CHAPTER 1|The Road

Overlooking a vast field, Rick Morrow surveyed the ranch he had left unattended over the past eight months. Still bewildered and torn up inside, Rick had outwardly become stoic, pouring himself into his work. In the twenty-nine months, two weeks, and four days since he last saw them alive, not a day had gone by without Rick contemplating the mysterious deaths of his wife and nine-year-old daughter.

Rick kneeled to pick a wildflower in front of him. It was the last day of June. The afternoon sun poured over the flat, green field across the road. A familiar-looking car slowed along the lush, tree-lined highway, turning in to the ranch, stopping in front of the house in which he could no longer stand to live. Rick watched as the man emerged from the driver’s side of the gray, unmarked police-package Ford. It was his friend, Sam White. Stepping out of the passenger side was another man, wearing a tan-colored suit with a bolo tie. Sam looked around and spotted Rick. Waving, the other man took off his suit jacket and tossed it in the car. Sam and the other man began walking toward Rick.

“Why can’t I remember his name?” Rick asked himself as he watched the two men talking and walking along the path as though out for a leisurely stroll. Rick resigned himself to not recalling the man’s name. An accountant, he had been a friend of Rick’s father. He had helped Rick settle the estate as well as anyone could. At least Rick no longer owed the government money.

“Rick, we wanted to drop by to give you the release this afternoon instead of tomorrow,” said Sam as the two men approached. The accountant handed Rick a document.

“You’re square with government,” said the accountant. “When your dad passed away last year, we had no idea anything like this could have happened.”

“You guys didn’t have to come out here,” said Rick, shaking Sam’s hand. “I could have picked it up downtown.”

“You don’t have a car,” said Sam.

“Well, you could just as easily have had it mailed, I suppose.”

“You no longer have an address.”

The three men stood staring at one another until Rick broke the silence trying unsuccessfully to hold back a laugh. Soon all three men were laughing—especially Rick. He was laughing so hard that tears were beginning well up.

“Well you could have,” said Rick through his own laughter, “You could have made it into a paper airplane and…” He continued to laugh, drying his eyes in the process, struggling to talk through the hilarity of it all. “…tossed it out the window! I’m sure it would have gotten to me one day!”

The absurdity of it all warranted some kind of outburst. Among closely-related emotions, Rick had chosen laughter. It served to vent the deep sadness. His laughter continued even after the other two had stopped. Finally, Rick regained his familiar serious composure. “Who came up with this law, anyway? I never knew it existed.”

Last time they met, the accountant had tried to describe Rick why the IRS imposed taxes upon Rick’s “paper” inheritance of the farm. Rick had displayed no grief as the CPA went over the final details of an auction earlier that week in which Rick sold everything, including the ranch, to cover the enormous bill required by the federal government.

“It’s an old tax Congress exploits on both sides,” offered the accountant.

“Political football, you mean!” said Sam. “Those guys know nothing about the West. It’s all East coast wealth to them.”

“Which is why we try to send good representatives to Washington to argue our side,” continued the accountant.

“They have no voice, you know that. That kid we elected from Stockton is a just a shave-tail. He’ll get comfy in Washington after a few terms, you just wait and see! After that he’ll be one of their representatives, not ours.”

Tuning out their conversation, Rick glanced at the papers he now held in his hand—legal documents finalizing the transfer of ownership.

With sadness in his eyes, the accountant now turned to Rick. “Your father was a good friend. After what happened to your wife and daughter, the loss of your father’s estate only adds to the tragedy. I’m very sorry about that. Sam and I certainly agree with you it’s not fair for you to have to forfeit the ranch on top of everything else. Tell me you came out of this with something that you can rebuild on.”

Up to now Sam had been standing with his hands in his pockets, looking down. He was now looking intently at Rick, curious about his response to the accountant.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rick said as he shook his head. “They can have the furniture. The rest of the stuff I gave away yesterday.”

Rick explained how he now had no phone and no place to call home, but that he was fine with that.

“Why?” the bewildered accountant asked.

“Well, I can’t live here anymore. I need to just walk away from all this.”

“I get it,” said Sam. “I’d probably feel the same way.”

“Anyway, this has all been just a distraction” continued Rick. “I’ve got work to do. If it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to find out what really happened on that road that night.”

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t help you more,” said Sam. “I think we must have been on the phone with every authority in both states. In all my years in law enforcement, I’ve never had a case like this and I don’t know anyone else who has, either. But I’ll keep investigating on my end. I’d just like you to call me every once in a while.”

“I will, Sam. I will, I promise.”

Writing on a card attached to a note, the accountant handed a number to Rick: “I still don’t quite understand what you do or where you’re going, but here’s my number. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Rick said as he picked up his black leather backpack and turned toward the road.

“Need a ride? I’ll take you anywhere you need to go.”

“Thanks, no. The bus stops about three miles up the road. It’s a beautiful day; I prefer to walk,” explained Rick. He shook the accountant’s hand, gave a man-hug to Sam, and quietly started off toward a picturesque, narrow country road.

Rick walked more than three miles. The bus didn’t come. Stopping to rest and eat along the way, Rick continued down the road to Sacramento, hitching a ride with a milk truck heading north. In Sacramento, it was well past midnight when another bus arrived, departing for Salt Lake City at 3:30 am. On board, Rick found empty seats in the back and quickly fell asleep. He woke up in Reno, got out of the bus for coffee and a pecan roll, and returned to the same seat in the back. He slept until Wendover then pulled open is backpack and pulled out his journal, a thick, leather-bound book. A picture of his wife, Samantha, and their nine-year-old daughter, Erika, marked the page of his previous entry. He added more.

Relaxing, Rick’s thoughts drifted back to the day he last saw his wife and daughter.

It had been an unusually mild week for mid-January. That Thursday they spent the morning packing for a short trip to visit Samantha’s cousin in Fallon, Nevada. But Rick had a job interview in town the next day and had to stay home. That morning Rick remembered the smell of cookies and music on the radio. Samantha was always singing to songs on the radio—Christian music over a station called, K-LOVE. Rick made fun of it. She attended church. Rick made fun of that, too. Samantha was spiritual. Rick wasn’t, but he didn’t mind his daughter getting a dose of whatever his wife had. If it made her a pleasant and happy person, he thought, he could tolerate Erika attending church along with Samantha as long as she didn’t become some kind of religious fanatic.

That’s how Rick felt at the time. He regretted feeling that way now.

He hugged his wife tightly that day. Samantha called to Erika to hurry up. Always cheerful, Rick’s little girl had been dawdling about all morning. She came bounding out and gave Rick a kiss on the cheek, then twirled like she was dancing with him. The two laughed at her silliness as she went out to the car. The two people Rick loved more than anyone in the world left in the early afternoon, singing to some song on the car radio about life being “more than what your eyes see” and something about finding your way “if you keep believing,” or words to that affect. Smiling and waving, Rick shook his head as he walked back to the house. “Silly girls,” he had said to himself.

Still, he had an odd feeling as they drove off. It was reluctance, an uneasiness that couldn’t be explained. Hours later, his wife called to report they arrived at her cousin’s home, stopping for an ice cream at their first opportunity in Nevada. Everything was fine. Rick put aside his uneasiness.

Two days later, right on schedule, Rick answered a call in the kitchen. It was Samantha explaining they were still in Nevada but now on their way home. However, she said, they had not been paying attention and had inadvertently driven south on US 95 instead of west on US 50. Deciding to continue south, they were now heading back to California on state highway 359. Their new plan was to cut through Yosemite.

As it was getting late, Rick urged Samantha to stop in there and stay overnight at the park lodge. Reluctantly, she agreed. After all, Erika would be thrilled to spend the night in the lodge and wake up to a breakfast of pancakes and hot chocolate. After the call, Rick retired for the evening.

That night Rick had a terrible dream. In it, he heard screaming followed by a crash. He could see nothing beyond a hill. Soon a plume of smoke arose ahead of him. He began to run toward the hill. Reaching the top, he saw the wreckage of a jetliner. Only the tail section, painted in red, was left intact. A voice came from behind him. “Your wife and daughter are dead.” Turning, he saw a police officer, taking his hat off to show concern. “I’m sorry for your loss…” Rick cried in his dream. He woke up drenched in sweat and tears. It was a terrible night that ended the next morning with Rick on edge. Were they okay? It was just a dream.

It was now Sunday. Rick didn’t expect his family home until sometime that afternoon. Still, Rick called Samantha’s cell phone. No answer. Must still be asleep. He called all day to no avail: Her phone had been turned off. As evening fell, Rick began to wonder if his wife might have elected to stay another night at Yosemite. After repeated attempts to call Samantha’s cell phone, Rick called the Yosemite lodge. No one matching their descriptions had checked in. Realizing his wife and daughter had never arrived at Yosemite as planned, Rick’s mind was reeling. He called Samantha’s cousin. She had not heard from them after they left her house. Rick called local sheriff and police authorities in every county between his California ranch and the cousin’s home in Nevada. None had any reports of accidents or mishaps. Rick kept calling, checking and rechecking with authorities well into the night. After a frantic, sleepless night and still more fruitless calls, something dreadful happened shortly after sunrise: Rick heard a knock on the door. His blood ran cold. Just a knock on the door, yet it was an ominous sound.

CHAPTER 2|The Dreadful Knock

The bus jerked to a sudden stop. It was evening. Having been lost in the thought of that terrible weekend nearly thirty months before, Rick now began to focus on the line of cars stopped ahead. In the distance a group of flashing blue and red lights signaled a wreck had stopped traffic. Rick’s bus had reached Salt Lake City but was still a few blocks from the station. After ten minutes had gone by, police finally cleared the wreckage, freeing traffic to continue.

At the station, a three-hour layover allowed time for Rick to watch a game on the monitor in the lobby. The Giants were pounding the A’s across the bay by the time Rick boarded the next bus. Finding a seat in the same location as on the previous bus, Rick pulled out his journal and read again his account of the morning he heard the dreadful news about his wife and daughter.

It was about 8:50 in the morning on a Monday when Rick heard that knock on the door. It was a sound that told him something terrible had, indeed, happened to his family. Nervously, Rick opened the door to a man in a dark suit, accompanied by an Army “bird” colonel. As they entered, a Nevada Highway Patrol sergeant hurried up the steps and followed the others into the living room.

Offering them seats, Rick opted to stand. He knew he was about to be hit by bad news. The man in the suit spoke first, introducing himself as Mr. Walker. He quickly introduced the others with him, Colonel Zane Evans, and Nevada Patrol Sergeant Jim Dannon. Walker explained he was with the National Clandestine Service, an arm of the CIA charged with coordinating various intelligence operations of the federal government. His role today was to help the U.S. Army and the Nevada Highway Patrol sort out and publicly disseminate the relevant facts concerning the matter they were about to discuss.

With Rick’s mind spinning, Patrol Sgt. Dannon got to the point, asking Rick’s identity and verifying he was the nearest relative. Dannon was used to bringing bad news to surviving spouses and family members. It had been his job for nearly twenty years.

“Sir, with heavy hearts we’ve come to inform you that your wife and daughter are dead.”

The shock of those words left Rick lightheaded as though his body was in a free-fall. Rick could feel the bottom drop out of his insides. He sat down in the chair next where he had been standing. Bewildered, Rick was speechless. Over the years, Rick had carefully constructed a fortress of self-control to wall out all emotions during crises such as this. His fortress was there to help him sort through facts in order to withstand the calamity. His emotional discipline had always served him well. Yet at this moment, he desperately wanted to cry out. Maintaining his train of thought, Rick instead pursued the facts. The words that followed initiated a bizarre conversation between Rick and the three officials.

“How did it happen?” Rick, barely able to think, heard himself ask.

“Two nights ago they—your wife and daughter—were involved in a highway accident in Mineral County,” said Sgt. Dannon.

“How?” Rick repeated.

“The road they were on runs through the Hawthorne Army Munitions Plant,” said Colonel Evans. “There was an accident. They were killed instantly.”

“How?” Rick repeated for the third time.

“Technically that road passes through U.S. Army property,” Evans continued.

At this point Walker, the man in the suit, began to appear agitated. He stood up and began to pace. “The details of what happened are not important at this point, Mr. Morrow.”

“Well,” said Colonel Evans, “I’m sure we can at least tell him…”

“Mr. Cummins has given us strict instructions, Colonel,” Walker interrupted with a firm voice.

“I can assure you,” Colonel Evans continued, glaring at Walker before returning to Rick. “Nothing about this tragedy was your wife’s fault. It just happened. But, as Mr. Walker says, we really are not at liberty to give you all the details.”

“We’re still investigating,” the patrolman added.

Rick struggled to fight back tears, and then began concentrating on a more appropriate emotion for the occasion: Anger. Slowly, Rick, now visibly irritated with the stonewalling, took a deep breath and, through clenched teeth, began carefully articulating his words as the tears streamed down his face: “I want to know… every single detail of this event… how it happened… why it happened… where it happened… and what will happen next.”

The three looked at each other, waiting for someone to answer. Finally, the Army officer opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

“Look, Mr. Morrow,” said Walker, “Your wife and daughter were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Unfortunately, what happened is classified,” added Colonel Evans. “Suffice it to say, neither of us are at liberty to discuss it—not even with Sgt. Dannon.”

Trying not to appear left out, the patrolman spoke up. “On rare occasions Nevada DHP investigations require on-site assistance from federal authorities.”

“I need to make funeral arrangements. When do I do that? Can I at least see them?” asked Rick.

“You don’t understand,” the man in the suit continued, “the remains, their personal effects, the vehicle—nothing is recoverable.”

“But the greatest care was taken in the handling of everything,” added Colonel Evans.

“You don’t need to do anything,” Walker continued.

After a painfully long period of silence, Rick realized the three men would offer no real information. “So that’s it?” said Rick, waiting for an explanation. “Will I ever be allowed to know what happened?”

“The simple answer is no,” said Walker. “The better answer is it really doesn’t matter. It’s classified. Beyond what we say today, no court, no agency, no official can tell you anything else. So that’s about it. I’m sorry.”

“On whose authority?” asked Rick.

“On the authority of the director of Mr. Walker’s agency,” said the Patrolman before the others could answer.

“Who’s the director of his agency?” asked Rick.

“Mr. Cummins,” said Colonel Evans. “He’s…”

“NOT anyone you need to worry about,” interrupted Walker, glaring at Colonel Evans.

Flabbergasted, Rick decided to play along and act cooperative. “Thank you for coming. If you are permitted to share anything more, please call me.”

“We’ll do that,” one of the men answered. At this point they were visibly relieved. Hastily they said their goodbyes, scurried out the door, and drove off in an official-looking car. Rick watched as the car turned onto the highway and drove off.

Walking into his silent house, Rick realized he was truly alone. The reality of the situation began to fill his mind like flood water pouring through a broken dam. Rick’s fortress of self-control now caved in on him. He sat down on the floor and tried to grasp the situation. Through tear-drenched eyes, his gaze fell on every imaginable reminder of the family he no longer had. He wept uncontrollably. Having stayed awake for nearly two days, fatigue and emotional exhaustion overcame him. Lying on the floor of his living room, he began to feel light headed. He was beginning to lose consciousness. The room was spinning around him. It felt as though he was falling—the physical manifestation of an emotional reality: Rick was descending into the deepest and darkest forest of sadness and depression he would ever know.

CHAPTER 3|Nicolette

Typical of June, Tuesday morning was already hot. Traffic was beginning to back up well past the Virginia entrance to Memorial Bridge. The stopped cars created a parking lot on Interstate 395 North leading up to the 14th Street Bridge. Overhead, a traffic helicopter surveyed the mess. Inside, the traffic reporter assessed the tie-up. From cars with windows down, his account could be heard simultaneously over dozens of radios tuned to his station:

“Police say a refrigerator accidentally fell off a delivery truck before rush hour. They’re still looking for the driver, described as a black man driving a large red flatbed truck. In the meantime, traffic crews have been delayed in their efforts to remove the refrigerator. If you’re in your cars, might as well turn your engines off: This may take awhile.”

On her way out of the city, crossing the 14th Street Bridge, Nicolette Allen moved along at normal speed, heading for National Airport. Not yet eight a.m., the endless lines of cars in the opposite lanes trailed well beyond the Pentagon. Nearing the right turn, Nicolette’s cell phone rang. It was her brother, Ronny, calling to make fun of the mess: The Washington tie-up had now become national news.

“It’s not even daybreak out there and you’ve already heard about it?” she said.

“I got up early. It’s on CNN,” said Ronny. “Last week a microwave oven. This week, what, a drier?”

“Actually, they say it was an old refrigerator,” said Nicolette.

“Man, those things are heavy. I’ll bet the guy needed help rolling it off the truck.”

“They said it was an accident.”

“Are you kidding? Somebody’s out there trying to make a statement. I only wish I were there to help him—or her.”

“You really think this is somehow good for the country?”

As they bantered, Ronny chastised her for working among Washington’s establishment. She countered that her new job, working in the legislative office of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, would allow her to contribute to the betterment of the nation.

Changing the subject, Ronny asked Nicolette what she thought about the “odious” bill with which the president—with the help of a majority in Congress—had changed the U.S. flag. Nicolette avoided the subject, and then asked, “You’re still coming to KC, right?”

“Yeah, I’m bringing a couple of friends. They’re in the same boat as me. We’re going to try to get over to the new federal site in Westport tomorrow. The ad said they have plenty of work waiting for guys with our skills.”

“That’s excellent, Ronny!”

“You on the road today?”

“My flight leaves in 90 minutes. I’ll be in Chicago for the Third Annual Bi-partisan Summit.”

“So close to July 4th?”

“Yeah, they scheduled it today and tomorrow, figuring Congress would be out of session for the long weekend. They didn’t count on all this terrorism legislation the House would have to pass before they got out of town. I’m just glad I’m getting out a day ahead of time. After tomorrow, I’ve got three weeks of relaxing, reading, and listening to Aretha and Smokey and basically doing nothing. I’ll see you at Joyce’s and then I’ll be away at the beach.”

“You and your soul music! Sometimes I think you were born too late. You realize, of course, you’re probably the only white girl on the planet who goes to concerts with African Americans in 70s!”

“Ha, ha,” said Nicolette dryly. “Hey, I gotta go. Joe’s calling me on the other line. Ronny, be careful, okay? Call me when you get to KC.”

“Will do, Nik… Bye.”

Rick’s Greyhound bus wound its way through Denver’s downtown streets in the early hours of the next day. Pulling into the station, he stepped off and joined a small crowd that had gathered in the terminal where other buses had unloaded.

“Folks, our apologies,” a voice cracked over the terminal’s public address system. “The federal government has shut us down for the time being. All they’re telling us is there’s a terrorist threat on commercial buses. As of 0800 Eastern Time, they are temporarily grounding all of our operations. We have no explanation. We can offer you a credit for when they let us roll again. Other than that, we have arranged one last ride to the Amtrak station and on to the airport. The line starts here.”

Walking out of the station, Rick blinked as the morning’s first light began to warm his face. He looked up and down the street, pondering how he was going to continue eastward with the buses shut down. Resigned to taking a ride to the airport, Rick turned to go back into the station. He stopped to allow a man to exit. Turning around, he watched as the man walked toward an 18-wheeler parked across the street. Following him, Rick stopped the man as he climbed into the cab. At Rick’s beckoning the driver offered to take Rick as far as Limon where the driver was bound with a load of cattle feed.

The truck drove out of the city with the radio on. A news report about the Washington traffic tie-up that morning made the driver laugh. “A ‘fridge on the bridge’ stops all those wind-bags in Washington, DC. Serves ‘em right.”

In Limon, Rick was unable to find any transportation to take him east.

“Another distraction,” Rick said to himself as he began walking to the highway.

Nicolette sat at the gate, watching people go by. Her flight would be fifty minutes late due to an early July line of thunderstorms over the Appalachians.

Sipping coffee, she watched a couple anticipating the trip ahead. The young man and woman seemed so in love, she thought. He had a kind face with eyes that seemed to sparkle when looked into the eyes of the young woman he was with. It made Nicolette wonder what it would be like to love and be loved by someone like that.

Nicolette always maintained a sensible appearance. A generous flow of dark brown, medium-length hair she kept tied back complemented chestnut eyes that seemed to sparkle when she laughed. Nicolette wore minimal makeup but got away with it: Though 26 she looked 20. Yet, she disliked looking young. To her, it was a disadvantage. Those who didn’t know her tended to treat her as though she was an intern. Such is life in Washington—or so she would say. Old trumps young; male trumps female; white trumps black, and so on. It wasn’t fair; it was just the way things seemed to work.

For reasons known only to her, Nicolette hated her legs—specifically, her knees. She dressed modestly, often wearing long skirts. Back home her unspectacular wardrobe included nothing that was tight-fitting or sleeveless, although a vast array of shoes cluttered her closet. A friend had once heard Nicolette vow she would never be caught dead in a bikini. Beautiful as she was, she kept it all hidden. Consequently, her ascetic ornamentation aroused no flattery; lascivious men seldom crossed her path. There was nothing wrong with her figure; the clothes Nicolette wore simply made her figure imperceptible.

It hadn’t always been that way. When friends in college decided Nicolette needed a makeover, they convinced her to become a bit more daring in her dress, though she still disliked showing her legs. Boys began to pay attention.

But Nicolette was serious about a career in Washington. Being pretty was a distraction. For Nicolette, it began the day she arrived as a young intern. Fresh from college, she was brought on as an unpaid intern in the office of a liberal House Republican. The congressman’s Chief-of-Staff, a sensible man named Erik, would prove to be Nicolette’s only real friend. Her first six weeks involved answering the telephone and taking orders from everyone else. Soon, she felt established enough to relax, even allowing herself the luxury of an occasional date. Her determination to succeed in Washington, however, squelched any potential romantic entanglements. This became especially true after three dates with Derik Hiller. A handsome 40-something lobbyist with a generous expense account, Hiller was established and sophisticated.

Nicolette first met Derik at a party. He invited Nicolette to dinner at the Capital Club one week, and to high tea at the Ritz the following. Leading up to their third date—dinner at Ruth’s Chris—Hiller had been a perfect gentleman. He picked her up, as usual, in his $389,000 Bentley Continental. It was getting dark. Their conversation was light.

A block away from the restaurant, Derik turned onto a side street. Nicolette figured he wanted to avoid having to spring for valet parking, though it was not like Derek Hiller to enter without a splash. Obviously they had arrived much earlier than the dinner reservation, Nicolette thought. It was then that Derek could no longer hide his true identity. Suddenly, he was an octopus with so many tentacles, touching, hugging, and kissing. Remaining polite, though pushing back, Nicolette suggested they head to the restaurant. “Boy, am I hungry!” she hinted. Now fully transformed from Derek the lobbyist to Derik the octopus, he was all over her. Nicolette kept pushing away hands attempting to caress her leg under the table.

When the appetizers came, Derik launched a vain attempt to charm Nicolette: “You’re so beautiful.”

“What’s on the wine list?” she said, changing the subject.

“What? Oh, let’s see. Wow, they have a wine on the list that costs $4,100!”

“What’s it called?”

Derik struggled to pronounce the name.

“Domain de…Here, you read it.”

“Domaine de la Romanee Conti Grand Cru La Tache—1976. I’ve heard of Romanee Conti. It’s supposed to be one of the most expensive wines in the world.”

Derik sniffed snobbishly then selected a wine more reasonably suited to his expense account. He waited until after ordering the wine and appetizers to tell Nicolette about the “big plans” he had for them following dinner. Using his lobbyist connections at the Marriott, Derik announced, he had secured reservations for the two of them to spend the night in Presidential Suite.

Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Nicolette was dumbfounded.

“You’re gonna love this,” Derik continued, oblivious to Nicolette’s alarmed facial expression and defensive body language. “Tomorrow morning we can order breakfast in bed. They have the most amazing service.”

Yep. Derik was delusional. Or was he? Wasn’t he accustomed to getting what he wanted? To him, the whole thing was as simple as sharing a bottle of wine. To her, the matter was far more sublime. Virtuous, Nicolette had long ago chosen to defer intimacy, storing away the inaugural moment like the sommelier cellaring a treasured Romanee Conti. Though she kept it to herself, she was very happy with the way she was. Hers was a very personal choice with which she could remain in control. Not to mention, she hardly knew the man sitting across the table.

Speechless, Nicolette thought of dumping the calamari into Derik’s lap, but kept her self-control. Instead she remained polite but firm. “No.”

Ignoring her answer, it was over dinner that Derik casually mentioned he was also married.

“Derik, if you’re married, why are you here with me?” with that, Nicolette got up, politely thanked him, and walked out.

Having lobbyists like Derek and guys from neighboring offices routinely hit on her was an inconvenience Nicolette could put up with. A simple “No, thank you” was enough. But when the Congressman—the man she worked for, respected, and looked up to—tried to kiss her one night after a few too many beers in his office, Nicolette began to wonder if the Washington life was worth all the trouble.

“Why didn’t you let him?” a ditzy female staffer asked the next day when word somehow spread around the office about the Congressman’s romantic advances. To Nicolette, the idea of encouraging or allowing sexual harassment was preposterous. Not to mention the Congressman, a married man from a Western state, spit when he talked, had chewing tobacco-stained teeth, sported a stringy comb-over, and used “antlers in all of his decorating.” Plus—as Erik, the chief-of-staff, soon reminded the others—the Congressman was also in trouble with the voters thanks to a similar encounter five months earlier with a waitress named Donna.

Recognizing Nicolette’s embarrassment by the unending discussion, Erik stepped in. Two days later, out of mercy, he recommended Nicolette for an open Committee position. She was hired the next week.

Being young and pretty proved somewhat less of a disadvantage on the Committee staff, though still problematic. Unattractive women resented her. Men frequently propositioned her. If not for the nerds and the self-confident women, Nicolette would have become just another pretty Capitol Hill wash-out. These, particularly several of the unattractive but self-confident women, taught Nicolette how to look, dress and comport herself in ways that would hide her looks and age. Dark suits, rimmed glasses, pulled back hair, and minimal makeup soon comprised Nicolette’s Washington “uniform.” Hiding behind the uniform, she could now concentrate on her career. The change in dress, however, could not disguise the fact that she was striking, though Nicolette pretended she wasn’t.

CHAPTER 4|A Day under the Sun

Walking along U.S. 40, Rick passed a sign marking the Limon, Colorado, town limits. The sun was now directly above. It was dry and hot. Rick turned to thumb a ride. After a few minutes, a large van stopped. Rick boarded the van joining a young family of five. He got in and the van drove off. Behind the wheel, the father kept looking back, nervously asking where Rick was headed. Unshaven and disheveled, Rick looked not unlike one of several convicts who had escaped a nearby prison earlier that week. He glanced over at the rest of the family. The woman and three small children sat silently, wide eyes fixed on the scary-looking passenger.

Trying to be friendly, Rick mustered a tired smile as he explained he was headed across Kansas. After about ten minutes of nervous questioning, the father pulled over. His voice shook as spoke. “Look, this was probably a bad idea. You probably shouldn’t go any further with us. There’s been a lot of trouble on the highways and I think we’re all a little nervous here. You understand.”

Rick smiled, thanked the man and nodded to the relieved family as he opened the door and stepped out. The van sped off leaving Rick in the middle of nowhere.

Rick continued his eastward walk along the side of the highway. At one point, there seemed to be no cars on the road. Everywhere the land was barren and flat. In the distance Rick could see tiny shapes glinting through the wavering vapors arising from the long, endless stretch ahead.

Overhead, the faint sound of a jetliner could be heard above the silence. Rick looked up toward the jet, shielding his eyes from the sun. He studied the plane. It was moving west. Longingly, Rick wondered where it had come from. He counted the engines—one on each wing. Noting the bright green tail, Rick calculated its altitude. “12,000, I’d say,” Rick said to himself. “Landing in Denver. Bound from Milwaukee, I’ll bet.”

Rick watched as the green and white object became smaller and smaller, until it was a mere dot against the blue sky to the west. When the dot was completely out of sight, Rick turned and continued his walk eastward.

At an airline gate at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, Nicolette stopped to watch a television monitor. On the screen was CNN. “…angry commuters heading into the nation’s capital this morning abandoned their cars and began harassing traffic crews that were late in removing an oversized kitchen appliance on one of the bridges leading into Washington…”

Nicolette collected her baggage and joined a line headed to ground transportation. She stopped in front of another monitor on the way out. The news had switched to a live, outdoor presidential press conference. The president was handling a question about federal efforts to quell new threats of civil unrest in several cities. Nicolette bit a fingernail when the next reporter asked the president about pending legislation to repeal Posse Comitatus, a move that would permit federal troops to patrol local streets. The fast-talking president managed to change the subject.

Shielding her eyes from the reflection of the bright sun coming from a hotel window across the street, Nicolette waited as the next cab drove up. Getting in, Nicolette tried to keep the negative thoughts out of her mind. Why did the government need to take control? How did things get so out of control in the first place?

At a park in Lincoln, Nebraska, that afternoon, Ronny sat with unemployed fathers David Korngold and Tony Donatelli. Together, they watched David’s two little boys playing on the swings under the bright sun. Tony’s little girl was playing with other children. Looking in the distance, Tony began shaking his head. Ronny was watching Tony.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ronny, realizing Tony was bothered by something he saw.

“That man over there,” said Tony. “See him?”

“That guy over there?” asked Ronny, motioning toward a casually dressed man sitting alone on the other side of the swings.

“Yeah, that guy. The one sitting alone,” said Tony. “I’ve watched him the whole time we’ve been here. I don’t know why. He just looks so sad.” Deeply moved by the sad man sitting alone, Tony’s eyes reflected the man’s sadness. At that point, Korngold looked up and began focusing on the man of about 38. As they watched, a small girl with pigtails ran up excitedly and pulled on the man’s hands. He managed a smile, handed her a bottle of water he had pulled from a little pink backpack, and watched her run off to join another three-year-old.

“I know him,” said Korngold. “Well, I don’t know him. I know who he is. I think his name is Benny, ah…” Korngold thought for a moment, and then added, “Kaufman. He goes to my synagogue.”

“He really looks sad,” Ronny added.

“I know what’s wrong,” Korngold continued. ”He lost his job last month. I heard his wife’s thinking of leaving him.”

“Because he lost his job?” asked Tony in disbelief.

“Yeah, isn’t that crazy?” said Korngold.

“Do you think I looked that sad when I lost my job last year?” asked Ronny.

“I think we all probably looked like that…” said Korngold. “At least at first. Kaufman’s just beginning to go through it.”

Looking down, Kaufman seemed to be watching ants as they scurried across the sidewalk in front of him, busy with their jobs as ants. His face was empty and drawn, his eyes bewildered by a mountain of worries obviously weighing on him. Looking up he watched as a large hawk glided over a field beyond the neighborhood. Smaller birds were chasing the hawk, trying to force the bigger bird to fly away. Kaufman found a stick and began moving it across the grass.

“So many lives; all connected. How many of them have been torn apart by this mess of an economy?” Korngold, studying the man, wondered aloud.

“When you have nothing to do, nothing to work for, you die a little bit more with each passing day,” said Tony. “He’s become a forgotten man. You can feel it. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, it’s the expression on his face,” said Ronny. “It’s the slump of his posture. It’s the look of a man who feels useless… unnecessary.”

“Forgotten is a pretty good way of describing it,” added Korngold.

“He’s trying to think positively, hoping for the best,” Tony continued. “Deep down inside, he knows he’s on a collision course with ruin.”

“That’s the look, alright,” continued Korngold. “Soon the bills will mount. The debts will destroy his credit rating. The creditors will take his car, then his house.”

“Just like us,” added Tony.

“Yeah, just like us,” said Ronny.

“And when creditors have sucked us all dry,” Korngold continued, “there’ll be another government bailout.”

“Hey, at least we have that construction job down in K.C.,” said Tony, reminding the group about a local newspaper ad promising year-long work and good wages at a new federal construction site in Kansas City, Missouri.

Sitting silently on the bench, each contemplated the prospect of solid income—at least solid for a time. After all, they had told themselves that, if they worked together, they could somehow parlay the K.C. job into a business partnership of their own. Their wives had bought into the plan, confident the three would soon return to gainful employment—if only for a season. Their plan was to set out for K.C. early the next morning.

Nicolette arrived at her downtown, Chicago, hotel in time to check in, deposit her suitcase in her room, and head down to the banquet hall.

She entered to find most of the attendees seated for lunch. Nicolette found her table—one of about 35 round banquet tables, each seating 10. The lunch kicking off the Third Annual Bi-partisan Summit was just ending. Nicolette sat down in one of two empty seats. She greeted the others at her table then managed to take a couple of bites from a salad placed next to her empty plate. A waiter hurried to the table and offered to bring her the main course, but she declined in favor of a roll and some butter. She said yes to the coffee but declined desert.

At the head table, nine VIPs listened as the afternoon’s keynote speaker lectured the audience about need for civility and bipartisanship among elected officials. The new flag had been raised next to the podium.

Bored with the lecture, Nicolette watched as a door opened in the back of the banquet hall. It was Kimberly Jackson, a Washington Post reporter, arriving late to cover the event. Looking around the room, she spotted Nicolette, walked up to her table and quietly sat in the empty seat next to her.

“Who sponsored your table?” Kimberly whispered to Nicolette.

“A big conglomerate out of Seattle. They’re throwing a huge party tonight for all the Hill staff in attendance.”

“You think the new gift ban will cover it?” Kimberly whispered, jokingly. The new Congressional gift ban had been raised to $1,000, not including trips, hotel stays, and “entertainment.”

To general applause, the woman at the dais concluded.

Realizing he was running late for an afternoon appointment to restructure his home mortgage to avoid foreclosure, Korngold gathered his boys and reassured the others that things could only get better. As the boys ran ahead, Korngold waved to his friends and walked back to his home three blocks away, still thinking about Kaufman, the forgotten man.

Ronny looked at his watch while Tony called his daughter. “See you tomorrow, Tone. I’ll be around about four.”

“Great. See you then, Ronny,” said Tony as Ronny walked back to his truck. Tony headed the opposite direction. Walking down the sidewalk to the corner to cross the street, his daughter asked to be carried on his shoulders. Obliging, Tony lifted the small child over his head and walked with a playful stutter step to the corner. Stopping to put her down, they looked both ways and started to cross. At that moment, a fast car whirled around the block from seemingly out of nowhere. It was too late. Tony had begun to cross; his little girl saw the car and darted back to the corner. “Watch out daddy!”

The car, a black Cadillac, slowed, its tires screeching. The left fender hit Tony, who threw his arms down to break the fall. In an instant Tony remembered to roll with the fall, protecting his head as the impact hurled him backwards. Knocked down, cut and dazed, Tony got to his knees before resting.

Holding a cup of latte in one hand, the well-dressed driver of the car rolled down the window, not to apologize, but to instruct Tony to watch where he was going. As Tony tried to summon his faculties, the man angrily splashed the rest of his latte in Tony’s face and drove away. As the car sped off, Tony tried to focus on the make and model. Instead, the only thing he could make out was that it was the official license plate belonging to some agency of the federal government.

Still waiting at the curb, but now crying, Tony’s little girl kept calling. “Daddy, are you hurt?”

Shaking his head, he got up, dusted the little rocks from his torn pants, and returned to his daughter. With a big hug, she hesitantly walked with her father as he carefully crossed the street toward home.

Walking all afternoon in the hot sun, Rick found no success in thumbing a ride. In time a train came up from behind him along tracks that shadowed the south side of US 40. The train slowed. Rick counted the cars as he walked—mostly coal hoppers with a few chemical tanks, and an occasional flat car. Rick looked back. There was more and more of the train still to come. Looking ahead, Rick continued counting until the number reached forty-five. At that point, a line of boxcars came up. When the train stopped altogether, Rick stopped counting and crossed the highway. Jumping over a guardrail he hastened toward the line of boxcars. All were shut and locked—save one.

Wearing his backpack and standing in weeds with his hands in pockets, Rick focused on the one boxcar with its doors slid open. Soon, the train began to lunge forward, continuing its eastward journey.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Rick said to himself as he began to run. Catching up with the open boxcar, he jumped in. Inside, the car was empty. It smelled of rubber. The floor was dry and dusty. Bits of Styrofoam were all about. Rick settled into a dark corner, safe from view, reminding himself that he had always wanted to ride in boxcar. After all, traveling this way was the height of adventure. It was a participation in America’s storied past. It was also dangerous: Murderers, con men, and two-bit criminals were known to travel this way—jailed if they were caught, a danger to anyone else foolish enough to do what Rick could hardly believe he was doing that afternoon.

As Rick’s empty train car rumbled down the rural track, Rick watched the dusk-lit fields go by. Heading into the darkness he knew he was at least moving in the right direction.

From the open door of the boxcar, Rick enjoyed the colors. The declining sun behind had begun to paint burgundy shadows upon the barren landscape of Eastern Colorado. The faint smoke of a distant prairie fire mingled with the warm breeze blowing through the doorway. Rick added the day's entry to his journal, writing until the light was gone.

CHAPTER 5|La Vie est Fragile

In his aging crew-cab pickup truck, Ronny picked up Korngold and a scraped-up Tony early Wednesday morning. Speeding west on Route 2, the men tried to best one another with insults against a federal government populated with arrogant officials at taxpayer expense.

“I love our country. I also hate its government,” asserted Korngold as Ronny found an AM station with the morning news. From the broadcast, the trio learned of a huge traffic snag on I-29, where they were headed. A pileup of cars had shut down the main artery between Omaha and Kansas City just north of St. Joseph. Ronny elected to detour south toward Topeka on U.S. 75, avoiding what would otherwise be a long delay.

The sun was just beginning to rise through scattered dark clouds as they passed Auburn, Nebraska, heading south. Ten miles to the southwest, a wide storm cloud caught the sun’s waxing light. Now and then, lightening could be seen interrupting the brewing storm’s eerie green reflection as the powerful lead winds advanced toward Omaha.

“We’re gonna miss all that I think,” said Ronny, pointing to the storm to their right.

“Looks bad,” said Tony. “I’ll bet Kansas got drenched last night.”

“I learned about clouds like that,” Ronny added. “That formation looks like a roll cloud. The winds are tumbling over air on the ground, sweeping down everything in its path. It’s the lead edge of a front.”

“What do you think would happen if we drove through it?” wondered Tony.

“I know what it would do to an airplane,” said Ronny. “Something happened near here about fifty years ago. I read about it last week.”

“What happened? A plane crash?” asked Tony, excitedly.

“Yeah, it was near a little town south, I think, of here,” said Ronny. “No, wait, it was over to the west, somewhere over all that farmland. It was an airliner heading to Omaha out of Kansas City. The paper said the town held some kind of commemoration.”

“I saw that,” said Korngold. “It was a story in one of the Sunday inserts. They were marking the anniversary.”

“Did you read it?” asked Ronny.

“No. I skipped over the details. I don’t want to know what happened.”

“I want to know,” said Tony. “What happened?”

“It was back in the 1970s, I think. The twin-jet crashed when it flew into clouds like those over there. It came down somewhere near here.”

“Why do you read this stuff?” said Korngold.

“It led to some important changes in the way they read storms,” continued Ronny.

“What happened? Was anybody killed?” pressed Tony.

“Oh, yeah. I think they knew there was a storm brewing, but in those days they didn’t have weather equipment, so they flew right into it. The winds of a cloud just like that one ripped the tail off and it went down like rock. Everybody died. I know there were lots of other plane-meets-weather crashes in the late 1900s. I think they just didn’t have the weather technology back then. The federal government, as usual, was slow to take the lead.”

A forward jolt from the train summoned Rick from a deep sleep.

Light from the morning sun was peering in through the open door of Rick’s box car. The floor was wet from an overnight storm. Rick realized he had slept through it all. Looking out the open boxcar doorway, he began to ponder the time. The train had stopped. Wondering what he had gotten himself into, Rick soon heard voices down the track. Grabbing his backpack, he crawled to the doorway. Slipping out, Rick rolled into a brushy patch near the track, undetected by men carrying radios, walking back to inspect the cars. After a while, the train moved out, freeing Rick to stand up. In the distance, a small city had come to life with the rising sun. It was warm but not yet hot. The smell of hot tar filled the air. Walking across a vacant lot, Rick headed toward downtown buildings to the south.

Following a direction sign that read “N Kansas Ave Bridge,” Rick walked along a busy road that crossed a river. On the bridge, he looked out over the water as he walked. On the south bank, several men were fishing in the rain-swollen river. Behind them was a pair of worn out tents and a smoldering fire. Two small children were darting in and out of the tents while a woman sat nearby studying her face in a pocket mirror. Another woman came up from the group of men. She was carrying a small fish still wiggling on the line. Looking ahead, Rick could see an old part of the town with aging buildings against rough streets lined with worn out sidewalks. Crossing a street, Rick glanced at the signs above the windows. These were old businesses—an electrical shop, a used tire store, a truck parts outlet, and a farm and feed business.

Early for the first session of the day at the convention, Nicolette stopped into the hotel gift shop to browse. Everything was high-priced. All of the Chicago souvenirs were made in China.

Kneeling to look at a strange-looking bobble-head figure she thought Ronny would get a kick of, Nicolette heard a soft, crying sound. Looking to the side, she watched as a small boy, face full of tears, exhausted from walking and crying, ignored the others in the gift shop and stumbled up to where Nicolette was kneeling. The little boy of about three stretched out and fell against her, relieved he had found welcome arms to embrace him after wandering all morning in search of his own mother.

“Hey, what’s wrong, little guy?” Nicolette asked as she put her arms around the child.”

“Mom-my,” was all he could say through the exhausted tears. Nicolette picked him up and carried him to the woman behind the counter.

“Hi, I think this little boy is lost. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for his mother.”

Short on English, the woman behind the counter looked as though she had no idea what to do.

“Can we call the concierge? Concierge—Con-see-yerj,” Nicolette enunciated slowly.

Smiling, the woman dialed up the hotel concierge desk and handed the phone to Nicolette, still holding the child.

“Hi, this Ms. Allen—Room 1246—yes,” Nicolette said to the man who answered. ”No, I’m down in the gift shop. There’s a small child here who seems to be lost. I think he’s looking for his mother… Alright, I’ll wait. Thank you.”

Sitting the boy down on the counter, Nicolette brushed back his blonde, almost white, soft hair, and looked into his eyes. “We’re going to find your mother. What’s your name?”

The boy reached up and pulled himself back into Nicolette’s arms, holding on tightly. She continued hugging him for a while until a man arrived.

“Hi, is the lost child?” the man asked when he saw Nicolette, still at the counter. By now, the little boy had fallen asleep in Nicolette’s arms.

“Hi, yes, I think he must have gotten separated from his mother some time ago. He’s very tired.”

“Will you do me a favor?” the man asked. “I don’t want to frighten him. Could you carry him back to the front desk?”

“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll be glad to stay with him until you find his mother.”

“Thanks,” the man said as they walked back to the front desk. He led Nicolette through a side door into a back office. Another man entered, introducing himself as the assistant manager. As Nicolette sat down, the assistant manager offered her tea, which she accepted. Cozy in Nicolette’s arms, the little boy remained fast asleep.

Famished, Rick spotted a café nestled between another farm supply shop and an old hardware store. Since leaving Stockton, he had eaten nothing. He fumbled through change in his pocket then found folded papers in another pocket. Pulling it out, Rick discovered the note the accountant had handed him with his telephone number. Folded with it was a crisp, new one hundred-dollar bill and another note that read, “I seem to remember owing your father a hundred bucks from a Super Bowl bet we made about ten years ago.” Rick smiled and looked in the window of the busy café. Men dressed in worn work clothes sat at the counter reading newspapers and drinking coffee. At a table nearby, a mother and two young children were gobbling up pancakes. Rick entered and sat in a booth in the corner. A middle-aged waitress with a nametag that read “Rose” handed him a menu. She was holding a round glass pot of coffee, which Rick eagerly accepted. She poured it into an old white porcelain mug in front of him. Glancing at the menu, Rick asked for a breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, wheat toast and a side of sausage. Too embarrassed to ask where he was, Rick found a newspaper on a vacant table at the booth next to his. It was the business and sports section of that morning’s Kansas City Star. In the news, another bank had folded, forcing the government to step in. Local civic leaders were concerned about the growing size of a new federal construction site in Westport. Street skirmishes in downtown Kansas City were beginning to wear on convention-goers, forced to stay indoors after dark.

“I heard about another crash back in the 1980s…” said Ronny.

Korngold groaned.

“Go on,” pressed Tony. “What happened?”

“I don’t think David wants to hear it,” said Ronny.

“I don’t like to read about tragedies,” explained Korngold. “I get queasy when I think of blood and guts.”

“Ah,” complained Tony. “I want to know what happened.”

“Go ahead,” sighed Korngold. “There’ll be no living with him until you tell him all the gory details.”

“I think it was in Dallas,” Ronny whispered back to Tony. “The control tower was landing ‘em right into a thunderstorm. One of those downdrafts pushed the plane onto the ground. It just bounced the plane just before the runway.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” said Korngold. “I’m not listening.”

“Anyway, there was some guy driving in a car on the highway next to the airport right as one of the plane’s wheels came down because of the wind. Flattened the car like a pancake. The plane bounced up and then skidded down the runway.”

“No way!”

“Way. There were survivors in that one, too.”

“La vie est fragile,” reflected Korngold. “One minute you’re driving down the road like we are and the next minute a plane comes out of the sky and crushes you.”

“Yeah, whatever you just said,” agreed Tony, sliding a hand over the injuries from the previous day’s run-in with a government car. “What did you just say?”

“Life is fragile,” said Korngold.

“I got another one for you,” said Ronny.

“Ug!” said Korngold.

“There was this plane crash in Detroit, see. It happened a couple years later. Taking off in bad weather, I think. Anyway, it crashed just after take-off and everyone was killed except for a baby. Can you imagine? A baby was the sole survivor of a devastating plane crash!”

“Life’s fragile,” said Tony, “but it’s also miraculous.”

CHAPTER 6|Topeka

Rick had managed to stretch breakfast to nearly two hours, reading the paper, drinking coffee, and chatting with the waitress. He enjoyed his new freedom from possessions and from the daily grind of life.

“More coffee?” asked the waitress.

“I’ve probably had way too much,” said Rick.

“Anything exciting in the newspaper? I didn’t get a chance to read it this morning.”

“Something about another round of tax increases.”

“Right,” said the waitress. “They have to do something to pay for all those bail outs. And they’ll just turn around and spend the tax increases, like they always do.”

“That’s right,” said an elderly man at the next table. “Which means more federal debt, less money for states, broke cities and towns, and another round of tax increases to pay for all the malfeasance. It all started with bad government. The people in Congress vote for bailouts and approve spending all this money they don’t have just to get accolades in the press. That way, when the elections roll around, they can brag they’re helping the people of their districts. It’s all a sham.”

“I’m with you, Doug,” said the waitress.

“They don’t really know how much debt the country is in,” Doug continued, “Honest economists have a name for all the debt that isn’t counted when they talk about what the government owes. It’s called off-book debt. It’s over and above the federal debt and it’s there waiting for our children when they grow up.”

Rick listened to the conversation with interest.

“Where do you work, young man?” Doug asked Rick.

“Well, I was laid off awhile back.”

“I’ll bet you were. Where did you work?”

“I worked for a large corporation. They did some illegal things and got sued. They lost. That’s what triggered the huge round of layoffs that included me.”

“Big corporations have the best lobbyists,” explained Doug. “They wine and dine the regulators. And when it comes to Congress, they pour in the big bucks to help their favorite representatives get reelected. Congress runs on campaign money. They let the lobbyists write the legislation in exchange for campaign money to keep themselves in office.”

“You really think the lobbyists write the bills in Congress?” wondered Rick.

“Absolutely,” said Doug. “I’ve heard about staff members who practically invite lobbyists to help write legislation for them. That way, they don’t have to work as hard and when they leave Capitol Hill, they get high-paying jobs as lobbyists themselves. Then they turn around and do the same thing all over again. Meanwhile, most of the Congressmen and Senators look the other way as long as the campaign money pours in. They justify it by telling themselves, ‘the voters need me to help them. Therefore I must be reelected if I can continue to help them.’”

“How do you know all this?”

“He’s a former Congressman,” said the Waitress. “When Doug was elected, he promised to limit his stay in Washington to three terms.”

“Kept my promise,” Doug said as Rick paid the check with a generous tip.

“Thanks for enlightening me,” said Rick, shaking Doug’s hand. Saying goodbye to the waitress, Rick got up and walked outside.

Still standing in front of the café, Rick spotted an old crew-cab pickup coasting down the street toward him. The engine was off.

Frustrated, Ronny got out of the pickup, kicked the fender and opened the hood. Rick watched as the other men got out and looked under the hood, clueless.

“I don’t get it,” said Ronny to Korngold and Tony as they stared with him under the hood. “It was running fine until we came up on the exit. It just quit. It’s not out of gas. I don’t get it.”

Ronny looked up to find an additional head staring with them under the hood.

“Looks like maybe a vapor lock,” said Rick, loosening and then tightening a part on the engine. “Try it now.”

Ronny got back into the truck and turned the key. The pickup started with no trouble.

“By the way, can you guys tell me what city this is? I’m passing through and didn’t pay attention.”

“You’re on foot?” asked Korngold. Rick nodded.

“This is Topeka,” said Ronny, getting back out of the truck. “Thanks for whatever just did.”

“No problem.”

“Look, we’re on our way to KC. If you’re headed east, we’d be glad to give you a lift.”

Elated, Rick picked up his backpack and got in with the others. Sitting in the back next to Tony, Rick buckled up and the four drove off.

Driving east, but avoiding the Kansas Turnpike, Ronny asked Rick where he was from and where he was headed.

“I came from Stockton—California. I’m headed to the Ozarks. Someone I need to meet with lives there, but with the airlines and buses temporarily grounded, I got stuck in Denver. So I’m on foot for now.”

“You married?” asked Korngold.

“Yes, well they, ah, I’m a widower. So what about you guys?”

Ronny explained he was single, but that Korngold and Tony were both married with kids.

“What do you do for a living?” asked Tony.

“Well I used to fly airplanes, for a corporation, but I got laid off a year ago when the fourth dip hit.”

“A pilot!” said Tony. “Cool. We were just talking about plane crashes. We’ve been reading this book…”

“How long have you been out of work?” interrupted Korngold.

“About two years. My father passed away leaving me his ranch, but I’m no rancher, so here I am.”

The three explained to Rick they, too, were jobless. There were no jobs in Lincoln but they were on the road headed for prospective work at a new federal construction site in Kansas City’s Westport district.

“This morning I read something about that,” said Rick. “Some quarrel they’re having over that Westport project—I think the local business community is getting anxious over the size of it. The paper said something about rioting in the city the last couple of days. Have you heard anything about that?”

“Haven’t heard anything about that, have you, Tone?” offered Ronny as the others shook their heads.

“No,” said Tony.

“Must not be too bad, then,” Korngold suggested. “You know how the papers are.

When the hotel assistant manager returned he found the little boy awake, sitting in a chair next to Nicolette. She was reading him stories from a children’s book while he munched on apple pieces and raisons.

“One of the ladies from your dining services brought us a Curious George book and something for him to eat,” Nicolette explained.

“Did you ever find out his name?” asked the assistant manager.

“I’ve managed to get four words out of him,” she said as she held one of his chubby little hands. “One of them is Ricky—I think that’s his name—mommy, obviously, and something about a pillow and a bear.”

The assistant manager scratched his head. “Ms. Allen, we sure appreciate your helping us this morning. Charlie at the front desk has been going over all of the guests who checked in with children.

Suddenly, they heard a soft knock. It was the hotel concierge. With him was a young mother in tears. When she saw the little boy, her face lit up. The boy immediately cried out and ran to the woman. As they embraced, even Nicolette became emotional watching the joyful reunion.

In a German accent, wiping tears from her eyes as she held the boy, she thanked Nicolette. The woman explained the boy, who was named Riccard, was missing when she woke up in her room. He had left his favorite bear at home but kept insisting it was in the hotel lobby.

“He must have gotten up and walked to the elevator,” the assistant manager surmised. “I can’t imagine how he managed to get to the lobby, alone.”

“Ricky ist Bär zu Hause, Liebling. Erinnerst du dich nicht?” the mother said as she kissed the boy. “Wir werden dir ein neues heute, Liebling.”

Laughing with the others, Nicolette wiped a tear from her left eye and waved to the little boy, clutching his mother as they walked out of the room.

“Oh, I better get to the first session,” Nicolette said as she got up to leave.

“Again, our sincerest thanks, Ms. Allen,” the hotel assistant manager said, shaking Nicolette’s hand. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you,” said Nicolette as she hurried to join the day’s event on the convention schedule. “Ricky,” she said to herself as she walked. “What a sweet little guy.”

CHAPTER 7|Final Votes

At work in the Rayburn House office building on Capitol Hill early that afternoon, Joe Rooney stood outside Congressman Lou Shelton’s office, reluctantly guarding the door. The July 4th holiday was looming, but the House had one more series of votes before the mass exit of Members to Reagan National Airport and back to their districts.

Joe was the Legislative Director and yet he felt like a doorman. He always felt like a doorman. It was an assignment the Congressman had forced on Joe as a price for being named legislative director. When the Congressman was “in his cups” or when there was a certain lady present, no one was to enter without Joe first knocking—and then, only if it was an emergency. There was, of course, a backdoor to the Congressman’s office, opening into the main corridor; however it was always locked to the outside.

Joe hated this part of his job. The arrangement was never discussed in the office. Other than Joe, only Danielle, the Congressman’s scheduler knew what was going on behind that door anytime Joe was ordered to stop what he was doing and guard the way in.

Bored, Joe looked over at Danielle. She was busy typing in next week’s schedule, trying to ignore Joe and the reason why he was there. Looking back into the adjacent room, Joe watched as a young girl of about 17 entered the suite of offices, stopping at the receptionist’s desk. The girl, a page, dropped off several boxes of flags that had flown over the Capitol. As with other House offices, Shelton’s staff kept a supply of flags on hand for constituents. Joe watched as the page took an order sheet from the receptionist. Still, Joe was somewhat surprised to see a page this late in the day.

Suddenly, another person entered the suite.

“Yikes!” whispered Joe. Danielle looked up then turned to see what Joe was looking at. It was the Congressman’s wife standing behind the page, putting her purse down on one of the chairs. “A surprise visit!” whispered Danielle.

As previously instructed by the Congressman, Joe knocked in code, seven times. A moment later, Joe could hear a brief commotion inside the Congressman’s office. Just as quickly he heard the faint sound of the Congressman’s private door to the outside hallway opening and then closing. Turning back, Joe greeted the Congressman’s wife as she walked up. “Mrs. Shelton, how very good to see you. I’ll tell the Congressman you’re here.”

“Don’t bother, Joe,” said the Congressman’s wife. “I’ll just poke my head in.”

Joe quietly backed away from the scene, fearing an imminent disaster. Suddenly Danielle spoke up, cleverly drawing Mrs. Shelton’s attention to the schedule on her screen. She asked the Congressman’s wife to take one last look at her husband’s schedule before she printed it out. Mrs. Shelton always took a special interest in her husband’s schedule.

Joe hurried to the main entrance and poked his head into the corridor. A woman had emerged from the Congressman’s backdoor. Standing in the hallway fastening buttons on her blouse, she soon turned and walked down the hall. Rolling his eyes, Joe turned around and glanced back across the adjacent room. Shelton was now standing in the open doorway to his office, casually conversing with his wife. Joe turned to the receptionist and began to laugh.

“What?” asked the receptionist.

“It’s nothing. It’s just the Congressman.”

“What’s wrong?”

“His fly is down,” said Joe as he turned and walked back to his cubical.

Sitting down, Joe leaned back, put his hands on his head and stared up at the ceiling.

“That was close,” said the Danielle, who had followed Joe into the back room.

"That's the last time I'm going to cover for him," said Joe.

"Great. He’ll fire you and then have you killed," said Danielle, jokingly.

"I don't care. My conscience has had enough."

At that moment, bells rang for the final series of House votes. Joe got up and met the Sheltons as they headed to the outside hallway, trailed by a female staff member holding papers.

“See you at lunch,” the Congressman said to his wife before heading down the hall.

“Good to see you again, Mrs. Shelton,” said Joe.

“Nice seeing you, too, Joe,” said Mrs. Shelton.

Joe watched as the female staffer followed the Congressman out the door, trying to keep up while explaining the pair of measures awaiting the Congressman’s vote across the street in the Capitol. “These are the last votes of the day. The first vote is a motion to recommit; the second is the final vote on S.J.Res.1183.”

The Congressman seemed to be ignoring her as she spoke. Joe watched as Shelton reached for his cell phone to answer a call. Interrupting the caller, he stopped and turned to the aide. “Which side am I on?”

“You’ll be voting against the motion and for the bill,” said the aide.

Satisfied, Shelton resumed his phone conversation and continued walking.

Shaking his head, Joe watched as they turned down an adjacent corridor leading to the elevators. He walked back to his cubicle deep in thought. Had he been in this town too long? He wondered if perhaps his own moral instincts were wrong. Maybe he was being too analytical about the whole thing; perhaps even judgmental.

Nicolette got off the elevator and headed to the conference hall. There she caught up with Kimberly and Bev Lovejoy, the legislative director of a well-established anti-abortion group. The two were just beginning to tour a convention floor lined with vendors.

“Bipartisanship is working,” said Bev excitedly. “You’ve met my counterpart with the pro-abortion group, Jason King, haven’t you? Although we’re on opposite sides, he and I are always in touch. I tease him all the time about how heartless he is, he jokes that I’m a right-wing nut, but we’re still friends. He told me the two groups are working on an agreement that will be good for both sides.”

Bev watched as Kimberly began taking notes. “This is confidential, guys. Kimberly, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Can I quote you as a source?”

“Let’s keep it deep background for now. Is that okay?”

“I guess, but I sure would like to get some kind of comments from your boss. Do you know what sparked the agreement?”

“The head of my group and the head of the other group met by chance on a plane one afternoon. Apparently, they talked about it and decided our pro- and anti- abortion objectives would always remain second in priority. Naturally, the highest priority of each of group is to stay in business. It turns out we need each other for fundraising purposes. We just want to keep the issue alive. No one expects any change in the issue in the near future anyway.”

A perplexed Kimberly and Nicolette looked at each other. The trio stopped at a booth displaying new surveillance technology.

“Let me show you how it works,” the man at the booth offered. “This device has a laser that detects sound vibrations wherever it’s pointed. Let’s listen in on that couple over there.”

The man pointed the device at a wall next to where a man and woman were standing, talking. He handed the headphones connected to the device to each of the women.

“See, you can hear anything they say. Plus, I can point at objects a mile away and still listen in. Even the ground picks up the vibrations if you aim it right.”

“Isn’t this illegal?” Kimberly asked.

“Only for regular citizens. We’re marketing the technology to federal agents and certain groups that have approval to use this equipment. Now, to take it off monitor, the red light goes off and, here you go, the device powers down.”

“How soon will this technology be ready for use?”

“They’re using it now. In fact, we’ve just came out with a larger, longer range version. Of course, only those ‘with a need to know’—as they say in the intelligence community—are allowed to use this technology. Not to worry, though. We’re all safe, right? We can trust our government.”

Rolling into a crowded downtown Denny’s restaurant near Kansas City’s convention center, Rick and his three companions from Nebraska settled into a booth next to a table where three other men were deep in angry conversation. The conversation in the next booth was getting louder by the minute.

One of the angry men complained, “We were betrayed. They don’t have jobs for people like us. It was all a bait-and-switch.”

Another man slammed a fist on the table. Silence filled the restaurant.

Rick looked over at the men in the next table and asked what the problem was.

“You and your friends look like you’re in town for the same reason we’re here,” one of them answered. “I’ll bet you’ve come to find work at the new federal construction site in Westport, right?”

“Yeah, what’s the problem?” Rick answered.

“The problem is the feds gave away all our jobs.”

Immediately, Rick and his three companions got up, walked over to the table with the angry men, and pulled up chairs to hear more.

“We just got back from the site,” the man continued. “We drove across the state last night to get here. We read the ad promising work at the construction site. Some of us—just about everybody in this room—drove all night. Am I right?” the man shouted. Men seated at tables all around them answered in the affirmative.

“When we got there this morning, there was already a big crowd of men like us. They’d been turned away. When we got to the gate, the man said they needed the right kind of workers to keep them under budget.”

“What is the right kind of worker?” Tony asked.

“Illegal aliens,” someone in the next table over answered. “But they won’t admit that.”

“They were letting truckloads of those guys in,” the man continued. “The man at the gate admitted confidentially that his orders are to hire illegal aliens and green card holders. He said he was not supposed to check papers. They’re paying them $40 a day, no questions asked.”

“We could hardly understand him because the crowd around was getting bigger and a lot louder. The police came and ordered us all away.”

Someone from the crowd shouted, “They’re giving our jobs at this site to illegal aliens and they’re about to have a riot on their hands!”

“When the police chased us off, several of the guys in the crowd were handing out fliers announcing an organized demonstration a block away from the site this afternoon. A bunch of us are going back in about half an hour to join the protest.”

CHAPTER 8|Accidental Dialing

Nicolette’s plane touched down in Kansas City. Driving out of the airport in a rented car, Nicolette noticed the clock had reached the top of the hour. She turned on the radio to catch the news, tuning in a station in the middle of a live news report:

“‘… the crowd here is angry, some are carrying signs objecting to the federal government’s hiring of non-citizens. Authorities are telling us about a dozen people have been arrested as armed police attempt to quell what appears to be an increasingly hostile crowd. For now, police have their hands full in what may turn out to be the largest protest Kansas City has seen in nearly four decades. Reporting live from Westport, Jaime Ramm…’

‘…Thank you, Jaime. Meanwhile, the city is gearing up for more protests at the new federal complex. Mayor Berkley is calling for federal help in an effort to counter protesters that started gathering yesterday, burning the new U.S. flag in a mock ceremony at the site. So far, police have made 19 arrests. They say eleven people have been injured… Traffic and weather are ahead…’”

Nicolette turned off the radio and reached for a package of Biscoff cookies they had passed out on the plane. Finding it in her handbag, she accidently jostled her blackberry, making a call without realizing it.

A thousand miles away, Joe sat down at his desk just as his phone began to ring. On the screen, the caller ID displayed Nicolette’s cell phone. Joe answered it, hoping she might reassure him he wasn’t crazy.

“Hello… Nicolette? Can you hear me?”

There was no answer; only the sound of bumping and clicking on the other line. Then there was a faint sound of music.

“Hello… Nicolette,” Joe repeated. “Have we got a bad connection?”

Still no answer. Realizing Nicolette must have bumped her phone, accidently calling him, Joe hung up.

Sitting at his desk, Joe’s mind began to wander. Two years ago, another errant phone call had informed Joe that his marriage was at an end.

Joe shuddered as he began to recall that night. He hated thinking about it, and yet he was drawn by the powerful emotions awakened by the memory of that call. It, too, had been accidental. His wife’s cell phone had bumped into another object in her purse as she was getting into a car.

When Joe answered there was no greeting on the other end; only the sound of bumping and clicking on the line. Listening, Joe soon heard muffled voices to go with the noises on the other end. It became immediately evident his wife, Jenna, was driving or riding in a car. “Where’s she headed at this hour?” he wondered. With another bump, followed by a scraping sound, the voices became clearer. It was Jenna’s voice and a male voice with the sound of a car in the background. Joe began to listen in on their conversation.

“Mark, I’ve gotta steer,” said the female voice, laughing. “You keep this up and I won’t make it out of the parking lot!”

“Why don’t you park over there,” said the male voice. “That secluded spot in front the tree.”

Joe’s head started spinning; a deep feeling came over the pit of his stomach as he listened. Soon, the background sound was silent. More clicks and muffled scratching sounds.

“Mmmm… Wait,” said the female voice, sounding out of breath when she spoke. “Let’s… oh.”

At this point, all of the color had gone from Joe’s face; a blank stare and empty expression had commandeered his usually cheery countenance.

There were muffled words from the female voice. Again, she seemed to be catching her breath. Joe could hear more clicking sounds. “So,” said the female voice. “What…ha…okay, maybe not…”

Another brief period of silence gave way to the female voice. “Oh no! It’s eight o’clock!”

“Uh oh,” said the male voice. “You’re right. Thank you.”

Joe could hear the sound of a car starting up along with a scraping sound, followed by more bumps and clicks.

“Sorry,” said the male voice.

“For what?” said the female voice. “Silly. I’m just as bad as you are.”

“What if you… I mean, we got pretty carried away… once again.”

“I know, I know. We just can’t help it. Tell me it’s just fate and we can’t help it.”

“Well, we’re two adults… We can’t help the attraction… Anyway, we’re not really hurting anyone.”

“Last week when I left your apartment, I was so scared. I mean, I’d never even been alone with another man, let alone, you know. I mean, I’m not really like this, you know? It was all kind of an accident, don’t you think?”

“Of course. We didn’t plan on doing anything. It was just natural attraction. Once we started, we couldn’t stop. These things happen… to others… probably more often than we think.” Then the voices became muffled. There was silence and then the connection was broken. It didn’t matter. Joe had heard enough.

Tonight, Joe was strong enough to dismiss the feelings as an aftershock from the past. Now two years divorced, he could finally think about that night without coming unglued. Plus, it was ironic that Nicolette, of all people, triggered his memory with an errant phone call.

Joe loved Nicolette as much as a man could love a woman without being in love. She had been his shoulder when he was sad, his ear when he needed to talk, and his heart when he sought compassion. Joe was attracted to Nicolette emotionally, but not romantically—a paradox for which Joe could find only one logical explanation: Romantic tragedy had left him numb to such feelings.

To Nicolette, Joe was a friend and older confidant; the voice of wisdom and experience at work. Twice Joe had stepped in to help Nicolette avoid a mistake at work that might have gotten her fired. Though she could never see herself romantically attracted to him, Nicolette thought Joe was cute and kind. She often wondered what would drive someone to cheat on a guy like him.

This absence of mutual amorous intention produced a secure, carefree relationship between the two. Safe alone together as friends, their public demeanor together nevertheless left others commonly mistaking Joe and Nicolette for a romantic couple.

Once, Nicolette even attempted to play matchmaker, introducing Joe to an attractive woman older than herself. The woman liked Joe and wanted to see him again. Joe was indifferent. Memories of betrayal had left him lacking any desire to become romantically entangled anew.

Joe and Nicolette freely talked about the night he discovered the truth about his wife. Jokingly, they referred to it as “The Call.” Still at his desk this evening, Joe thought about how much he had changed since that horrible night. It had taken him more than a year to claw his way out of the pit of despair into which The Call had thrown him. This evening, sitting at the same desk at almost the same hour, Joe remembered his thoughts on that night. He remembered the sound of the voices trailing and The Call ending. He remembered how he got up and wandered out of the building. He remembered the feel of the cold concrete bench on which he sat in the small park outside the Longworth House office building. It was a crisp, moonless night. The sound of a distant train rumbling gave way to the sounds of a party several blocks away. People were outside, drinks in hand. Their voices seemed young. Boys flirting with girls. Joe wanted to stop them. Did they know what life was about to serve them?

Joe thought of hunting down the man—whoever he was—having an affair with his wife. “Affair with my wife,” he thought. “Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

Hunting down the offending adulterer, finding him, cornering him, how would the man react? Would Joe lose all sanity and pummel the man into a heap of blood and tissue? Or maybe a gun, or better yet, knife… No. What was it Golding called the "invisible yet strong” force that kept sane people from acting on such urges? It was the “taboo of the old life” that kept society in order, even the work and discipline “of parents and school and policemen and the law,” as well as everyone else in authority acting to keep decent people from losing control when their emotions thought otherwise. Joe was a decent person.

“Do I despise this man—this shriveled wet noodle of a man—Mark Whoever-he-is?” Joe pondered in his tears. “No, I can’t hate anyone. I’m too Catholic. Too good of a Catholic, too worried of a Catholic to go about intending the worse on someone else. I’m hopeless. She has me and she knows it. ‘Old Joe is too noble to put up a fight,’ she must have told Mark Whoever-he-is. ‘Let’s jump in bed and have our way and tell him and watch him be a good Catholic and do nothing.’ God, I hate life. I hate living. I want die right now, but I can’t because I’m good and I’ll go to hell if I take my own life. God, forgive me. So this is what despair feels like.”

The bench on which he sat grew colder.

“Mark,” he thought. “Who is this Mark? Didn’t she meet a Mark this past winter? Yes… Mark Jenkins… Congressman Mark Jenkins. My wife is sleeping with a stupid Congressman and he’s not even a Democrat! He’s a stinking Republican! What did he do, charm her with his power? Handsome, yes. Slicker than an eel, too.”

Sitting on that cold park bench Joe had suddenly figured it out. As the tears ran down his face, Joe began to laugh at the absurdity. “Congressman Mark Jenkins of Kansas. Known philanderer. Likely buffoon. Probable liar. A wear-it-on-his-sleeve, far-right, home-schooling, in-your-face moralistic evangelical: Hypocrite, dimwit, patronizing galoot!”

Joe slammed his fist down on the concrete bench. It made his hand hurt.

“Still,” Joe continued, ignoring the happy sounds of the nearby party, “Jenna’s not exactly innocent here. For months she’s refused me even the slightest affection. What, so she could take it away from me and give it to that Protestant-snake-Republican-hemorrhoid-brained-maggot?!” The sounds of laughter from the party momentarily interrupted his despair.

What a night that was. How did ever survive?

But that was then. Tonight, Joe laughed out loud remembering the crazy thoughts that had filled his mind as he sat on the cold concrete that terrible night. “Did I really call former Congressman Jenkins a ‘Protestant- snake-Republican-hemorrhoid-brained-maggot’?” he wondered aloud. How different he had become; how far he had journeyed from that despair. From the cold feel of that park bench Joe had first crawled, then staggered, and finally marched to an entirely new perspective on life. Today, Joe could honestly say he was now glad it had all taken place. Life had changed for the better. He was a better person, able to see colors of life he had never noticed before. For that, he had Nicolette to thank. And she was a protestant. Her relatives were all Republicans. But Nicolette, through her empathetic, selfless companionship had helped save him.

Joe picked up the receiver and pressed the callback button. After a few rings, Nicolette answered.

“Hey, where are you tonight?” asked Joe.

“I’m in Kansas City, well, Raytown... Where are you?”

“Still at the office.”

“Why so late? Don’t tell me they’re still in session!”

“No, they got out at about three, thank God. I stuck around because I had dinner with a couple of friends at the Capitol Grill. Came back to get some things. I’m returning your call.”

“From today?”

“No, tonight. You accidentally called me about ten minutes ago.”

“Did I?”

“Thought I heard something about the Royals and the Indians in the background.”

“I called you? I can’t believe I did that. Oh wait, I do remember I was listening to Jr. Walker on satellite radio. I had to get something in my bag while I was driving. I must have pushed against my Blackberry. I’ll bet I dialed you accidently when I did that.”

“I thought you hated baseball.”

“I do. I’m at my aunt’s place. Joyce follows the team. Anyway Ronny said he was going to drive out this morning, but I’m not sure where he is. I’m getting kind of worried.”

“Maybe he stopped on the way.”

“Maybe. He’s with a couple of friends. The three of them were hoping to land work at a federal construction site downtown. Still, we kind of expected him to call. We’ve tried to reach him, but I think he said earlier his battery was dying or something like that.”

“I’m sorry. Wish I could help. You want me to...”

“...Oh wait, I think that’s him calling now! I’ll call you back!”