by R. T. Ray
“Yes,” Matuszak replied. “Everything is fine.”
Turning, they started retracing their way through the deserted corridors. The walk was at a more leisurely pace. Gone was Harrington's military quickstep, along with all of his formality.
“I know something of the ordeal you've just been through,” Harrington offered.
“You do? How?”
“You can't spend twenty years in these hallways and not know its secrets.”
“And what do you think?”
“Think?”
“Yeah, about tonight.”
Harrington reflected for a few moments, then, shoving his hands deep into his pants pockets, said, “I think sometimes we are forced into making decisions that are not always so simple and clear-cut. Each one will have to search their own conscience, to know if the right decision was made or not. Don't you agree?”
“Maybe,” Matuszak answered. “But only time will be the final judge, if I chose correctly tonight or not.”
“Well now, that's certainly an odd coincidence,” Harrington answered. His tone appeared somewhat amused.
“What do you mean, an odd coincidence?” Matuszak asked, glancing at his companion.
“Special Agent Danny O'Shea, another fine Irishman, said almost those exact same words to me not more than twenty minutes ago.”
“Who's he?” Matuszak asked, out of politeness. With the chamber crap still fresh in his mind, he had little interest in this Agent O'Shea, or any of his philosophical opinions.
“Only one of the top agents in the Executive Protection Branch,” Harrington said proudly. “Travels exclusively with the headman himself.”
“The president!”
Matuszak had stopped and was staring into Harrington's eyes, searching for any indication of his companion's inner thoughts. Finding nothing, he asked, “Here? You said O'Shea spoke to you here, not more than twenty minutes ago? That means the president had to be here. Was he here? The president, I mean. Was he here in the gallery, tonight?”
“Ah, there you go, Lad, jumping to conclusions,” Harrington said, his Irish accent, barely perceptible, magically metamorphosed into a heavy brogue. “Meself? Now how would meself know about such lofty things like that?
“Meself being only a lowly sergeant at arms, and not a privileged insider like yourself.” With a wink of his eye and the hint of a devilish smile starting to form, Harrington added mischievously, “Besides, Lad, I couldn't speak on such matters, even if I wanted to. Wouldn't be proper, now would it?”
With that, Harrington turned and continued on, leaving an astonished Matuszak with a stream of unanswered questions running through his mind.
Had the president sat in on the hearing? Maybe, maybe not. It could have been Senator Ewald instead. He wasn't sure.
Hell! Half of the things that went on in that chamber, he wasn't sure of. But had he made the right decision? Yes, that was the only thing he was sure of.
They walked in silence the remainder of the way through the deserted hallways and past the now vacant reception desk. Matuszak retrieved his coat and thanked Harrington.
“I know, once I leave this building, you won't be able to acknowledge me,” he said. “But I want to thank you for all your help.”
“No problem, Agent Matuszak. If you should ever find yourself in the Capitol again, have one of the guides get word to me. I have a private stock of fine old Irish whiskey in my office desk, just begging to be opened.”
“But wouldn’t that run counter to your orders?”
“To hell with the orders. We'll raise a glass or two.”
“You have a deal,” Matuszak said, accepting Harrington's outstretched hand.
“You take care of yourself, Lad.”
Leaving Harrington, he followed the slate path to the driveway. The Taurus had been returned and sat parked at the curb, its lights on and motor idling. As he neared the auto, the lone security opened the door and saluted. Matuszak entered the vehicle and drove away.
A damp chill, saddling the rising wind, signaled the approaching storm. Leaving the Capitol grounds, he drove through the dark, deserted streets of Washington. Harold's words were echoing in his mind.
Chaos is everywhere now. Yes sir! A God-awful mess.
* * *
Following Pennsylvania Avenue the road dipped under the Anacostia River. In minutes the lights of Washington were retreating in the rear-view mirror and he drove north towards Baltimore and home.
Winter's first flakes of snow, large and fluffy white, began lazily swirling downward. Quickly increasing in intensity, they soon formed a dancing curtain of white against the car's windshield. Merging onto I-295 he found the ferocity of the storm and lack of traffic combined to turn the parkway into a ribbon of snow-covered concrete. The parkway was deserted except for a lone semi slowly plodding its way on what he hoped was the parkway’s center lane. He eased off on the accelerator and settled in behind, content to let the larger vehicle determine their course. He had time to think, and his thoughts turned to Judith.
Midway to Baltimore he spied the deserted line of drive-up-to telephone booths in the approaching rest stop. On impulse, he pulled off. Depositing a coin he dialed Judith’s number. Even before the first ring reached his ear his heart erupted into wild pounding.
Less than an hour ago he had faced off against a powerful senate subcommittee, but now... He hadn’t prepared anything as a pretext for his calling. What was he going to say? Besides, whatever he came up with he’d probably stumble over his words and she, of course, would merely laugh at his boyish behavior.
What if she didn’t share the same feelings as he did? After all they had only met a few times, and that had been in an office setting with a dozen people about. The Pier Six meeting? Merely a chance encounter. He had accepted her invitation to meet after the concert and attend the party at her companion’s home. Again, there would be scores of people about. It wasn’t as if it was a real date.
But there was the kiss.
True. But, it was only a light kiss on the cheek. Surely, to a woman of Judith's stature, it meant nothing. A spur of the moment gesture to show her appreciation for escorting her home. Nothing more.
Hang up. Hang up before you make a fool of yourself!
He slowly moved the receiver from his ear. The answering machine kicked in. He paused, listening to her lyrical voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m unable to come to the phone at this time. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’
Now, he told himself, now is the time to say something. “Judith” he said “It’s Ken. I...”
He stopped, unable to continue. He wanted desperately to tell her how much he missed her, of the jumbled-up emotions that grew stronger with each moment. But how could he explain what he didn't yet understand himself. He couldn’t utter these things, certainly not to a cold, impersonal machine.
He suddenly found himself alone in the middle of a winter storm, standing at a freezing phone booth in a deserted rest stop. Discouraged, a wave of hopelessness overcame him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he surrendered. He started to replace the receiver when a weak, muted voice echoed in the chilly booth.
“Ken? It’s Judith. I’m here. Are you still there?”
Quickly he brought the receiver to his ear, no longer aware of the cold or the storm’s raging fury. It was no match for the emotional storm raging inside him.
“Yes,” he blurted out. Yes, I’m still here.”
“Where are you? I was so worried. I’ve been trying to reach you all evening. No one knew were you were. Are you all right? Is everything okay?”
His confidence somewhat restored, he replied, “Yes. Yes, everything is fine. I’m on my way back from Washington, got caught in the storm. I thought of you and decided I'd give you a ring. I hope you don't mind.”
“No, no, of course not, silly” she bubbled happily. “I've been thinking of you too. Oh Ken, I’m so glad you called. The telephone was on its last ring as I was putting
my door key into the lock.”
Then, after a long pause she murmured, “When will I see you again?”
In that moment, all his apprehension fell away. Home and Judith seemed just a heartbeat away.
THE END
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