Capitol Murder

by William Bernhardt

“Which is what these folks are planning to do, right? Tonight. What’s the Ceremony? Some big orgy?”

  She glared at him. “Don’t be absurd. The Circle is not about sex. Sex is nothing. Anyone can do that. Animals do it. The Circle is about true blood intimacy.”

  “Blood intimacy?”

  “When you offer your own life energy, you give a part of your self, your essence. You need your blood to live. Nonetheless, you share it with someone else to give them pleasure. It’s a beautiful thing. Sex-that’s just selfishness. Two people gratifying their carnal desires. Blood intimacy is exactly the opposite.”

  “And this doesn’t seem a little… whacked?”

  “Who’s to say what’s whacked? I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink… wine.” She giggled at her little joke. “Most of the people you see in here are perfectly normal citizens who work during the day at perfectly normal jobs. No different from anyone else.”

  Whatever. Time to get back to the reason he was here. “Do you know a woman named Beatrice? I think she may be a member of the Circle.”

  “No. But we rarely use our real names here. In fact, we rarely use names. What does she look like?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t really know. I believe she may have been blond. She’s been described as mousy-not by me-and as being, um, somewhat large around the hips.”

  “Last name?”

  “Don’t know that, either.”

  “Then how did you expect to find her?”

  Good question. He thought for a moment. “Any other places the Circle Thirteen crowd frequents?”

  “Well, many of us are members of the Playground. But if you couldn’t handle that little spanking episode, I wouldn’t recommend it to you.”

  “Anyone disappeared from the Circle recently?”

  “Disappeared? No. Sometimes the minions select recruits for the Inner Circle, but-”

  “Where do they go?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not in the Inner Circle.”

  “Who are these… minions?”

  “The minions of the Sire, of course.”

  “And these people-what? Take women against their will? Kidnap them for human sacrifices?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I told you-we’re perfectly normal citizens who happen to share a common interest. We’re not even unique. There are vampire clubs across the nation. Take my word for it-I’ve traveled. There’s a network of them; the insiders know where they are and how to find them. My girlfriend runs vampire workshops-”

  “Workshops?”

  “Yeah, at science fiction and bondage conventions all over the country. Did you realize there are at least three hundred and fifty thousand bona fide blood drinkers in this country? Some people believe that we have a genetic quirk that makes us crave satisfaction in a manner… different from other people. ’Course, that’s the same thing they started saying about gay people a few years ago, right? ‘They’re not mentally abnormal-they’re just different.’ The Circle network is not unlike the gay bar world twenty years ago. We’re a minority, so we have to keep a low profile. The middle-class majority always fears anything that’s different. But that will change. Gay bars, gay men and women, gay marriages-they’ve come out of the closet. I think we’re next.”

  “So you’re tellin’ me that you folks-every one of you think-” He wasn’t sure he could make himself say it. “You think you’re vampires?”

  “Not necessarily. Some of these folks are just batting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pretending. Playing dress-up. Plastic fangs, white makeup, scary contact lenses. It’s like a big role-playing game for them. We let them hang out here, but they aren’t actually members of the Circle. Some girls I know do it just so they can cruise the clubs. You know-Looking for Mr. Goodvampire. They’re in love with the undead mythology but aren’t actually-how to say it?-drinking from the well.”

  “And that’s battin’?”

  “Right. You know-like in the movies. Where the vamps turn into bats.” She paused. “Of course, real vampires don’t turn into bats.”

  “And that’s what everyone else is? A real vampire?”

  “No. Many are wannabes-they’re into vampires, they act like vampires. But they aren’t. Some are here for the S-and-M stuff. Some are casual blood sippers-like, from a cup. Only a relatively small fraction of the Circle are actual bloodsuckers who-you know, drink it in the traditional manner. They call themselves classicals or, worse, vampyrs.” She pronounced the last syllable as if it were piers. “So pretentious. True vampires are immortal and dead, or undead, if you prefer. They’ve been made a vampire by another vampire. They have inverted circadian rhythms-in other words, they’re genetically ‘night people.’ They are usually photosensitive-meaning they don’t like sunlight. In addition to those made vampires by another vampire, there are also Inheritors-people born into it, who are either immortal or exceedingly long-lived. They tend to be the bad boys-the ones who earned our community its negative reputation. Nighttimers are regular people who have been altered to become vampires. Like me. Not immortal. Not undead. But we don’t turn to ashes if we go out in the noonday sun, either.”

  She stopped, licked her lips. “Enough with the lecture. All this talk and no action is making me hungry. You ready to go yet?”

  Loving looked at her blank-faced. “Go where?”

  “You know what I mean. You must be curious. What do you say?” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against the side of his neck. “Ready for a little suck?”

  “You mentioned the Alaskan wilderness bill, Mr. Melanfield,” Ben said. “Could you explain to the jury exactly what that is?”

  Melanfield took in a deep breath, starting a spiel Ben knew he had delivered countless times before. “It’s a bipartisan bill designed to increase our domestic production of oil and thus reduce our reliance on foreign oil.”

  “And how does this bill propose to do that?”

  “By stimulating production in undeveloped fields.”

  “Undeveloped-why?”

  A tiny crease spread across Melanfield’s forehead. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Those oil fields you’re talking about haven’t been tapped in the past because they’re located in the federally protected Alaskan wilderness, correct?”

  “That would, uh, technically be correct. The purpose of the bill, of course, would be to alleviate the federal protection.”

  “And thus allow developers to destroy the last untouched wilderness area in the entire United States.”

  Melanfield blew out his cheeks. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I didn’t expect a rational response from you. I know about your past work for the eco-terrorist group.”

  “Move to strike!” Ben rang out.

  Judge Herndon gave the witness a stern look. “The lawyers are advocates, not defendants, sir. I will not permit any aspersions on counsel in my courtroom.” Especially, Ben thought, since it’s almost certain grounds for a mistrial or an appeal.

  “Yes, your honor. I’m sorry. But as I said, I’ve worked with this company for a long time, and this is an issue I feel strongly about. I care about the environment as much as the next fellow. But I also care about this nation. And we need more oil. Our dependence on foreign oil has been disastrous. Fifty years of meddling in the Middle East have made us worldwide pariahs. How many governments have we propped up or torn down? How many times have we sent our troops into combat? And why? It isn’t about Israel, it isn’t about stabilizing the region, and it isn’t about weapons of mass destruction. It’s about oil.”

  “That’s a lovely speech,” Ben said, “but you’re not answering my question.”

  “I think I am.” Ben knew he was doing a lousy job of controlling the witness-the most important principle of cross-examination. But that was a difficult task when you were dealing with a man who talked persuasively for a living. “Studies have shown that if we could just reduce our energy consumption-or increase our production-by ten percent, we
could eliminate our need for foreign oil. Problem is, we can’t. Good grief-Jimmy Carter asked us to drive slower and wear sweaters in the winter and we practically impeached him for it. No politician has had the guts to advocate conservation ever since-it’s considered political suicide. Americans think it’s their constitutional right to drive gas-guzzling SUVs and leave their lights on when no one is in the room. So we must increase domestic production. And the only way we can economically do that is by passing this bill. I regret the inevitable damage to the Alaskan wilderness, too. But I prefer that to sending more troops to die in the Middle East. Or God forbid, seeing a repeat of 9/11.”

  “My purpose was not to give you a forum for your canned lobbying spiel,” Ben said. “My purpose was to find out why you haven’t been able to pass the bill.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that question. Two words: Todd Glancy.”

  “Despite your best efforts, Senator Glancy wouldn’t support the bill, right?”

  “Worse. He led the opposition. And as a senator from a top oil-producing state, he had a lot of clout.”

  “So it would be fair to say that your job would be a lot easier if Todd Glancy was out of the Senate.”

  Melanfield looked as if he were taken aback by the very idea. “If you’re suggesting that I made my testimony up, I can-”

  “Just answer the question, sir. Senator Glancy is your political opponent. And your job would be a lot easier if he was gone. Right?”

  “I… suppose I can’t deny it.”

  “And if he loses this trial, he will be gone. He’ll be replaced by an appointee of the Oklahoma governor, a Republican with deep ties to the oil industry, right?”

  “I don’t know what the governor will-”

  “What’s more, Brad Tidwell will become the senior senator from Oklahoma. And he already backs this bill, right?”

  “He has had the foresight to lend us his support, yes.”

  “So a conviction against Senator Glancy is a win-win for you, isn’t it?”

  “Objection,” Padolino said. “This is becoming offensive.”

  “Overruled,” Herndon said. “But I do think you’ve made your point, Mr. Kincaid. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. After this alleged eavesdropping incident, sir, did you tell anyone what you had heard?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “You’re saying you caught a U.S. senator engaging in ethically and perhaps legally improper behavior. Implying that he either was blackmailing her and was being blackmailed. Did you report this to the Senate Ethics Committee?”

  “Becoming a tattletale isn’t exactly the key to popularity for a lobbyist.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone? A friend? Your boss? Your wife?”

  “No.”

  “But now, after all these months of silence, you expect the jury to believe this heretofore unmentioned story?”

  “Look, it was one thing when I thought the man was diddling around with his intern. That’s not exactly unprecedented. But when she turned up dead, that was different. Of course I went to the authorities.”

  “With what? Did you hear Senator Glancy make any threats against Veronica Cooper?”

  “No.”

  “According to your testimony, she threatened him.”

  “Right. Said she was going to ruin him.”

  “I submit, sir, that your testimony makes no sense. We knew from the videotape that, at or around the time you heard this alleged conversation, Veronica Cooper was having intimate relations with Senator Glancy. That she was even instigating the encounter, at least to some degree. That’s an odd way to ruin someone.”

  Melanfield smiled. “My guess is she made the videotape.”

  All at once, Ben felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room, as if his heart had stopped beating.

  It hadn’t even occurred to him, but it made perfect sense. What was more likely, that the tape was made by a political opponent, or by one of the persons involved? She made the tape-and made sure it got out-to bury her boss. To set up a lawsuit that could make her rich for the rest of her life. If she had lived.

  “Move to strike,” Ben said, much too late to be effective. “Witness is speculating. His testimony is not based upon personal knowledge.”

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled. “The jury will disregard the witness’s statement.” But Ben knew it would make no difference. Whether Melanfield’s theory had any proof was irrelevant. It made sense. It fit. And even the most persuasive lawyer on earth would have a hard time convincing a jury to disregard their common sense.

  “You’re tellin’ me you really suck people’s blood?” Loving asked, leaning as far away from Morticia as possible. He wished he’d worn a turtleneck.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” she replied. “Why should I? There’s nothing new about it. Human beings have drunk blood since the dawn of time. Vampires were reported by the ancient Sumerians.” She scooted closer. “All my life, I’ve felt like an outsider. Someone who didn’t belong. But as soon as I was introduced to Circle Thirteen, I thought-I’ve found my tribe! These are my people. I don’t need scarification, now. I have something else to take its place.”

  “And that would be…?”

  She looked at him levelly. “I think you already know the answer to that question.” She slipped a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and wriggled it down, revealing what was hidden beneath.

  Wounds. Several slashes running down her shoulder.

  “I-I thought vamps bit people in the neck.”

  “Some do. Unfortunately, you can kill someone that way. Shoulder wounds are less dangerous, easier to get to, and easier to conceal afterward. They bleed a lot, but there’s no chance of bleeding to death from a shoulder cut. It’s perfect, really.” She pulled the strap back up. “So I can do all the things my body wants me to do, and still wear hot clothes.”

  Loving shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually-”

  “Have you not listened to anything I’ve said? Wake up and smell the bloodlust, handsome.” She beckoned toward someone at the other end of the room. A moment later, they were joined by a tall and thin, stubble-cheeked, midtwenties man wearing a leather shirt, leather pants, leather lace-up sandals, and a black cloak. His ears and a good part of his face were covered with piercings, and he wore a thick silver band around his neck. The man had also shaved his head, except for one twisted strand that dangled down in front of his eyes. His face was abnormally white: Loving suspected he used makeup to create the effect. And he was supposed to believe this guy had a normal nine-to-five job?

  “Charles,” Morticia said, “show the man your teeth.”

  “Why should I?” he replied. His voice was low and guttural.

  “So that he can believe.”

  “I don’t get ’em out unless I plan to use them.”

  “Please,” Morticia insisted. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” She looked at him sheepishly. “Say cheese.”

  The man shrugged, then, after a moment’s more hesitation, smiled.

  They were properly called canines, Loving knew, or eyeteeth, but at the moment it was impossible to think of them as anything but fangs. They were prominent, long, and extremely sharp. Sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Or anyone.

  15

  “I ’m taking you two out to dinner tonight,” Senator Glancy announced, after Judge Herndon ended the day’s session. “Special permission from the judge-don’t have to be back to my cell till ten. So what do you say? It’ll be just the three of us, plus my dear, sweet federal marshals. We need to talk.”

  “We could try Stan’s,” Christina suggested. “It’s nearby. It’s mentioned in all my guidebooks.”

  Glancy shook his head. “Too close to the Washington Post offices. I don’t want to be spotted by a bunch of reporters. Especially reporters who’ve had too much to drink.”

  “What abo
ut Two Quail? I hear it’s very elegant.”

  “And packed with lobbyists. Who are even worse than reporters. At least the reporters don’t offer to fix you up with women.”

  Ben’s jaw lowered. “Lobbyists do that?”

  “Ben, they’ve got gorgeous babes standing by to provide a BJ in the bathroom if you’re on their A list. Or they’ll pick up a hottie and deliver her to your place-so you won’t be seen doing it. And as fun as that sounds, we need someplace our privacy will be respected.”

  “Then you’d better pick.”

  Glancy smiled broadly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “The usual table, Senator Glancy?”

  “If it’s convenient.”

  “Of course. Right this way.”

  Glancy turned back toward Ben and Christina and winked. “You gotta love it. The man acts as if nothing has changed. No shocked expression, no double take. He’s a pro.”

  Just as well, Ben thought, because he noticed a lot of double takes from the patrons as they passed through the elegant and exquisitely chic Four Seasons restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. Just a stone’s throw from the POTUS himself, Glancy had said. The Man with the Big O. Which in this case stood for the Oval Office. “I supposed they’re used to scandals in this town.”

  “It’s not that they’re jaded,” Glancy replied quietly, as they approached the secluded table in an alcove in the rear of the restaurant’s dining area. “It’s that they’re cautious. A politician can be down one minute, up the next. No way of predicting. One day Newt Gingrich is practically running the country; a year later he’s writing bad science fiction novels and reviewing books for Amazon.com. One day Nixon is humiliated and retired from politics; next thing you know he’s the damn president. In the long run, it’s smart to be nice to everyone of importance. Or who might be. Or ever was.”

  “Or,” Christina said, “you could just be nice to everyone. Period.”

  “You could. But you’ll never get yourself elected to the U.S. Senate that way.” He took the menu from the waiter and smiled. “Thanks for humoring me. I get the impression this fancy-schmancy haute cuisine isn’t your usual bill of fare. But I wanted to make the most of my night out.”