought on the question a moment before beginning anew, tossing more popcorn out before him.

  “You’ll find out, soon enough.”

  “That I will,” Ridge conceded, “but before I go, I have one last thing I need to do.”

  This time there was no pause from Murray, the answer seeming to be what he already expected.

  “Yeah, after that mess this morning, I imagine you do.”

  Again feeling the same stab in his stomach that had been present most of the afternoon, Ridge said, “Saw that, did you?”

  “Mhm,” Murray replied. “Even if I didn’t make a habit of looking in on my friends, that one would be hard to miss.”

  Having long suspected the first part of the statement, never before had Ridge heard it stated explicitly.

  The friend part, anyway. He’d always known Murray made a habit of poking through the dirty laundry of him and countless others.

  Tossing out the last of the popcorn, Murray carefully folded the bag and tucked it under his thigh, the flock of birds continuing to bounce around before them, all stooped at the hip, pecking at the ground. Slapping his hands together to knock away any salt and butter that remained, he said, “So, what can I possibly do that would warrant getting a call on your very last day in office?”

  With his gaze fixed on the birds, watching them hop to and fro, the symbolism was not lost on Ridge, feeling as if most of the time he had spent in D.C. was much the same, hopping after whatever morsels were tossed his way.

  “Oh, you already know the answer to that,” Ridge said. “I told that woman I’d find out what happened to her son, and I aim to do it.”

  “Even if it’s the last thing you do in office?”

  “Even though it’s guaranteed to be the last thing I do in office,” Ridge replied.

  Beside him, he could sense Murray cast a glance his way, though no comment was made. Instead, the man asked, “And the reason you’re doing this?”

  Recalling the conversation he’d had with Clara Tarby, remembering the stack of redacted pages on his desk, Ridge said, “Because something isn’t making sense, in a big way.”

  “Not because you want to make amends for a poor showing this morning?” Murray pressed.

  Feeling a scowl creep onto his face, Ridge said, “You ever known me to give a damn about that?”

  “Wouldn’t have been very good at your job if you did,” Murray replied.

  “Besides,” Ridge added, “bastards already voted me out, I’d say I know pretty well where I stand with them, wouldn’t you?”

  A grunt was the only response from Murray, the two men falling into silence for the better part of two minutes, the occasional coo of a pigeon and the errant sound of a car door slamming the only sounds between them.

  “Did you start with the file?” Murray eventually asked.

  “What there was of it.”

  “Ahh,” Murray said, picking up on the insinuation as he slid the popcorn sack from beneath his leg and stowed it into the pocket of his coat. Keeping his hands buried inside the leather shell, he stood, a pair of pops ringing out from his hips and lower back.

  “Good seeing you, Jack. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marian Ellerbe was the first one through the door, leading the impromptu trio into the suite. Pushing the heavy wooden door open with both hands, she stood to the side and held it wide, the square heels of her shoes pressing down into the thick carpet on the floor.

  “And here we are, Ms. Tarby.”

  Second inside was Clara Tarby, her mouth and eyes all stretched into congruent circles as she passed into the palatial spread, her face arched upward as she gaped at what she saw.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, the sound just barely audible, bringing a thin smile to Ellerbe’s face. Remaining in place, she waited as Kyle Stroh crossed over as well, gripping one small bag in his right hand, a second matching bag tucked under his arm.

  Reaching out, he accepted the door from Ellerbe, slowly easing it back into position, the gate closing with a click that could be heard throughout the room.

  “Where would you like your bags, Ms. Tarby?”

  Whirling toward the sound of his voice, her eyes still wide, Tarby extended both hands his way, fingers splayed out wide.

  “Anywhere is fine. Please, just drop them beside the door and I can get them.”

  “No, ma’am,” Stroh replied, a smile on his face. “We aim to please in Senator Ridge’s office. Where would you like them?”

  Keeping her hands outstretched for a moment, Tarby gave him a look that seemed to border on pleading before finally capitulating.

  “On the bed would be great, if you don’t mind.”

  “Bed it is,” Stroh replied, nodding once and setting off for the far side of the spread, his footfalls silent atop the carpeting.

  The process of taking Tarby to her motel in Silver Spring and bringing her downtown had taken the better part of two hours. Given the close urban location of both destinations, there was no highway reprieve to aid them going either way, no break from the urban grind that had kept them from ever moving more than a few dozen yards at a time.

  In that time, Ellerbe and Stroh had taken turns attempting to engage the woman in small talk, most of it stymied with varying degrees of forcefulness, almost always to the tune of the entire thing being unnecessary.

  From where she stood, Ellerbe couldn’t say that she rightly disagreed, though the decision made was something far above her head, daring not to ever question it.

  Turning away from the door, she extended both hands toward the picture window framing the seating area of the suite. Below, the Potomac River moved slowly by, scads of tourists lining the shores, many in heavy coats with cameras hanging from their neck.

  Behind them, the white marble of the Capitol rose against a steel-colored sky, the Washington Monument just peeking out from behind it in the distance.

  “How about this view, Ms. Tarby?” Ellerbe said, putting her best smile on display, hoping that the new topic would give her something to fill their last moments together.

  Keeping her hands folded before her, Tarby remained in place, turning toward the window.

  “I really can’t afford this place, you know.”

  Feeling the smile disappear as quickly as it had arrived, Ellerbe said, “Nobody can, Ms. Tarby. These suites are set aside for special gu
ests here on the Hill.”

  “And even if they weren’t,” Stroh added, exiting the bedroom to join them, “Senator Ridge wouldn’t dream of letting you foot the bill, even if he had to pay for it himself.”

  Giving them each a quick glance, a bit of wariness obvious along the edges, Tarby took a few steps closer to the window, sidling up along the far side of it, easing one hip against the wooden casing.

  “First time to D.C.?” Stroh asked.

  “Mhm,” Tarby replied, nodding slightly. “Hopefully, first and last.”

  Again the plastic smile appeared on Ellerbe’s face, she too taking a step forward, cutting down the distance between them. “Is it really that bad?”

  With her gaze still aimed out the window, Tarby asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Jacksonville,” Ellerbe replied.

  “And you?” Tarby asked, flicking a quick glance to Stroh.

  “Nashville.”

  “Hmm,” Tarby replied, falling silent for a moment before starting anew. “Both of those are cities that people recognize immediately, probably full of tall buildings and big crowds and loud noise.

  “Me, I come from a place called Ten Sleep.”

  Shifting to look at each of them, she said, “Actually, six miles outside of Ten Sleep. Can you imagine how many cars I see in any given month?”

  “I can’t,” Stroh said.

  “Not many?” Ellerbe added.

  “Fewer than I can see from this window right now,” Tarby said, glancing to her shoes before again forcing herself to examine the view before them.

  In the wake of her confession, most of the air was sucked out of the room, silence flooding in behind it, Ellerbe casting a look to Stroh, his face showing he had as little idea how to proceed as she did.

  Between the two of them, they had spent more than half a decade under the employ of Senator Ridge. While it was not entirely uncommon for them to be given random tasks, or make seemingly illogical errand runs, this was an absolute first.

  “Well, just one more night,” Ellerbe said, attempting to salvage the situation, hoping to exit as quickly as possible. “This place has a fabulous room service menu, I’m told. Stay here, rest up, and you’ll be headed back to Ten Sleep soon enough.”

  Where Ten Sleep was – or even if it really existed – Ellerbe had not a clue.

  At the moment, it was far from the most important thing on her mind.

  Again, there was no response from Tarby for a moment, her eyes glassing over as she stared out the window. In that position, she remained for several seconds before slowly turning back to them.

  “I’m so sorry you’ve been forced to do this. I never asked for any of this.”

  Feeling her mouth drop open, unsure of how to respond, Ellerbe merely matched the woman’s stare, hoping Stroh might have the proper response for the situation.

  He did not.

  “Senator Ridge...I know it wasn’t a fair thing to put on him, but nobody else seems to know anything. I just...”

  Yet again she paused, cracks in her voice betraying her, the raw emotion she had shared in the office earlier still on plain display.

  “All I want is to find out what happened to my son,” she whispered, the moisture belying her eyes growing more pronounced, a warble forming in the middle, threatening to streak south. “I just want to be able to sleep at night.”

  Feeling mist rise to her own eyes, Ellerbe said nothing, pulling in long drags of air through her nose.

  “Does that make sense?” Tarby whispered. “Does any of this even make sense?”

  Her legs wobbly beneath her, Ellerbe slowly moved forward, extending a hand before her. Reaching out, she found both of Tarby’s still clutched tight, her fingers cold to the touch.

  “It doesn’t have to, Ms. Tarby.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The walk back from the World War I monument took just over twenty minutes, a time aided considerably by the wind pushing at Jackson Ridge’s back.

  Bent forward at the waist, he plunged his hands into his pockets and lowered the top of his head, the collar of his coat flipped up. Staying a few feet off the concrete sidewalk, he pushed past the Reflecting Pond and by the World War II spread, everything from the set of his jaw to the pace of his steps letting it be known that it was not in anybody’s best interests to stop him for a chat.

  Based on the comments of both Macon and Murray, the video of him that morning had gone viral, meaning he was in no particular mood to stop and discuss the matter with any curious bystanders. Compounding that mood were the events of the afternoon, his search for the answer to Clara Tarby’s question no further along than it had been when she first asked it.

  Part of the reason for his wanting to pursue the topic was to help her and to do right by a fellow soldier, though there was certainly far more to it than that.

  No person that had ever submitted their name to run for office did so without at least some small sliver of ego attached, and he was no different.

  Getting voted out in November had been a massive blow to his. Finding out there was a video circulating out there, seeking to make him a laughingstock on his final day in office, wasn’t much better.

  Stepping inside the door at the foot of the Dirksen Senate building, Ridge nodded to the guards working the metal detectors and unloaded his pockets into the bins. After being out in the cold, he could feel the flaps of his ears burning as blood rushed back in, bits of prickly heat running the length of them as he passed through the scanners and collected his belongings.

  On the heels of his walk, he opted to bypass the stairs, going to the far bank of elevators and ascending to the third floor. Less than a minute later he emerged to find Beckwith waiting for him, the planner and a sheaf of papers pressed tight against her chest.

  How she had managed to know he was on his way up, he had no idea, it being somewhere around the hundredth time she had managed such a feat over the years.

  “Have a nice walk?” she asked, the question seeming innocuous enough, clearly meant to relay a message.

  There was somebody nearby. Speaking freely at the moment would not be a good idea.

  “Very,” Ridge replied.

  “And the knee?” Beckwith asked, taking another half-step closer.

  Feeling his eyes narrow, knowing that the person she was warning him about could be any one of a thousand people, he said, “Started tightening up a bit there at the end. You know how it gets in the cold.”

  “I do,” Beckwith said. “I don’t envy your return back to Wyoming.”

  Unsure how to respond, having taken the charade as far as he could, Ridge pulled his brow together, a deep crease appearing between them.

  “What’s up?” he mouthed, no sound passing his lips.

  “Hodges,” Beckwith mimed.

  Confusion gave way to agitation, a sour taste rising to Ridge’s mouth. Every part of him wanted to storm right past Beckwith, striding directly into his office and throwing his successor and anybody else that might be along for the ride out on their asses.

  The voters may have seen fit not to give him another term, but that still meant he had a task to perform and until noon on January 3rd to do it.

  “No,” he said, this time unable to keep himself silent, the word coming out an angry whisper. “Absolutely not.”

  Offering him a look that resembled something his mother might have at one point given him when she thought he was being absurd, Beckwith pushed out a long sigh.

  “Sir,” she muttered, “it is customary-”

  “I don’t care about customary,” Ridge spat back. “We’ve actively avoided it for thirty-six years now, I see no point in starting today.”

  Deep in the recesses of his pocket, his phone began to vibrate, the pulsating object buzzing against his fingertips.

  “So you’re just going to march in there and tell them no?” Beckwith asked.

  “No,” Ridge said, pulling the phone from his pocket and flipping it open, a stri
ng of digits with a local area code staring back at him. “You are, while I take this call.”

  The left eyebrow of Beckwith rose to a pointed arch as she stared at him, the corners of her mouth turned downward, letting him know that she didn’t appreciate being cast as the bad guy yet again.

  Raising his voice again, this time loud enough to be heard, Ridge added, “Tell him he assumes office tomorrow at noon. Come back then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rooms had been installed sometime decades before, small alcoves carved into the sides of the expansive hallways of the Dirksen building. Originally meant to serve as telephone weigh stations, the rotary machines had long ago been removed, replaced by solid steel plates bolted flush against the marble walls.

  For years the small spaces had gone virtually unused, far too expensive to bother filling in, left standing idly along the side. With the advent of cell phones, they had taken on a second life, providing a place for staffers to step away for conversations they didn’t want to be overheard, the closed doors providing excellent sound proofing, the clear glass on them making it possible to keep an eye out for anybody that might be coming.

  It had been years since Jackson Ridge had had any reason to step into one of the bays, his office being more than sufficient, his status making it possible for him to simply ask whoever might be standing by to give him a few minutes.

  Not wanting to face the annoyance of Hodges or his staff, Ridge slid into the closest closet and pulled the door shut behind him, slamming it home in hopes that the sound would carry into the lobby of his office, a clear point being made.

  “Sea Bass,” Ridge said, thumbing the phone to life and pressing it to his face. “I wasn’t expecting you to get back to me so quickly.”

  “Can you talk?” Murray replied, his smooth voice low, making it clear there was a trace of something present, even if Ridge didn’t quite know what it was.

  “Just you and me,” Ridge replied, his previous tone matched in kind. “What did you find?”

  “Didn’t find a damn thing,” Murray said, “which is why I’m calling back so quickly.”