Suspect Red

by L. M. Elliott

  “Senator Johnson says a good side of beef can convince a man to do most anything,” Ginny was saying. “He’s won a bevy of votes because of his wife’s secret recipe.”

  Abigail laughed. “Goodness! I’ll have to ask Lady Bird for her recipe, then.”

  “Maybe she should give it to the State Department,” joked Vladimir. “They could use some magically persuasive recipes!”

  Frustrated that he couldn’t get Vladimir’s attention, Richard looked forward toward Don to report what he’d spotted. But his “Hey, Dad” stuck in his throat when he realized his father was watching him carefully in the rearview mirror. Richard stared back into his father’s eyes in the narrow reflection. Did he imagine it, or did his father shake his head ever so slightly and speed up the car?

  “So, what’s for dinner, Abby?” Don asked suddenly, interrupting Ginny. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

  “Steak! I thought we’d celebrate.”

  “Oh, you’re in for a treat, Vlad. The missus cooks a mean steak!” Don put on his good-humored joking voice. “Did you wrassle it up on the range like a cowboy wife, honey?”

  Richard’s mind raced as his dad described the first steak she’d tried to fix Don, which burnt to a crisp—but he ate it anyway. “For love,” he said. “Pure love.”

  What was the meaning of what Richard had just seen? Who were those guys? And what did Don’s look mean? Did his father know something about them?

  Richard sucked in a sharp breath. Was that why it had been so important to Don that Vladimir and Richard both went to the Pick Temple’s Giant Ranch show? To guarantee Vladimir wouldn’t suddenly show up at his house when…When what? Did the FBI just search Teresa’s studio? Did they wiretap Vladimir’s house?

  On what Richard had told Don?

  Richard had just figured that the bureau would go after Teresa’s radical friends and that mystery guy up in New York. But maybe they’d detected something really covert going on from the intelligence he’d given them! A big-deal case, maybe. A real winner for his dad, even!

  Still…Richard glanced over at Vladimir. He hadn’t meant for them to be rummaging through his best friend’s life. His face flushed, thinking of all his hidden songs and book notes and the things he muttered to himself in aggravation in the safe privacy of his own room. Angsty stuff he wrote in the heat of disappointment or hurt. Snipes he’d said when angry. New thoughts he tried on and then discarded later. Things that would really hurt Ginny’s and his mom’s feelings. Things that might land him in hot water with authority figures. Stuff he’d never want other people to hear or read.

  Richard scrunched down in his seat, feeling great and awful at the same time.

  “THIS knocks me out.” Resting his elbows on the balcony of the visitors’ gallery, Vladimir gazed down into the chamber of the United States House of Representatives. “This is the room where it happens!”

  Richard scanned the enormous space, its cool, palatial marble, and the wide fan of gleaming mahogany desks. Below them, members of Congress were gathering. Many clustered in conversation, animated gaggles of navy-blue–suited men. Voices drifted up to the boys, who sat directly above and to the left of the podium. Vladimir had positioned them there so he could hear everything the Speaker of the House said. They also sat only a few feet away from other adolescent boys in coats and ties, perched on stools, taking notes on the proceedings. Serving as errand boys for the nation’s legislators, these congressional pages were the go-betweens for congressmen and their staff during sessions. They carried notes across the aisle to build coalitions or political coups and kept records on what the representatives said and did.

  Once upon a time, pages had been as young as eight years old. But now they were high schoolers. Vladimir was hoping to join the select corps of teenagers who helped grease the wheels of lawmaking.

  “Ginny’s comment about having her first pony ride on Pick Temple so she could write about it made me figure that I should experience a session firsthand before writing my application essay. That way it’s more authentic,” he’d told Richard’s parents. He’d been so earnest about Ginny’s example, he’d easily convinced Don and Abigail to let Richard play hooky, too, in order to accompany Vladimir on his personal field trip to Capitol Hill.

  “Apply with me, Rich!” Vladimir said now. “Imagine working here every day. The world leaders you’d get to meet. You’d witness history being made!”

  Richard stared at his friend, surprised at how idealistic, even patriotic, Vladimir sounded, given how radical his opinions on books and music could be. Being a page would actually be way cool. But what if Vlad made it and he didn’t? Just like basketball. What would happen to their friendship then?

  “But what about school?” Richard asked, embarrassed to say what was really worrying him.

  “They’ve got a special school for pages, on the top floor of the Library of Congress. Georgetown University professors teach some of the courses. That’d beat the heck out of some of the idiot wardens at our high school. I swear I could teach Civics a lot better than Mrs. Russell does. She doesn’t know diddly-squat about Europe. She had to think hard about where Czechoslovakia was on the map.” Vladimir paused. “I have to be honest, though, the schedule is kind of brutal. They start classes at six A.M. so pages can get to work on the House floor at ten thirty. But I think it’d be worth it.”

  “But…but what about basketball? You’re the best shooter the team’s got.”

  “Yeah, well, ain’t that the truth?” Vladimir pretended to preen. “They’ll just have to do without me. They’re a bunch of crumb-bums anyway.”

  “But won’t you miss playing?”

  “Believe it or not, Rich, the one sport the page school has is basketball.” He punched Richard’s shoulder. “Hey, I bet you could make that basketball team.” He nodded toward the pages sitting to their right. “Look at those guys.” They were gawky and bespectacled. “They wouldn’t last a minute in a full-court press.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, seriously, buddy boy, I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean these guys are brains—like you—so you’d fit in better. That’s all.”

  Sure, that’s what you meant, thought Richard. He knew Vlad was too nice to say he stunk at basketball. But all Richard replied was “Very diplomatic. Maybe you should join the Foreign Service instead, like your dad.”

  “No way. The State Department’s crocked. McCarthy’s suspicions of it have everybody running scared. I’d rather be here and show up jackasses like McCarthy for the a-holes they are. This is where that game is played.”

  Richard couldn’t help looking over his shoulder, afraid of some McCarthy informer sitting right behind them.

  “And the best part, I swear, is I’d get a salary. About two thousand dollars a year. So I can keep on with my music. I’ll compose when Congress is on recess and use the money to go to all kinds of jazz clubs. I’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Two thousand dollars?” Richard’s mind began to race. What would James Bond do with two thousand dollars? How much did an Aston Martin cost?

  WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. The Speaker of the House thumped his gavel and called the session to order.

  “Shh-sh-sh!” Vladimir hushed Richard and wriggled to the edge of his seat to rest his chin on his hands atop the railing like a little kid watching TV.

  With the thump of the gavel, members took their seats. The Speaker called for a vote to permit debate on whether to consider a bill that would allow Mexican migrant workers to pick crops in border states.

  “You mean they have to vote to decide whether they are going to allow discussion of whether or not they want to hold a vote?”

  “Shhhhhhh,” Vladimir quieted him. He was enthralled.

  As congressmen voted yay to hold a debate on the merits of House Resolution 450, Richard’s attention wandered to the other spectators in the gallery. He’d been surprised to see a sign calling it the Ladies’ Gallery, but the guard had explained t
hat after the Civil War, lonely widows would spend entire afternoons watching Congress. Several elderly ladies sat there now, one of them knitting. Anyone could come in to observe, whenever. That was the way the founding fathers had wanted it—a totally open process. No admission ticket or special permission needed.

  Vladimir had whistled softly when they crossed the threshold. “This is amazing. You know, in Czechoslovakia, no way could people watch government at work. People are hauled off for saying anything that sounds the least bit critical. Even making some dumb joke. A couple of Mom’s friends have just vaporized. She worries they’re in prison somewhere.” He paused. “Or worse.”

  Really? Richard would have sworn that if anything, Teresa would have been pro-commie. She was so obviously subversive in her art and friends. He had wanted to ask more, but as soon as they sat down, Vladimir was all about the Congress members and pages. Now he was totally wrapped up in what the legislators had to say about Mexican citizens crossing the border temporarily to pick harvest crops in the United States.

  While the debate dragged on, Richard noticed a very different-looking woman enter the gallery directly behind them. He’d bet a thousand dollars that she wouldn’t start knitting. She was strikingly pretty, even kind of glamorous, wearing a close-fitting, light-colored suit. Her black hair was perfectly styled at shoulder length, and her mouth was bright with Hollywood-red lipstick. Three men with pencil mustaches accompanied her.

  “Mr. Speaker,” began another congressman, as he rose from his seat to express his opinion, “I believe for my constituents it is vitally important to consider…”

  Half listening, Richard kept looking over his shoulder, eyeing the new spectators as they sat down in the balcony’s back row. Something about them seemed out of place. And the men seemed itchy. Really itchy.

  Down below, a representative from Colorado moved that the House vote on the resolution. A man from North Carolina seconded. The 243 legislators settled into their seats to await the final tally.

  Meanwhile, the woman Richard was watching whispered to her companions. They nodded and bowed their heads. Almost like they were praying. Richard craned his neck to watch them more closely. His skin kind of prickled. Weird.

  “One hundred sixty-eight ayes,” the Speaker of the House announced. “And the nay votes come to…”

  The woman opened her purse. She looked back and forth, wild-eyed, before pulling something out. She stood. Her companions lurched up with her. They reached into their coat pockets.

  Oh my God. Richard grabbed Vladimir’s elbow and shook it just as the woman shrieked: “Viva Puerto Rico libre!”

  She held a pistol up toward the ceiling.

  Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-bang-bang!

  The members of Congress looked up in shock.

  Throwing her gun to the floor, the women pulled out a flag. “Viva Puerto Rico libre!” she cried again as she waved the island’s banner.

  That’s when her three male companions began shooting. But they aimed their guns downward—right into the House chamber!

  Bang! Bang-bang!

  Phht-dut, phht-dut.

  Richard had heard that sound before—at a rock quarry near Quantico when his dad had taken him target shooting. It was the sound of bullets glancing off rock!

  “Look out!” He yanked Vladimir’s arm and pulled both of them out of their seats and to the floor.

  Bang-bang-bang! Bang!

  Phht-dut, phht-dut.

  Marble dust sprayed Richard’s hair.

  People began shrieking and scattering all around them, climbing over seats, crawling underneath them.

  From below came shouts of panic from the lawmakers: “This way!”

  “Run!”

  “Hurry!”

  And then cries of pain:

  “I’m hit!”

  “Oh God!”

  “Help me. Please!”

  Bang! Bang-bang-bang!

  The pages! thought Richard. They were right in the line of fire! He lifted his face up from the floor to find them. The teens crouched under their long desk. One had managed to crawl to a telephone in the wall under it and was frantically calling for help.

  Bang-bang.

  Phht-dut, phht-dut.

  “Keep your head down, Rich!” Vladimir reached up and flattened Richard’s face against the floor. He kept his hand on Richard’s head. Crammed together between the balcony wall and the legs of their seats, Richard could feel Vladimir trembling. His own teeth were almost chattering. They had no place to go. No way to crawl out from underneath the spew of bullets.

  Bang-bang.

  Phht-dut, phht-dut.

  Suddenly, the shooting stopped. Richard twisted around and could see one gunman trying to unjam his pistol. The others were reloading.

  Within that fraction of a pause, a male spectator threw himself over the bank of seats at one of the attackers. He managed to grab that gunman and shove him out the door into the hall. Then he turned and pinned the arms of a second shooter as Capitol police rushed in. Together they wrestled the male assailants to the ground and nabbed the woman as she tried to run.

  Guards hustled her out the door as she yelled in English: “I did not come to kill anyone. I came to die for Puerto Rico!”

  Now the House filled with groans and cries for help from below. Richard and Vladimir sat up onto their knees in time to see the pages yank open a small door and race down a tiny staircase to the chamber, shouting for doctors and stretchers.

  “Man, those guys are brave,” murmured Vladimir. “Come on!” He jumped to his feet.

  Richard staggered up, his knees aching from hitting the floor so fast and hard. Now that everything was over, he thought he might throw up.

  People around them in the visitors’ gallery were crying and cursing and checking each other.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “What happened?”

  “Who were those people?”

  “Is it safe now? Are we safe?”

  The boys looked over the railing.

  Directly beneath them lay a congressman, his back turning red through his white starched shirt as his colleagues pulled off his jacket and tried to stanch the bleeding. Aides and secretaries and pages swarmed the floor, dodging through the maze of desks, looking for more wounded. “Over here!” one teenager shouted and began waving frantically. From the back of the chamber, other pages dashed in with stretchers. Guards secured the doors. Above it all rose the eerie, high-pitched whine of dozens of police cars and ambulances racing to the Capitol.

  “Everybody out! We’re clearing the Hill,” a security officer shouted from the gallery doorway. “Walk this way. Let’s go! Right now, folks! Look lively.” The man’s school-yard, fire-drill voice sounded so bizarrely calm and normal.

  Vladimir and Richard pulled their gaze away from the chaos below and started for the door. “I hope that congressman makes it,” Vladimir said. “That much blood coming from his chest can’t be good.” He shook his head. “God, those pages sure were brave,” he repeated, more to himself than to Richard.

  Guards herded the spectators outside but kept them corralled by the Capitol’s sweeping marble staircase, asking them to wait so the police could ask what they had witnessed.

  “This is where they hold the inaugural swearing-in ceremony, isn’t it?” Vladimir asked absentmindedly as he sat down on the cool white steps. Richard noticed his friend’s hands were still shaking a little. He sat down beside him.

  “You know, Rich, my earliest memories are of the Luftwaffe dropping bombs on London. Walking past craters and mounds of rubble on my way to nursery school. We were lucky. My family was never right in the middle of a bomb blast. But we knew a lot of people who…” He trailed off with a slight shudder. He looked up at the sky for a long while before speaking again. “Hey, Rich?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you might have saved my life. I guess I was so surprised by the gunfire that I wasn’t proce
ssing what was happening. Not until you threw me to the ground—right before those bullets hit the marble wall next to us.” He put his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “It’s stupid because I heard ack-ack guns and buzz bombs all the time in London. But never gunfire like that. Not that close. Not firsthand. I…I just froze. So…thank you. Seriously. They might have been taking me out on a stretcher if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Richard hadn’t really thought about it at the time. He’d just reacted with gut instinct. But now that Vladimir put it that way, the deadliness of the shooting really hit home.

  “You’re a hero, man.”

  Slowly, Richard smiled. Being the leader of the two of them for once felt pretty darn good.

  The two friends stared at each other until Vladimir regathered his more typical swagger and punched Richard’s shoulder. “We’re like war buddies now. Brothers.”

  “You sure you’re up for this, son?” Don hadn’t taken his protective hand off Richard’s shoulder since he’d gotten home from the shooting. They stood at the front door of the FBI director, Mr. J. Edgar Hoover himself.

  Richard nodded, even though his heart knocked loudly in his chest.

  “Mr. Hoover just wants to ask what you saw, son. We’re on the hunt for anyone who might have abetted the shooters. Even just giving them a stick of gum, I swear. Those guys sent five congressmen to the hospital. The SOBs.” Don shook his head angrily. “And nobody gets to take a potshot at my kid.”

  He cleared his throat and squeezed Richard’s shoulder. “You were so smart to recognize something was up with those jokers before most anybody else did. Mr. Hoover thinks you might have seen other clues without realizing it.”

  Richard nodded again, although he really felt like throwing up now. He’d gotten pretty darn shaky when he described to Abigail what had happened. She’d cried and nearly squashed him with hugs. Having to relive it all over again, under Hoover’s legendary cross-examinations, was making him queasy.

  Richard kicked himself. Hadn’t he just survived a shooting? Talking to Mr. Hoover was easy. Just giving a report, like any G-man. Besides, he saw Hoover all the time, passing by the house in his chauffeured car. It was so heavy with bulletproofing it needed a truck engine, and made so much noise it might as well have been the presidential motorcade. The neighborhood never missed his comings and goings.