Page 8 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)

Disaster cleanup was not what I had in mind when I told Holland to put me to work. Telekinesis made me a utility player in the field of magic, meaning I could fill the role of heavy machinery in a pinch and was as good a candidate as any to be loaned out to the reconstruction crew for the rest of the week. By Friday, my brain and body were beyond taxed, and Avery’s name hadn’t left my lips without an accompanying curse word in about as long.

Since I’d been largely absent from the Capitol building, I’d avoided any check-ins with Maximus. But the shrinking four-week timeline remained a constant concern.

I shuffled through the line passing a long folding table piled with brown bag lunches. Members of a local charity had turned out to provide today’s meal. Two middle-aged women manned the makeshift lunch line, smiling while making small talk with the workers .

With sweat cutting channels through the grime on my arms and pasting my hair to my forehead, I was not immediately recognizable. I’d managed to pass the first day and a half without everyone on site knowing my name. Today, though, I was grateful my assignment had reached its end, because the only looks I got now were scornful, and conversation had been reduced to gruff commands of “go there” and “move that.”

The charity workers were amiable, though no chattier than my burly, construction-grade counterparts. I had enough tattoos to draw judgment from people over a certain age, and it could have been as simple as that. But when I reached, unthinking, for one of the paper sacks, the Bloody Hex skull mark stared up from the back of my hand.

The woman across the table gasped. That, followed by her sudden lurch backward, drew the attention of everyone else.

The man behind me gave my shoulder a push. “You oughta think about covering that up,” he grunted.

I sighed, grabbed the lunch, and turned away.

Most of the crew clustered in available areas of shade. I had no interest in finding out if I would be welcome among them, so I ventured off alone. The stoop of an undamaged building provided a narrow square of shadow where I could tuck in for a moment’s peace. I shouldered out of the mandatory neon safety vest and dropped it beside me as I sat.

Upending the paper sack emptied its contents onto the gritty concrete. Peanut butter sandwich, red apple, pretzels, and bottled water. It was a meal fit for an elementary school student, fold-top baggies and all.

Grumbling, I pulled the sandwich from its bag. Pigeons pecked the sidewalk a few feet away, disinterested until I started peeling the crust off the gluey white bread and tossing the pieces at them.

Despite days of clean up, Main Street sported a five-foot chasm that stretched from the alley where the Hex members had staged their attack. It had severed buried power and sewer lines, splintered the road and sidewalks, and left our worksite abysmally equipped with only port-a-johns and bright orange coolers full of sports drink.

The cleanup crew didn’t seem to mind the bare necessities and offered no complaints about the free meal, either. My first bite of the PB&J was as gummy as expected, pasting my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

With liberal sips of water to aid with swallowing, I was halfway through the sandwich when a silver BMW rolled up to the construction barricade across the street. A boxy, black SUV pulled in behind it. Car doors opened, unloading a trim gentleman in a sport coat from the BMW and a frizzy-haired camerawoman from the SUV.

Nimbly dodging the roadwork signs, the man joined the ladies at the lunch table. His unnaturally smooth complexion and pattern-on-pattern shirt and tie contrasted with the bare-faced charity workers in their oversized logo tees. That didn’t stop him from roping them into a group pose in front of the harried camerawoman. Toothy smiles spread all around as the women appeared to recognize him. I did, too.

Todd Danvers held a seat on the city council and a spot on Maximus’s list. Make that my list, where he was known as Yankee Doodle.

Circling the table, he boisterously greeted the members of the construction crew standing in line. He shook hands with a few, making sure to hold on long enough for the camera’s flash.

Chucking the rest of my lunch caused the pigeons to scatter. Watching them take flight gave me a thought. Two birds, meet one stone. I was here, and so was Yankee Doodle. Fortuitous, some might say. Something was going my way for a change.

But it was the middle of the afternoon. I wasn’t off duty yet, and the camerawoman was snapping stills of Yankee’s every twitch. If he went missing, she would raise alarm. If I was missing at the same time, it would be too convenient for coincidence. Besides, I didn’t want to give the construction crew confirmation that I was, indeed, the scumbag they believed me to be. My reputation was earned, but it wasn’t like I slaughtered people for fun.

So, what then?

Judging by the speed with which Yankee Doodle clipped around in his wingtip shoes, he was here to get in and get out. He wasn’t likely to linger till the end of my shift or until darkness provided cover.

I stood and glanced across the road at the two cars parked end to end. Lunch breaks were short, but I wasn’t forbidden from leaving the site. A temporary absence could be excused as a jaunt to a bathroom with a toilet that flushed or a run to the liquor store for something that would make the rest of the day bearable .

How far was that storage facility from here? I opened the notepad program on my phone to check the address Donovan had given me. Seven miles in light traffic, plus offloading my living cargo into my brother’s questionably capable hands, meant a twenty-minute roundtrip. I had time. If the camerawoman cleared out, and if Yankee Doodle was in as big a hurry as I thought he was.

With my phone in hand, I typed a quick message to Donovan.

Meet me at storage. ASAP. Bringing company.

Sticking close to the storefronts, I made my way down the block. Occasional checks over my shoulder found the publicity stunt in full swing. When I was far enough removed not to attract attention, I crossed the street, sidling up to the buildings once again on a slow, steady return.

Whether eating or schmoozing with the councilman, everyone was occupied. I picked up the pace, rounding the corner of the intersection to dart across to the BMW’s back door. Crouching beside it, out of sight, I laid my palm over the handle. Mental threads slipped out, seeking the interior lock mechanism. Little twist, little turn, and the tumblers shifted. I looked ahead at the construction site once more. No one looked back, so I tugged the door open and slid inside.

The first thing that struck me about Yankee Doodle’s car interior was how clean it was. Freshly detailed, or rarely driven, even the black carpeted floorboard smelled nice as I wedged my body between the front and back seats. Lying down, I couldn’t see, but I couldn’t be seen, either.

After a few minutes, the car began to feel stale. I was already sweaty, so this new sheen of perspiration only added to the layers of filth. I squirmed in search of a comfortable position until my phone buzzed against my hip.

With a bit of maneuvering, I fished the cell out, barely glimpsing Donovan’s succinct

OK

before the driver door swung open.

Yankee Doodle dropped into his seat and reached immediately for the glovebox. Sitting up slightly, I spotted a bottle of hand sanitizer as he squirted it into his palms then rubbed vigorously. It might have been plague apprehension but, with the way he’d draped over those volunteers while the camera was rolling, I guessed it was more that he wanted to wash off the stench of commoner as quickly as possible.

The jingling of keys preceded the engine turning over, and I laid back flat. I would wait a block or two before making my presence known. The only remaining question was how well did Yankee Doodle respond to threats?

With a soft rock backward, the BMW kicked into drive. Watching through the window above, I monitored our progress.

I had no ropes, no gags, no preparations whatsoever. This was a crime of opportunity, of passion. I was passionate about getting away from the jobsite and about having progress to show Maximus when I returned to the Capitol on Monday.

The car was oppressively quiet. I wished Yankee Doodle would turn on the radio or sing to himself because the sound of my own breathing became deafening as streetlamps flashed by. How many of those were in a block? Two? Maybe three? I had counted five by the time we stopped—for a stoplight or sign, I couldn’t tell—and impatience won out.

Slowly righting myself, I framed my body behind the driver’s seat while I looked at our surroundings. We idled at a red light with no one in the lane beside us.

Yankee Doodle’s hands were already on the steering wheel, and I decided it best that they stayed there. Mental energy settled across his fingers, a subtle pressure he wouldn’t notice until he tried to turn or jump out of the car at the sight of the creeper in his backseat.

With him anchored, I was free to move about the cabin. I slid back to sit on the leather upholstered bench seat.

The sound of my movements and the flash of blond hair in the rearview must have alerted him. Yankee Doodle sputtered a curse and spun around, unable to do more while telekinetically glued to the wheel.

“Hey, buddy.” I gave him a cheesy smile.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he exclaimed.

Rather than reply, I peered past him at the stoplight that was sure to turn soon.

“You’re Fitch Farrow.” His brown eyes bugged. “The Marionette. Are you…” His arms flexed with a failed attempt to pry his fingers loose. “Is that what’s happening right now? Are you controlling my body?”

I nodded. “Which makes you the marionette, if you think about it. ”

Yankee Doodle’s head turned from one side to the other, observing what I already had. We were alone on the road. Even if he wanted to wave or flag down a passing driver, he couldn’t as long as I held him.

“Listen, fella,” I said, “I’m gonna make this brief. Somebody wants you dead.”

“Oh, my god.” He shrunk in his sport coat like a wilting plant.

“ But ,” I continued with emphasis, “that somebody isn’t me. I’m not in that game anymore. Never was, according to the court.” I trailed off into a mumble but recovered with a deep breath.

“So, I’ve worked out a plan. You’re gonna go away for a while.” Three weeks sounded like an eternity, so I decided to gloss over that detail. “Call it an extended vacation. And when it’s over, you’ll be alive, and all will be well.”

“Go away where?” A tremor shook his words.

I chewed on my lip ring, trying to think of the best way to explain. “Storage?”

“Oh, my god,” he repeated, then said it again. And again.

On his fourth repetition, I cut in. “You’ll get food, something to sleep on…” A bucket to shit in, but that was better left unsaid. “And again, you’ll be alive. Which is a win in my book.”

A chilly gust whipped around the car. Had he turned up the AC? Nope, both hands were cemented at ten and two. Did I turn up the AC?

“Is it getting cold in here?” I wondered aloud.

Glancing at the windows found them rapidly fogging. Ice crystals, like wide, flat snowflakes, blossomed at the corners of the glass.

Only then did I remember a pertinent fact I learned when researching this particular victim. Yankee Doodle was a dandy, all right, but he was also a witch. He did cryomancy, an offshoot of aquamancy, which was a relief because a skilled aquamancer could turn this car into a fishtank.

I hadn’t considered that a skilled cryomancer—or even an average one—could plunge us into subzero temps. But when snow started falling from the headliner, it was all I could think about.

“You’d better cut that out,” I growled, brushing flurries off my shoulders.

“I can’t help it,” Yankee Doodle blubbered.

Was he crying?

The stoplight changed, but we didn’t budge.

“That’s your cue,” I told him. “Take a left at the next intersection.”

Still idling.

I glanced out the back and saw another vehicle approaching.

My heaved breath fogged in the air. “Either you hit the gas, or I will.”

“I don’t want to die,” Yankee Doodle sniveled. “I don’t want to go to storage.”

A morbid laugh slipped out of me. I definitely needed to workshop my terminology before attempting this again. With another sigh, I rose. Standing, hunched, I threw a leg over the center console and let it lead my body on a contortionist journey into the front passenger seat.

At my approach, Yankee Doodle let out a guttural howl. He slammed his shoulder into the driver’s door, which was now fully frosted over. Predictably, it didn’t open. I reached for the dashboard controls, turning the heat and defrost on high.

Proximity aided precision and reduced my mental strain. If I was going to chauffeur by proxy, it needed to be a flawless run. A fender bender or speeding ticket would deal a killing blow to my kidnapping plan.

Invisible tethers stretched from me, one for each of Yankee Doodle’s legs. I lifted his right foot from the brake pedal, then lowered it gingerly onto the accelerator. We rolled ahead, accompanied by the councilman’s wails and a blinding shower of snow.

Seven miles and ten minutes provided ample time for Yankee Doodle to fill the BMW with drifts of powdery ice. Despite hunkering in my seat and holding my hands against the vents blasting hot air, my teeth were chattering by the time we reached Lock n’ Roll Self Storage.

Donovan had followed up his confirmation text with directions to the row of garages at the back of the property. While the defroster fought a losing battle against the indoor blizzard, I was forced to hang my head out the window to see the path to our destination.

At the end of the aisle, Donovan stood outside an open unit with the overhead door rolled up.

I thought, belatedly, that he should have worn a mask—one of those black balaclavas like bank robbers used in the movies. I’d take one, too, less to protect my identity and more in the hopes of being able to feel my nose again.

All concerns about decent driving vanished as we pulled up beside my brother. I planted Yankee Doodle’s foot on the brake, then used my numbing hands to shift into park and yank the keys from the ignition. Flinging the door wide, I bailed from the rolling snow globe and tumbled out onto the pavement.

I stood and shivered, rubbing feeling into my bare arms as I walked toward Donovan.

He looked past me at the BMW’s open window, where flurries escaped to die in the warm afternoon air.

“Help!” Yankee Doodle bawled. “Somebody, help me!”

“I could’ve killed you!” I shouted back at him. “Would have been easier!”

Of course, I’d helped myself to the councilman’s phone, which I slipped into Donovan’s hand along with the Beamer’s keys.

“You probably shouldn’t say stuff like that.” Donovan’s mouth drew a tight line.

“Bite me, Donnie,” I snapped.

Damn doe eyes looked back at me like I’d physically punched him in the feelings. He was nervous about this assignment. I knew that. He was still fresh on the scene of criminal behavior, and I wanted better for him.

I tossed my head toward the parked car. “Frosty over there is your problem now. I gotta get back to work.”

Donovan scrutinized the keys he now held. “Aren’t you taking his car?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Yours.”

His beat-up Ford Bronco sat at the other end of the row of units. I walked forward, fighting off residual chills, and extended my palm to mentally reel the Bronco’s keys from his front left pocket.

Donovan’s hand clapped against his thigh too late to stop the theft.

“Really, Fitch?” He turned to glare at me as I jingled them in the air. “You’re leaving me like this?”

“Grimm has faith in you,” I replied. “Who am I to question that?”

“Asshole,” he grumbled.

I chuckled.

Speeding up, I made my way toward the Bronco. I kept my focus fixed ahead to avoid an accidental glimpse of the storage unit that would house the councilman for the next few weeks. It was an unfortunate arrangement, but a necessary one.

The more I thought about it, I decided the kidnappees had lucked out. Of the lot of us, Donovan was the ideal jailer. He was kind enough to be sympathetic and might even put effort into providing creature comforts. He would take no pleasure in his captives’ misery and wouldn’t forget to feed them. I wasn’t sure I could say the same about myself.